She examines the sill. A faint film of dust or pollen, but no thread, no bit of cloth, the way there always is in television thrillers. She leans out, holding one hand on the bottom of the raised sash to make sure it can’t come crashing down on her neck. The grass below the window is muddy, but there’s no sign of anything that resembles a footprint.
As she’s pulling her head back in, a soft breeze caresses her face. She can see the tree from here, but its leaves aren’t moving. And then she hears the strangest thing. A ringing, like tiny golden bells. She searches the tree for wind chimes but sees nothing.
The bells sound like laughter.
She pulls her head back in so violently she bangs it on the window before slamming the casement shut.
There’s a knock on the door. “Dr. Darling?” The voice is soft. “Dr. Darling, the gardener is here.” Holly sighs, kneads her neck. She’s so bloody tired, and she has the sense she’s forgetting something, but she has no idea what. She opens the door.
Maria is waiting on the other side, her face sorrowful. It occurs to Holly that perhaps the nurses aren’t solely worried about losing their jobs or their work cards. It is possible that they genuinely care about her daughter.
“Did you find anything?” Maria asks. Holly shakes her head. Maria gingerly touches her arm, as if she expects a rebuke. “We will keep looking. Are you sure no police?”
“Yes,” Holly says sharply. “No police.” At least not yet. Not until she’s searched as much as she can on her own. She flounders for a plausible explanation. “Our family, we are . . . well-known. For the story, the one about the Darling children. Do you know it?”
Maria nods. She walks into the room, glancing back as if for permission, and crossing to the bookcase on the far wall, takes down an old illustrated volume. “Peter Pan,” she says, holding it out to Holly.
Holly sucks in her breath. Right after Eden’s accident, she’d searched for answers in that story, but she hadn’t found a clue. She thought she’d gotten rid of all the copies, but here’s proof she missed one. She doesn’t take the book.
“One of the girls found it in an upstairs closet,” Maria explains, flipping through the pages.
“Yes, that’s the one,” Holly says. “And Eden . . . well, she’s not like other children. I don’t want the press to make up some terrible story, you see. It would only make it worse.”
Maria nods again. “No, she is not like others,” she says, and Holly tenses, but Maria’s next words let her relax. “She has the growing disease, as you explained. I have seen it for myself.” She puts her hand on Holly’s arm again, this time more confidently. “But you will find her, Dr. Darling, and you will fix her.” She pulls a phone out from her uniform’s pocket and passes it to Holly. “You have not seen this one yet.”
Holly takes the phone. Maria sends her a photo every month, so that she can see Eden for herself. In this picture, her daughter’s face looks like someone who is almost an adult. Holly pulls out her own phone and opens the album where she stores Eden’s images, compares last month’s photo with the one on Maria’s phone. Eden has lost the roundness of middle school. Her cheekbones are sharp, her face elongated. Even with the softness that comes with sleep, she could easily pass for eighteen. Her disease is worsening.
Holly returns the phone. “Send it to me, please,” she says, her voice unsteady. “And now, the gardener?”
“He is outside.”
Even before Holly crosses behind the hedge wall, the scent of the garden calls to her, as familiar as a lover’s skin. Rich, loamy earth. Sweetness and rot. Primrose and bluebells. Fat bees buzzing against spiky lavender blooms. She’s dizzy suddenly, intoxicated, drunk on a wave of heat and memories. There’s a rosemary plant near the entrance, and she crushes a sprig in her hands, brings the bruised stem to her face. The clean, astringent scent helps settle her.
The gardener is watching her, clearly concerned. A quiet, gawky man, he’s eager to help but clueless. Holly runs through all her questions, but it’s pointless.
“It was a regular spring day,” he says. “Quiet. But really bright. I remember on account of my shadow.”
Holly freezes. “Excuse me?”
He scratches the back of his neck, looks down at the ground. “It’s balmy,” he says apologetically. “But I remember thinking how big and black my shadow looked. The kind you get on the beach late in the day, where it just stretches for miles. I was working in the back garden, mowing, and every time I passed the house—”