WILDFLOWER HOLLOW

 

Chapter Two – The House That Remembered

 

”Some houses are bought, child. Others choose their people.”

— Beady Eyes

 

“Is this the time to show up, young lady?”

Donna nearly fell into the flower bed.

She stared at the black crow perched on the stone gatepost.

“You can talk?”

The crow tilted his head.

“Obviously.”

“Crows can’t talk.”

“And yet here we are.”

Donna looked at him.

The crow looked back with the calm superiority of someone who had already decided she was the least intelligent creature present.

“Do you have a name?”

He puffed out his chest.

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“Lord Archibald Bartholomew Featherstone the Third.”

Donna blinked.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“That is my full and proper title.”

“I’m calling you Beady Eyes.”

The crow looked horrified.

Absolutely horrified.

“You cannot rename nobility!”

“Watch me.”

He gave an offended ruffle of his feathers.

“One attempts a single act of kindness towards the homeless and suddenly one’s reputation is ruined forever.”

Donna remained outside the gate.

Beady Eyes remained on the pillar.

Neither appeared willing to acknowledge that the conversation they had just had was impossible.

Donna bent down and picked up the keys she had dropped.

“No.”

Beady Eyes tilted his head.

“No,” she repeated firmly. “Crows do not talk.”

“Neither do lawyers when nobody is paying them, apparently.”

Donna froze.

The crow hopped down onto the gate.

She closed her eyes and counted to three.

When she opened them again, he was still there.

“Who are you?”

He drew himself up importantly.

“I told you. Lord Archibald Bartholomew Featherstone the Third.”

“Of course you are.”

Donna unlocked the gate.

“I have had a very difficult week. I’ve driven for hours. I’m exhausted, and I am almost certainly hallucinating.”

Beady Eyes flew from the gate and landed on a low branch.

“That would explain the suit.”

Donna stopped.

She looked down at her immaculate black silk blouse, tailored trousers and expensive shoes.

“What is wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing, if you’re planning to cross-examine the hydrangeas.”

Donna walked away.

Behind her, Beady Eyes chuckled.

She decided not to acknowledge that either.

It was nearly dark by the time Donna reached the front door of Wildflower Hollow.

The drive had been long, and she was tired—more tired than she could remember being in years.

Not courtroom tired.

Not three hours of sleep and another hearing at eight tired.

This was something deeper.

She wanted strong black coffee, a hot bath and a bed.

Preferably in that order.

A handful of little garden lights glowed among the flowers and beneath the trees, casting pools of amber light across the path.

They should have made the garden welcoming.

They didn’t.

In the gathering darkness, the roses, tangled vines and enormous old trees made the garden look like an enchanted forest that had taken a wrong turn somewhere and become mildly haunted.

Donna stopped.

Between two shrubs, beyond the reach of the nearest garden light, something was watching her.

Two yellow eyes.

She stared.

The eyes blinked.

Then something moved behind them.

Donna closed her eyes for a moment.

She was not a frightened woman.

She had faced hostile witnesses, furious judges, violent defendants and reporters who could smell scandal from three buildings away.

She did not frighten easily.

But something about this place was... off.

When she opened her eyes again, the yellow eyes were gone.

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

“What’s wonderful?”

Donna looked at the crow.

He was still there.

Of course he was.

The constant talking was beginning to work on her nerves.

Not because he was a crow.

That would have required Donna to accept that the crow was actually talking.

Which she had not.

She was tired. She was hallucinating. Possibly dreaming.

Tomorrow morning, she would wake up and all of this would make sense.

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

Donna ignored him.

She dug through her handbag, found the old key Aunt Margery’s solicitor had given her and pushed it into the lock.

The door opened easily.

The smell reached her first.

Cinnamon

Old wood.

Lavender.

Books.

Beeswax.

And something faintly and pleasantly sweet that Donna couldn't identify.

She stepped inside.

Donna stopped again.

The lights were on.

Not one light.

Several.

