Garden Princess (6 page)

For such a small person, the dairymaid was surprisingly heavy. Adela was panting and sweating by the time she rounded the back of Hortensia’s house. Finding no one in sight, she guessed that the carriages had continued to follow the road she was on. She could see it turning at the end of a high stone wall. As for the other guests, they must have gone into the garden. She could see what must be the entrance, about halfway down the wall. She stumbled toward it, pebbles digging into her bare feet. “I’m going to have to put you down, Bess!” she warned as she entered the garden.

There was a ripping noise as the dairymaid slipped to the ground. “Oh, no! I’ve torn your dress!” Bess exclaimed.

But Adela didn’t care. She was in the garden at last. There was a peony bush in front of her. Its blossoms were peach colored and twice as large as any she had ever seen before. In fact, the bush itself was larger than any she had ever seen.

Bess settled herself on the ground, her injured ankle stretched out in front of her.

“Did you ever hear of peonies blooming in the fall?” asked Adela.

“Never!” said Bess. “Nor lilacs. But that one’s lovely, isn’t it?”

The lilac tree leaning over the peony was also enormous, with creamy white flowers. “Lilacs bloom in the spring,” said Adela.

“Everything’s always in bloom in Hortensia’s garden,” said Bess. “It’s magic.”

Adela thought of the wisteria she had seen on the front lawn. Another springtime flower. Now she studied the flowers dotting the beds on either side of the cobbled path that led away from the entrance. Was that a daffodil . . . in October? She walked over to it, marveling at its teacup-shaped blooms, which were so large they were actually teacup-
size.
“And here’s a chrysanthemum! I know they don’t bloom at the same time as daffodils,” she murmured. “I suppose Hortensia must move her flowers out of a greenhouse when they’re ready to bloom. But what a lot of work! And how could she possibly move the lilac and the wisteria?”

“I think I’ll wait here, if that’s all right,” said Bess. “Maybe you could bring me something to eat.”

Adela nodded absently and wandered on. She turned a corner and found another path bordered with flowers. She walked along it, wondering at what she saw, until she turned another corner and found more paths to choose from. Before long, she was lost in a maze of winding paths running between walls too high to see over.

How different Hortensia’s garden was from the gardens at home! The palace gardens had wide-open lawns and terraces — broad bands of colors and texture. But this garden felt closed in and secret, with surprises at every turn. The roses were astonishing. They were all different from one another: damasks, centifolias, china roses, tea roses, musk roses, and ramblers and scramblers that threw themselves up and over the walls. The roses can’t have been moved from a greenhouse, Adela decided. Hortensia must have been cultivating them in the ground for years.

The other flowers were no less dramatic, in part because they were so large, but also because the rumors about Hortensia’s garden were proved true: spring, summer, and fall flowers were indeed blooming at the same time. Here was a pink-and-white-striped carnation growing next to a sunny-yellow hollyhock. Here was a deep-purple heliotrope standing next to a bright-red poppy. And here was another poppy, this one blue, leaning over a lily of the valley with bell-shaped flowers the size of thimbles. How does Hortensia do it? Adela wondered.

Best of all was the rose tree. She found it in an enclosed yard where there were no other flowers to vie for her attention. The tree was twice as tall as she was, and the air around it was thick with the scent of its spectacular red flowers. Adela reached up to touch one of the blooms, caressing petals as soft as her brother Henry’s little face. She closed her eyes, breathing in the fragrance. It wasn’t until she opened her eyes that she noticed the thorns.

She stepped back. “Garth always says you can tell a rose by its thorns,” she murmured.

She wondered if Garth had seen the tree. It was strange that she hadn’t come across him. Stranger still that she hadn’t met anyone at all. How long had she been walking?

Adela left the enclosed yard. She called out, “Hello? Hello!”

She listened. How quiet it was here! In the garden at home, there were always sounds — birds singing, bees humming, flies buzzing. And at this time of day, especially at this time of year, you would expect to hear a few crickets chirping.

Maybe the party was on the lawn or inside the house. But someone — Garth or Marguerite — ought to have come looking for her. . . . Adela let out a sigh of exasperation. Those two were so wrapped up in each other, they had probably forgotten she was here.

Purposefully, she started down the path in what she hoped was the direction of the garden entrance — or exit, as she now thought of it. She turned one corner after another until it occurred to her that the marble bench ahead of her looked familiar. Hadn’t she already passed it once?

Adela sat down. I’m going in circles, she thought. I’m lost and nobody has thought to come find me. Marguerite and Garth are in their own little world. I don’t blame Bess for giving up on me. But I hope Axel will think of me when it’s time to go home.

Which it would be soon. The shadows were growing longer and the air cooler with the approach of twilight. Adela listened to the stillness, trying to think what to do, when something brushed against her hand. She looked down to see a cluster of pinkish-orange blossoms. There were other clusters, all of them rising up on tall stalks from a fat cushion of green and maroon leaves with scalloped edges. Coral bells, she thought, pleased with herself for recognizing the flower. There was an identical plant at the other end of the bench, the pair of them forming a pretty frame for anyone who sat there.

Then Adela looked closer. Draped among the leaves of one of the plants, almost hidden from sight, was a necklace, its coral beads the same color as the flowers. “Coral bells and coral beads,” she murmured. She had seen the twins wearing coral necklaces earlier. One of them must have dropped hers.

