Garden Princess

by Kristin Kladstrup

  She felt like shaking the sense back into him. Instead, she said, “Her gardener?”

  Garth pointed down the path, and Adela saw a painted white wheelbarrow. It looked more picturesque than practical, but it was filled with tools. “There’s a rake and a shovel and a hoe — even a pruning saw!” said Garth. “She wouldn’t ask me to be her gardener if she didn’t care for me. Right?”

  “You’re already a gardener for the king,” said Adela.

  “I love her so much, Miss Adela. I’d do anything to make her happy.”

  She couldn’t believe it: there were tears in Garth’s eyes!

  “Did I tell you she let me hold her hand?” he said.

  A word came into Adela’s mind then: lovesick. It was a word from the story she had thought of yesterday — the one about King Ival and the beautiful witch. The witch had enchanted Ival, turning him into a lovesick fool.

  “I will love Lady Hortensia until the day I die!” Garth declared, and with a prickling of dread, Adela thought of another word from the same story: bewitched.

  On the day after the party, Krazo was up with the sun, eager to arrange his new treasures. In his mind’s eye, he could see exactly what he wanted: the coral-bead necklace coiled up at the bottom of his nest like a carpet, the diamond earrings and the necklace with the blue stone dangling from the domed ceiling like chandeliers, the emerald brooch, the turquoise-and-silver bracelet, the pearl ring, and the belt buckle propped up around the edges like paintings on a wall.

  And yet, after working for more than an hour, after pushing this trinket here, that one there, Krazo found himself growing frustrated. Somehow, try as he might, he wasn’t any closer to achieving his vision than when he had started. He stood in the middle of his nest and contemplated the problem.

  Was it that his nest was too crowded? There were so many treasures now that Krazo couldn’t turn around without bumping into one of them. But he didn’t mind that. In fact, he liked being surrounded by so much wealth.

  The problem, Krazo realized at last, was that he simply could not see his treasures — at least not well enough to appreciate them. The domed roof of sticks and twigs that arched over his nest was keeping out the light.

  Why, he wondered, had this never bothered him before? Probably, he decided, because he had never been so rich before. Until today, when he had wanted to admire one of his treasures, he had dragged it into the light from an entrance. But now there were simply too many treasures for this to be practical.

  The solution to the problem was obvious: he must remove the roof from his nest. In fact, when Krazo thought about it, he really had no need for a roof. It was designed to keep out rain and wind and predators. But it never rained on top of Flower Mountain; Hortensia’s magic garden didn’t need rain. Nor were there ever more than the gentlest of breezes here. As for predators, Krazo had never seen a single one. Yes, he decided, he must remove the roof.

  Strangely, however, he made no move to do so. Instead he sat there in the dim light, clutching the coral beads with his claws. His mind was telling him something that he could not ignore.

  All magpies have roofs over their nests, said his mind.

  “Other birds have got nests without roofs,” Krazo muttered in response.

  But they aren’t magpies, his mind argued.

  “I want to see my treasures,” Krazo insisted.

  You’re a magpie!

  “I’m not!” Krazo croaked.

  This absurd pronouncement shocked him, and the argument he was having with himself came to a halt, leaving Krazo free to follow a line of thinking he had never followed before. Was he not, he wondered, somehow different from other magpies?

  Occasionally in his travels away from Hortensia’s mountain, he had come across others of his kind — bold, black-and-white birds, almost always a group of them together. Hello, he would say. Depending on their mood, they would squawk back Hello! or Go away! If they seemed friendly, Krazo would try to start a conversation. He might ask if they knew of a good place to get food. Or, because he was usually on a scouting expedition for Hortensia, he might ask if they had ever heard of such-and-such a girl, and was she as pretty as was rumored? It didn’t matter what he said. Hello, the other magpies would say, or Go away, as if they were incapable of saying anything else.

  I’m not like them, Krazo realized.