A little lamp glowed on a narrow table in the hallway. Another burned softly somewhere beyond an arched doorway, and warm golden light spilled from what appeared to be the kitchen.

Donna frowned.

Aunt Margery had been dead for months.

Had these lights been burning since then?

Surely not.

Perhaps someone came in to look after the house.

She would deal with that tomorrow.

Tonight, she didn’t care if the electricity had been supplied by Eskom, ghosts or divine intervention.

Coffee.

Bath.

Bed.

That was the entire plan.

Donna stepped inside.

Then slowly looked around.

“Oh, good grief.”

The hallway looked as though someone had taken a magnificent old house, shrunk it into a one-twelfth-scale dollhouse, filled it with every beautiful thing they could find—and then enlarged it again without removing anything.

There were flowers everywhere.

Dried flowers in old porcelain jugs. Dried flowers hanging in little bundles. Roses painted on plates. Tiny framed botanical prints crowded the walls between old landscapes and portraits of people Donna didn’t know.

A narrow table stood beneath an antique mirror, covered with candles, a silver dish filled with keys, three little ceramic birds and a vase overflowing with wildflowers.

Nothing matched.

Absolutely nothing.

And somehow, everything belonged.

Donna wandered into the sitting room.

It was worse.

Or better.

She wasn’t sure.

The room looked as though a Christmas tree and a Victorian trinket box had somehow produced a child.

Books were stacked beneath tables. The heavy lounge suite was covered in roses and an army of cushions occupied almost every available place to sit. A faded armchair stood beside the fireplace with a knitted blanket thrown over one arm.

Trinket boxes occupied nearly every surface.

There were candles, teacups, old clocks, tiny brass animals, framed photographs, porcelain rabbits and something that looked suspiciously like a miniature dragon sitting on the mantelpiece.

Donna stared at it.

“No.”

She moved on.

At the kitchen doorway, she froze.

“Oh!”

Two tiny dragons were fighting over a cookie jar.

Donna stared.

One had managed to get its head inside the jar.

The other had its teeth clamped around the first one’s tail and was pulling backwards with considerable determination.

Donna burst out laughing.

“What on earth?”

She looked at Beady Eyes.

He regarded her calmly.

“Never seen a dragon before?”

“Dragons don’t exist.”

“Neither do talking crows, apparently. Yet you’ve spent the afternoon arguing with one.”

Donna looked back at the creatures.

The dragon with its head in the jar kicked both hind legs indignantly.

“I’m dreaming.”

“You’ve seen nothing yet.”

“What does that mean?”

Donna stopped.

She was doing it again.

Talking to the crow.

She touched her forehead.

Donna, relax. You’re exhausted. You will wake up soon.

Any moment now she would open her eyes in her spotless city apartment and discover that talking crows, miniature dragons and houses resembling giant dollhouses were simply the result of exhaustion.

She walked deeper into the kitchen.

It was warm and old-fashioned, with wooden cupboards, open shelves and copper pots hanging above a large table. Mugs dangled from hooks. Baskets stood beneath the windows. A teapot covered in tiny pink roses sat proudly beside the kettle as though it held an official position in the household.

Donna put her handbag down.

Her city apartment flashed through her mind.

White walls.

White kitchen.

Clean lines.

Nothing unnecessary.

Nothing without a purpose.

She looked around Aunt Margery’s kitchen.

There were perhaps seventeen things on the nearest shelf alone that appeared to have no purpose whatsoever.

She was beginning to suspect the rest of the house would not be any different.

Tomorrow.

She would deal with all of this tomorrow.

Tonight she needed coffee, a bath and a bed.

Donna turned towards the crow.

“Where’s the bedroom?”

Silence.

She froze.

Slowly, Donna Ashcombe—the woman who had once reduced a senior police officer to a stammering wreck in under seven minutes—looked at the black bird standing on Aunt Margery’s kitchen table.

She closed her eyes.

There was something seriously wrong with her.

She had just asked a crow where the bedroom was.

A crow.

Perhaps she was already asleep.