Adela untangled the necklace — a tricky job, for she didn’t want to harm the plant. She had just pulled the beads free when she heard voices.

The voices were coming from the other side of the wall behind Adela.

“A pretty girl like you must have a string of admirers,” said a woman’s voice.

“I suppose there are a few,” said the second voice, high and rather sugary.

Marguerite, thought Adela.

“I’m sure you’re being modest,” said the other woman. “I met a young man earlier today who I’m sure must be smitten with you.”

“Really?”

“That nice young gardener . . .”

“You mean Garth! You saw him? Where?”

“I must say, he is every bit as handsome as I thought he would be,” said the woman. “One hears about such things, you know.”

What an odd thing to say, thought Adela. She had been about to call out, to announce her presence. But there was something not quite right about the unknown woman: Adela could hear it in her voice. Quietly, she climbed up on the bench, the marble cold against her feet. Standing on tiptoe, she could just see over the top of the wall. Yes, there was Marguerite in her yellow-and-white dress. She was looking up at the most beautiful woman Adela had ever seen.

“He
is
good-looking, isn’t he! I only just found out that he likes me,” said Marguerite. “He calls me Daisy,” she added, blushing a little.

“Does he?” said the woman.

Is that Hortensia? Adela wondered. She isn’t just beautiful; she’s perfect.

“My name is a kind of daisy,” said Marguerite.

“So it is,” said the woman. “Such a common little flower. Don’t you think most girls would rather be compared to, say, a rose?”

“I — I’m sure I don’t know,” said Marguerite.

“Then again, I imagine you are a rather common girl. Pretty enough to be sure, but hardly
rose
quality.”

Marguerite looked as if she were trying to figure out whether the woman had intended to be rude.

“On the other hand, there isn’t anything
wrong
with daisies,” the woman continued. “And to tell the truth, I’ve never had one in my garden.”

“It really is a lovely garden,” said Marguerite, clearly eager to change the subject.

But the woman didn’t seem to hear. She was walking around Marguerite, studying her.

“What is it?” Marguerite turned quickly, looking down at her skirt. “Is there something on my dress?”

“Daisy, it is!” said the woman, and she raised her hand. She made a graceful gesture in the air and began murmuring something; Adela couldn’t hear what it was, but suddenly Marguerite gave a gasp. Her arms flew up in the air.

“What are you doing?” she cried as her yellow-and-white lace dress began to rustle and swirl about her. Though there wasn’t the slightest breeze, the skirt was whirling around on its own, revealing Marguerite’s lace petticoat and silk stockings. The petticoat and stockings ought to have been white, and Marguerite’s high-heeled shoes ought to have been embroidered white satin. But now the petticoat and stockings and shoes were green. Adela was so distracted by this detail that it took her a moment to realize that Marguerite’s legs and her feet were twisting and turning and digging themselves into the ground! Meanwhile, she was getting smaller. She gave a cry that was scarcely audible; her mouth had become a tiny little thing. Marguerite was now barely four feet tall and getting shorter by the moment. Her arms weren’t arms anymore; they looked like pale-green stems. Marguerite’s legs weren’t legs anymore; they looked like stalks sprouting from the ground. And her lacy petticoat wasn’t a petticoat; it was a frothy mass of green leaves. The yellow-and-white gown seemed to tear itself apart until there were a dozen tiny patches of yellow and white scattered among the leaves. Adela watched in horror as Marguerite’s arms, now a darker green and sprouting yet more leaves, reached out imploringly to the woman. Marguerite’s blond head grew smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a yellow center surrounded by a fringe of white petals.

Then everything was as quiet as it could be, and the woman was standing there alone, looking down upon a plant as common as any that ever grew. Or perhaps not so common. The daisy, crowned with its cheery yellow-and-white flowers, was unusually large.

The woman leaned over to pick something up from the ground; Adela noted dully that it was the diamond necklace. The woman fastened it around her neck. There were already two other necklaces there — a string of pearls and a set of coral beads like the ones in Adela’s hand. The woman adjusted the new necklace and, without another glance at the daisy, set off down the path.

Krazo could hardly believe his good fortune. There, not three hops from his hiding place under a sweetspire bush, lay a diamond earring. It looked like a chip of ice among the leaves of the daisy. Not only that, but he also knew that there must be another diamond earring hidden in the leaves. It was all he could do to keep himself from darting out to seize the treasure.

But it was best to be cautious. Hortensia might remember the earrings. She might come back. Better to give her time to get back to her house, where she would no doubt want to rest up in anticipation of the extravagant feast she would hold that evening. Hortensia always celebrated in grand style after one of her garden parties.

Keep your eye on the diamonds, Krazo had told himself earlier. And so he had stuck by the girl who was wearing them, forgoing the chance to acquire treasures from other guests. He had sat behind the wisteria vine, watching the girl grow more and more fretful, until at last Hortensia had shown up and invited her into the garden. He had followed along stealthily as Hortensia went through her usual round of questioning.
Looking for inspiration,
she always called it.
Not just any flower will do. It must be the right flower for the right girl.

Which in this case meant a daisy with diamonds twined among its leaves.

Was it safe now? Could he snatch the earrings?

Just as Krazo was about to emerge from his hiding place, he heard a whimper from somewhere above him. “Marguerite?” someone whispered. There was a scraping noise and more whimpering, and then something came crashing down in front of him.