  But surely that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them. He had the same plumage, the same long tail, the same black beak. He could understand their language, limited though it was. And this nest he had built — wasn’t it just like theirs? Wasn’t it a true magpie nest?

  A nest that was too dark. Darker even than that room with the woman in it.

  Krazo shuddered, ruffling his feathers. He had dreamed about the woman last night. “Oh, Neddy! Neddy, what are we to do?” she had cried, looking right at him, and Krazo had woken with a start, his heart pounding.

  Who was Neddy, and what did Neddy have to do with him?

  Krazo shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the woman. He looked around his nest again. If I pull off the roof, he told himself, it will be light in here. I’ll be able to see.

  And so he started in. He tugged at the diamond earrings and the necklace with the blue stone, loosening them from the underside of the roof. After laying them carefully on the floor, he began pulling at the twigs above the entrance on the east side of his nest. First one, then another — Krazo pushed the twigs out of the nest. He yanked at a large twig, and a chunk of roof caved in on his head. He shook himself free of debris, pulled the belt buckle aside, moved the pearl earring to a safer location, and set to work in earnest. Yank! Crash! Out went chunks of roof. Krazo hopped from side to side, yanking and tossing. In his enthusiasm, he nearly threw the emerald brooch out with the rubbish. He snatched it back just in time and dropped it onto his pile of treasure.

  Oh, what a difference it made to let the sunshine in! Stop crying, he felt like telling the woman in his dream. Stop crying! We’re rich!

  Was Garth under a magic spell? He certainly acted like it. Adela told him again what she had seen (or thought she had seen), and she showed him the daisy that might (or might not) be Marguerite. “You don’t say,” Garth commented, and went right back to the subject of Hortensia — how kind and beautiful she was, and how she had let him hold her hand — until Adela was tempted to hit him on the head with the shovel in his wheelbarrow. It was only after he had toddled off, humming “The Bee and the Rose,” that it occurred to her that he might actually use his new tools. What if he felt inclined to prune something? Or rather, someone. She was about to run after him when she heard a sound coming from the other direction. Just in time, she dove behind a forsythia. She couldn’t see who was coming, but she could hear footsteps. And then, “Good morning, my pretty little daisy!” said Hortensia. She continued along without stopping or looking back.

  Adela peeked out from her hiding place. Hortensia was beautiful even from behind! Her dark hair hung loose down the back of her white lace gown. She was slender and graceful. How could anyone so lovely be a wicked witch? And what was that she was carrying under her arm? It looked like a portable writing desk. Cecile had one made of lacquered wood; it had a compartment under a hinged lid for storing paper and pen and a bottle of ink. Was Hortensia planning on writing? Was that something witches did?

  Once again, Adela was filled with doubts. “Never mind,” she told herself. “Hortensia’s gone off to write something. While she’s busy, I can find out the truth. I know I heard lots of people inside last night. The other guests might have been there. Marguerite might have been there, too, even if Garth didn’t notice her.” She was murmuring to herself, just like the cook at home, who was always cheering herself on as she worked: Just a bit more flour then, and we’ll have a nice pastry. Thinking of the cook made Adela think of food. Garth had spoken of a supper. She was more than hungry; maybe she could find something to eat inside Hortensia’s house.

  To her relief, the front doo
r was unlocked this morning. She slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and looked around. She was standing in an entrance hall with a white marble floor, walls papered in green and gold, and a curved staircase leading to a second floor. A huge window at the top of the stairs let in the morning sun. It all seemed normal enough — even welcoming.

  There were several sets of double doors on either side of the entrance hall, all of them carved with elaborate floral designs. Adela peeked through one set and saw a large sitting room with two men standing at the far end of it. Their backs were toward her, and they were whisking feather dusters over the frame of an enormous, life-size portrait of Hortensia. Servants, Adela decided. But she couldn’t make up her mind if their presence was comforting or not. Did witches have servants?