Perhaps she had fallen asleep somewhere on the highway and this entire place was some elaborate exhaustion-induced hallucination.

That would explain the talking bird.

It might even explain the teapot.

Donna opened her eyes.

Beady Eyes was still watching her.

“Well?”

He lifted his left wing and pointed towards the hallway.

Donna followed the direction of the wing.

A beautiful old wooden staircase curled upwards, disappearing into the shadows above.

“Aunt Margery’s room,” Beady Eyes said. “First door on the left.”

Donna stared at him.

“The bathroom is next to it. I strongly recommend you use it.”

Donna narrowed her eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve brought half the city in with you, child. Dust, fumes, bad decisions...”

He paused and looked her up and down.

“...and possibly an attitude.”

Donna stared at him.

Beady Eyes stared back.

“Bath first,” he said. “Wildflower Hollow has standards.”

Donna picked up her handbag.

“I am arguing with a bird.”

“You’re not arguing,” Beady Eyes called as she headed towards the stairs. “You haven’t won anything yet.”

Donna stopped with one hand on the banister.

For the first time that day, the faintest hint of a smile touched her mouth.

Then she climbed the curling staircase.

Behind her, Beady Eyes gave a satisfied little ruffle of his feathers.

Outside, beyond the warm glow of the garden lights, something moved silently between the trees.

Two yellow eyes appeared once more.

Watching the house.

Watching Donna.

Then they disappeared.

Donna had survived hostile judges, impossible clients, twelve-hour court days and one memorable afternoon in which opposing counsel had thrown an entire lever-arch file across a boardroom.

None of those things had prepared her for Aunt Margery’s bedroom.

Donna stopped in the doorway, suitcase in one hand.

There were flowers everywhere.

Flowers on the curtains.

Flowers on the bedspread.

Flowers on the chair.

Flowers on the lampshades.

Flowers painted onto porcelain jugs and embroidered onto cushions. Pressed flowers hung in little frames on the walls, while bunches of lavender and roses dangled from the old wooden beams.

And then there were the things.

Little bottles. Old books. Candlesticks. Trinket boxes. Framed botanical prints. A silver-backed hairbrush. Three mirrors. A collection of mismatched perfume bottles.

And a porcelain bird Donna did not particularly trust.

Every surface had something on it.

Usually several somethings.

Her apartment in the city came immediately to mind.

White bed.

White walls.

White cupboards.

One zebra chair.

Nothing out of place.

Donna looked back at Aunt Margery’s bedroom.

It appeared everything Aunt Margery had ever owned was still exactly where she had left it.

Including, apparently, every cushion manufactured since 1897.

“Good God.”

A dry little voice came from behind her.

“Language.”

Donna turned.

Beady Eyes sat on the banister.

She looked at the bed again.

“There are fourteen cushions on that bed.”

“Fifteen.”

Donna frowned.

“I counted fourteen.”

“You’re leaning against one.”

Donna slowly looked down.

There was, indeed, a small rose-covered cushion trapped between her arm and her suitcase.

She put it down.

“Why does anyone need fifteen cushions?”

“Because fourteen looked ridiculous.”

Donna stared at him.

He stared back.

Neither appeared willing to reconsider their position.

Donna walked farther into the room.

“Why does every surface have something on it?”

“Because, child, surfaces are for putting things on.”

“Not all of them.”

“Then what would be the point of having them?”

Donna opened her mouth.

Closed it again.

She had cross-examined expert witnesses with less confidence than this bird.

Something on the bedside table caught her attention.

A small, curling silver frame.

Donna picked it up.

The photograph showed Aunt Margery standing in the garden.

She was younger then.

Laughing.

And beside her stood a girl of perhaps twelve years old.

Donna.

She stared at the photograph for a long moment.

She had forgotten it existed.

In truth, she had forgotten most of those childhood visits.

Aunt Margery had never married and had no children of her own. She was Donna's father's sister, and although he had remained close to her over the years, Donna had not.

Her father visited Wildflower Hollow often.