  One of the men was elegantly dressed: his brocade coat, velvet breeches, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes looked fancier than the footmen’s uniforms at home. The other servant’s clothes looked a trifle dowdy by comparison. In fact, they looked rumpled, as if he had been wearing them for some time. Adela waited for the men to turn around, but their feather dusters swished back and forth, back and forth across the base of the frame. The men weren’t even looking at what they were doing; they were staring up at Hortensia, who gazed down at them with her lovely smile. A smile that might (or might not) belong to a witch.

  It was the portrait, as lifelike as it was life-size, that helped Adela decide against making her presence known to the men. She tiptoed across the entrance hall to another a set of doors. Nudging them open, she saw a drawing room with tall windows and yet another portrait of Hortensia. The room was untidy, with pillows fallen off couches, chairs turned over, and playing cards tossed on and around several small gaming tables. There were dirty glasses and half-empty bottles lying about. Adela was just thinking that the portrait dusters would do better to spend their time in here when she saw that there was already a servant in the room. A young man lay stretched out in the middle of the parquet floor with his eyes closed, his hands laced behind his head, his ankles crossed, and a smile on his face. That he was a servant was apparent from the mop handle lying across his chest and the bucket of soapy water next to him. And yet he didn’t exactly have the look of a working man. He was handsome, with long auburn curls and a beautifully trimmed, perfectly symmetrical mustache with curled tips. His clothes were adorned with an abundance of lace and embroidery, and they looked at least twenty or thirty years out of fashion. Indeed, the clothes looked as if they might actually be that old, for the lace was torn and the embroidery faded and coming out in places. Adela had just realized that one of the man’s shoes was missing its heel when he stirred and moaned a few words that sounded vaguely like Oh, my love! He rolled over onto his side and began to snore.

  Adela slipped into the drawing room, softly closed the door behind her, and tiptoed across the floor to another set of doors.

  At last! Here was Hortensia’s banquet hall! Here was the supper Garth had talked about — or, rather, the remains of it. Adela’s empty stomach tightened at the sight of roasts with meat still hanging from the bones, half-eaten loaves of bread, plates of cheese and fruit, trays of cakes and tarts laid out on a long table covered with a white cloth. She seized a loaf of bread, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in her mouth. She bit into an apple, and the taste of its juice made her thirsty. She grabbed a glass pitcher full of water and drank her fill. She was just reaching for what looked like a cherry tart when she heard voices. By now, hiding when she didn’t know what was coming had become instinctive: Adela grabbed the tart and ducked under the table.

  A door in the corner of the room opened. Adela stuffed the tart into her mouth. She could see two pairs of feet (black leather shoes with gold buckles, red leather shoes with silver buckles) walking toward the table. Something clattered above her, and she could hear what sounded like dishes being loaded onto a tray.

  “I get to wash,” said a man’s voice.

  “You go right ahead,” said another man. “Lady Hortensia said I was to dry. She told me she thinks drying is far more important than washing.”

  There was a brief silence. Even from under the table, Adela could tell it was a stony one. And then, “I don’t believe you! She never said any such thing!” exclaimed the first man. By now, Adela had figured out that he was the one with the black shoes.

  “She did!” said the man with the red shoes. “She said if I dried the dishes and polished the silver, I could sit beside her at supper tonight.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “She said I could hold her hand!” The man with the red shoes sounded smug.

  “But I want to polish the silver! I want to hold her hand!”

  “Sorry!” The man with red shoes didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “But it does seem as if it’s me she loves.”

  There was a choked sound. Adela made a face. It sounded like the man with the black shoes was crying! And now the man with the red shoes was sniggering! They’re being as ridiculous as Garth, she thought.

  As ridiculous as Garth . . . Adela recalled the portrait dusters, staring up at Hortensia as they cleaned the same spot over and over. She recalled the young man asleep in the drawing room, moaning Oh, my love! And now these two idiots . . .

  Was it possible that Hortensia’s servants were under the same spell as Garth?

  The last bit of tart slid down her throat. She felt less hungry now. In fact, she felt rather sick to her stomach.