Donna always had a reason not to come with him.

School became university.

University became work.

Work became cases, clients, courtrooms and a life in which there was always something more urgent than visiting an elderly aunt in the countryside.

Eventually Aunt Margery had become little more than a far-off memory from childhood.

A garden.

Summer afternoons.

The smell of flowers.

A woman laughing somewhere in the sunshine.

Donna had come back for the funeral.

She remembered standing beside her father while people she barely knew spoke warmly about a woman Donna realised, she barely knew either.

And then the solicitor had contacted her.

Aunt Margery had left everything to Donna.

The house.

The land.

Everything inside it.

Wildflower Hollow.

Donna looked down at the photograph again.

It made no sense.

Her father had been the one who visited.

Her father had telephoned.

Her father had made time for his sister.

Donna had done none of those things.

So why had Aunt Margery left everything she owned to the brother's daughter who had hardly bothered to visit her?

Donna ran her thumb lightly over the edge of the silver frame.

For reasons she couldn't explain, the question made her uncomfortable.

Perhaps because somewhere beneath the exhaustion and everything else she was trying not to think about, there was another uncomfortable truth.

She should have made the time.

Donna put the photograph back exactly where she had found it.

Tomorrow, she would try to understand why Aunt Margery had chosen her.

Tonight, she wasn't certain she wanted to know.

For one moment, she hesitated.

She remembered the funeral.

Her father's hand around hers.

The tables beneath the trees.

The cakes she hadn't stayed to eat.

“Tea?”

Donna spun around.

Beady Eyes had somehow moved to the mantelpiece.

“No.”

“You need tea.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

His feathers shifted with disapproval.

“I drink coffee. Strong coffee. Black. Preferably percolated.”

“How terribly metropolitan.”

“And right now I don’t even want that. I need silence.”

“Tea is better.”

Donna put down the photograph.

She was about to explain exactly what she thought of tea when a voice behind her said:

“You poor child.”

Donna turned so quickly she nearly dropped her suitcase.

An elderly woman stood in the doorway.

For one terrible, exhausted second Donna thought Aunt Margery had returned from the dead.

The woman had silver-grey hair twisted loosely at the back of her head and wore a long white cotton nightdress beneath an old, knitted cardigan.

She carried a silver tray.

On it stood a delicate china teapot, a cup and saucer and a little plate of biscuits.

The woman smiled.

Donna stared at her.

The woman walked straight into the room as though appearing unexpectedly in dead women’s bedrooms after dark was perfectly normal.

“You look exhausted.”

Donna glanced at Beady Eyes.

He appeared entirely unconcerned by the stranger.

Of course he did.

“I made you hibiscus tea,” the woman said.

“I don’t drink tea.”

“I know.”

Donna frowned.

“Then why did you make me tea?”

The woman put the tray down.

“Because you need it.”

Donna looked at Beady Eyes.

“Is everyone here like this?”

“Like what?”

“Never mind.”

The older woman poured the tea.

It was a deep ruby red.

Donna looked at it suspiciously.

She wasn’t entirely sure she had the energy required to get hibiscus tea into her body, but the woman placed the cup into her hands with such quiet authority that refusing seemed more exhausting than drinking it.

Donna took a sip.

Warm.

Slightly tart.

Faintly sweet.

She took another.

Something inside her loosened.

Not much.

Just enough.

The tightness across her shoulders eased.

For the first time all day, she breathed without feeling as though something heavy was sitting on her chest.

“There,” the woman said approvingly.

Donna looked up.

“Who are you?”

“Mrs Finch.”

Of course she was.

At Wildflower Hollow even the housekeeper had the name of a bird.

“I looked after Miss Margery,” Mrs Finch said. “And the house.”

Donna glanced around.

“Clearly.”

Mrs Finch smiled as though she had been complimented.

“I’ve put fresh linen on your bed. I’ll run your bath. Afterwards I’ll bring you something to eat. I prepared a special meal.”

Donna stared at her.

“You were expecting me?”

Mrs Finch looked faintly surprised.