  They are under a spell, thought Adela. They are, and this is real, and I’m not imagining any of it. Hortensia is a witch!

  What, she wondered, do I do now?

  Not long after the roof was off his nest, Krazo received a summons from Hortensia. “Come! I’m in the garden!” she called, using magic to reach his mind. Krazo found the intrusion unpleasant, like having an itch in his brain. The only way to get rid of the itch was to submit.

  In the garden meant under the rose tree, and it was there that Krazo headed. But as he flew over the garden, he saw something that made him turn in a wide circle: the gardener from yesterday’s party was pushing a wheelbarrow down one of the paths. Where had that come from? Krazo wondered, even as he saw a familiar shape poking out of the wheelbarrow. Shovel, he thought.

  He would have dropped down for a closer look if Hortensia hadn’t sent another needle-like zap of magic through his brain. He straightened his course, heading for the rose tree. He spiraled down to the ground beside Hortensia’s couch and landed (not by accident) on the very spot where her treasure lay buried.

  “You certainly took your time,” said Hortensia.

  Krazo looked up. “Good morning, my lady. You look lovely today.” He had no idea whether she looked lovely or not, but he knew from long experience that it was best to flatter his mistress. He saw that she was wearing a triple strand of pearls this morning. They were whiter than her lace morning dress; they looked like teeth against her golden skin. Krazo also admired the carved ivory combs in her hair. In itself, ivory was not really flashy enough for him, but these combs were set with tiny rubies.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever enjoyed a party as much as yesterday’s,” said Hortensia. She was holding her portable writing desk in her lap. On top of the desk, which was made of polished black wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, were a swan-feather quill pen, a bottle of ink, a bit of felt for blotting, and the satin-covered box that held her pink stationery. She folded a piece of paper and put it in an envelope. “I must say that the young men who came are gorgeous. That young gardener, in particular, is about as handsome as they come! And the girls provided all the usual entertainment.”

  Hortensia always took relish in going over the highlights of her garden parties, and it was Krazo’s duty to listen and respond to her clever comments. “Did you see that plump shepherdess wearing bright orange?” his mistress would say. “Her gown practically screamed tulip at me.” Then she would laugh heartily as she added, “Actually, she was the one who screamed when I
turned her into one.” Krazo would then respond with a Keck-keck-keck-keck-keck, which was his approximation of laughter. Not that he ever understood what was funny about the whole business, and he really didn’t care much whether she changed a girl into a tulip, a trillium, or a trumpet vine.

  “That little dairymaid told me all about her cows,” Hortensia continued now. “Do you know that she actually milks them? The poor dear’s hands were all red and calloused, though I will admit that the rest of her was quite pretty in a country sort of way. She made a sweet little primrose.”

  Krazo’s mind began to wander. He thought of the shovel, of digging a hole, of finding treasure at the bottom of it.

  “And I must say those twins were most diverting,” Hortensia continued. “A little on the pale side, though I suppose the fact that there were two of them made up for that. Did you ever see so many freckles? Twice the usual amount, eh?”

  Krazo was so preoccupied with thoughts of treasure that he nearly forgot to join in her laughter — Keck-keck-keck-keck-keck.

  “As for that shopgirl, you’ll find a new torch lily beside that big blue hydrangea — you know the hydrangea I mean — that one that used to be a seamstress. I caught the girl standing right beside it, flirting with Anthony and Paul.”

  Anthony and Paul, Krazo knew, had been at yesterday’s party. Anthony was the son of a wealthy noble, and Paul was the son of a well-to-do miller. No doubt they were somewhere inside the house this morning. Hortensia’s conquests — that was the word she used for the men who admired her — generally ended up there.

  “I’m afraid the darling boys lost all interest in Torch Lily when I arrived,” Hortensia went on. “I sent them on their way, and I could tell she was a bit piqued about it. She ought to try to hide that better, as it does nothing for her looks. Not that she has to worry about those any longer. Her flirting days are over. As are those of that daisy creature.”