“Of course.”

“How did you know I was coming?”

There was a pause.

Very small.

But Donna noticed it.

Mrs Finch reached for the teapot.

“You should finish that while it’s still warm.”

Donna stared at her.

“That wasn't my question.”

“No, dear.”

Mrs Finch smiled pleasantly.

Donna waited.

Nothing else came.

Interesting.

Normally she would have pursued it.

Donna Ashcombe had built an entire career on noticing when someone avoided a question.

But tonight she simply didn't have the strength.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would find out who Mrs Finch really was, why she was still looking after the house months after Aunt Margery’s death, how she had known Donna was coming and why the lights had already been on when Donna arrived.

Tonight, for all Donna knew, Mrs Finch might announce she was Aunt Margery’s ghost.

Donna wasn't prepared to deal with that possibility until she'd slept.

“It’s late,” she said. “I’m having a bath and going to bed.”

“Excellent,” said Beady Eyes. “I shall accompany you.”

Donna nearly inhaled her tea.

“Excuse me?”

He calmly preened one wing.

“Never mind, child. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Donna stared at him.

Then pointed towards the balcony.

“Out.”

“Such hostility.”

“Out, Archibald.”

Beady Eyes gasped.

“You acknowledge my title when it suits you!”

“OUT.”

He flew towards the balcony, muttering darkly about lawyers, manners and the collapse of civilisation.

Donna watched him go.

Mrs Finch hadn't reacted to any of it.

Not once.

Donna slowly turned towards her.

Mrs Finch was rearranging the biscuits.

Apparently a talking crow was not worthy of comment.

That concerned Donna considerably more than the talking crow.

The bath was enormous.

Deep and old-fashioned, standing on four clawed feet beneath a window overlooking the garden.

Mrs Finch had filled it with steaming water that smelled faintly of lavender.

Donna sank beneath the water until only her head remained above the surface.

For several minutes she did nothing.

No thinking.

No remembering.

No Daniel Mercer.

No dead little boy.

No Aunt Margery.

No talking crow.

No miniature dragons.

No mysterious Mrs Finch.

Just hot water.

When she finally climbed out, a folded nightdress was waiting on a chair outside the bathroom.

Donna stared at it.

She had brought her own clothes.

She wore it anyway.

She was too tired to argue with absent housekeepers.

By eleven o’clock, Donna had removed all fifteen cushions from the bed.

She arranged them neatly on the armchair.

They didn’t fit.

She tried the old wooden kist.

They didn’t fit there either.

Eventually she stacked them against the wall.

The pile collapsed.

Twice.

Beady Eyes watched the entire operation from the wardrobe.

He offered no assistance.

Donna pointed at him.

“Not one word.”

He closed his beak.

By midnight, Donna was in bed.

By one, she was still awake.

At 2:17 a.m., she opened her eyes and found herself staring at forty-seven unidentified objects, six dried flower arrangements, three mirrors, twelve botanical pictures and the suspicious porcelain bird.

In daylight, the bedroom had seemed ridiculous.

At night, it became something else entirely.

Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass panels overhead, scattering strange patches of red, green and blue across the walls.

The old wardrobe creaked.

A branch scratched against the balcony doors.

Somewhere in the house, wood shifted with a long, low groan.

Donna pulled the blankets a little higher.

She was not frightened.

Donna Ashcombe did not frighten easily.

She had once continued addressing a judge while a man was being physically removed from the courtroom behind her.

An old house was hardly going to unsettle her.

Then something tapped against the window.

Donna sat upright.

Silence.

She waited.

Nothing.

And that was when she realised what was truly wrong.

It was too quiet.

Not ordinary quiet.

Wildflower Hollow quiet.

There were no cars passing below her window.

No distant sirens.

No lift doors opening in the corridor.

No footsteps from the apartment above.

No neighbour coming home.

No city humming beyond the glass.

Nothing.

Donna had spent years complaining about the noise.

She had imagined silence would feel peaceful.

It didn’t.

Because silence gave memories room to speak.

And somewhere in that enormous stillness, Donna heard a man's voice again.

Daniel Mercer.

She saw his face at the hospital.

His anger.

His devastation.

His grief.

His little boy was dead.

Six years old.

He had told his father the stepfather was hurting him.

His father had begged Donna to listen.

And Donna had dismissed his fear.

She closed her eyes.

No.

She turned onto her side.

The memory followed.

She turned the other way.

It followed her there too.

A tear slipped silently down her cheek.

Perhaps leaving the city had been the right thing to do.

Perhaps Aunt Margery had unknowingly given her somewhere to disappear for a while.

But Donna was beginning to understand something.

You can leave a city.

You can leave a career.

You can pack your belongings into boxes, hand over your keys and drive until the buildings disappear behind you.

But some wounds are excellent travellers.

They arrive before the luggage does.

Donna threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed.

She crossed the hallway into the bathroom and switched on the light.

Warm golden light spilled through the doorway and across the bedroom floor.

Donna left the bathroom door slightly open.

Not because she was frightened.

Obviously.

She simply didn't know the house well enough yet.

That was entirely different.

She climbed back into bed.

And froze.

There was a black shape at the foot of it.

Donna's heart nearly stopped.

“WHAT are you doing?”

Two black eyes blinked at her.

Beady Eyes.

“Supervising.”

“While I sleep?”

“Someone has to.”

“Get out.”

He ruffled his feathers.

“Very well. Have your nervous breakdown unsupervised.”

“I am not having a nervous breakdown.”

“Excellent. Then we agree.”

He hopped onto the windowsill.

“Out.”

“I am going.”

“You’re still here.”

“I dislike being rushed.”

“OUT.”

With an offended flap of black wings, Beady Eyes disappeared through the open balcony door.

Donna fell back against the pillows.

Outside, Beady Eyes landed quietly on the balcony rail.

He didn't fly away.

For all his complaining, commentary and entirely unsolicited supervision, the old crow knew something Donna did not.

He knew why she had come.

And perhaps Aunt Margery had known too.

Donna lay listening to the silence.

Minutes passed.

Perhaps an hour.

Then, somewhere far beyond the garden, a howl rose through the darkness.

Low.

Long.

Haunting.

Donna's eyes opened.

The sound seemed to come from somewhere deep among the trees.

Another howl answered.

Closer.

Donna sat up.

“What now?”

Outside, Beady Eyes lifted his head.

His entire manner changed.

No sarcasm.

No offended feathers.

No commentary.

He stared into the darkness.

Donna waited.

Nothing moved.

Eventually she lay down again.

She was too tired.

Tomorrow she would investigate the talking crow.

Tomorrow she would investigate Mrs Finch.

Tomorrow she would investigate the tiny dragons.

Tomorrow she might even investigate whatever was howling in the forest.

But tonight Donna Ashcombe was officially finished with Wildflower Hollow.

She closed her eyes.

At last, exhaustion won.

Her breathing slowed.

Her hand relaxed against the pillow.

And Donna slept.

Outside, the garden became still.

Beady Eyes remained on the balcony rail.

Far beyond the roses, two yellow eyes appeared between the trees.

They watched the house for several seconds.

Then disappeared.

Beady Eyes looked towards the forest.

“I know,” he whispered.

The Grey One howled once more.

And then even he fell silent.

A shadow passed across the moon.

Beady Eyes slowly raised his head.

It was enormous.

For several seconds, the stars vanished behind it.

The shadow circled Wildflower Hollow once.

Then again.

Beady Eyes did not move.

Something heavy landed on the roof.

The old beams groaned beneath its weight.

Inside the bedroom, coloured moonlight disappeared as a vast shape moved across the stained-glass ceiling.

Donna stirred.

But she didn't wake.

Beady Eyes stared upwards.

For once, he had absolutely nothing to say.

Above Donna's bedroom, something shifted.

Something breathed.

And then Wildflower Hollow went completely silent. (To be continued)