Craven Manor(8)

He hadn’t been able to see the garden in detail the night before, but the whole estate had become like the gate. The space had once been vibrant and elegant, full of carefully maintained exotic specimens, but neglect had let it become something wild and miserable. Dead branches tangled with living. Stubborn plants overpowered their weaker neighbours. Overeager roots and shoots had upended stone garden borders. Daniel pressed his palm to his forehead as he tried to imagine what would need to happen to rein the growths back in.

The crows had settled in trees near the gate, and they sent up a series of mournful calls as Daniel passed under them. He kept an eye on the mansion as he wove through the garden, equal parts hopeful and afraid that its owner had come back during the night, but the windows remained cold.

He followed the fence’s edge, wanting to see how large the property was, and found a wooden house nestled between three ancient trees. It wasn’t large, but it appeared to have a couple of rooms. Lavender and bushes he couldn’t identify crowded around its front door, but the flagstone path leading up to it was clear. He circled around the structure and found a small shed attached to its side. The door hung open, and its rusted hinges shrieked when he pushed on them. The windows were too grimy to let much light in, but he saw a myriad of clay pots, metal watering cans, a wheelbarrow, shears, and a garden hoe clustered between the shelves.

So this is the groundskeeper’s cottage. The letter said it was mine. I guess that means it’s okay to go inside?

He finished the loop around the building and turned towards the mansion. From the groundskeeper’s cottage, he could see the tower and several of the windows dotting the stone walls. As he watched, a crow descended to settle on the building’s roof. He rubbed at the goose bumps growing over his forearms.

Daniel tried to look through the small window set into the cottage’s front door, but the interior was too dim for him to make out anything except vague shapes. He took a breath and pulled on the handle. The door scraped open.

The gardener’s cottage was significantly cleaner than the main house. A layer of dust rested across the surfaces, but it was thin, not like the intense, muffling coating of dust that filled the mansion. The layout and furniture—a kitchenette to the right, bed to the left, and fireplace straight ahead—were all simple, but looked comfortable and rot-free. The space was nowhere near as decadent as the main house, but it was still infinitely better than the tiny, grimy room he’d been living in at Kyle’s.

Daniel placed his backpack beside the bed and began looking through the house. The bedside drawers and wardrobe were empty, but the kitchen cupboards were full. Daniel blinked in shock at the rows of tins and boxes, then he began pulling them out. Cans of vegetables, biscuits, teabags, and even a loaf of bread—they were all fresh. The bread was a couple of days old and just starting to turn stale, but that was nothing Daniel would gripe about. He sent one final, nervous glance towards the open door then tore open the bread bag and stuffed two slices into his mouth. As he chewed, he surveyed the food stocked there. It was enough to keep him well fed for at least a fortnight.

Someone has been to the property recently. Maybe they were even here while I was in the mansion yesterday. But who? The man who signed my letter, Bran? And what kind of name is Bran, anyway?

A new theory occurred, and it felt like a weight lifted off Daniel’s chest. Maybe someone had inherited the mansion and wanted to get it liveable before moving into it. If they’d hired Daniel for the garden, they might also be employing cleaners for the main house. That still didn’t explain everything—like why he’d gotten the job offer through a letter under his door, rather than a more traditional application process—but it made him feel marginally more hopeful.

Daniel carefully restocked the shelves and closed the cabinet doors, then he turned on the taps to get a drink. Nothing came out, but the pipes rattled and groaned as though a large rodent had been trapped in them. Daniel bent down to see if anything was stoppering the tap, one hand poised over the handle to turn it off again, then leapt back as dark, thick liquid spewed into the sink.

He stared at the mess in shock. It was like watching a toxic spill. The ichor splashed up the sink’s sides and threatened to clog the drain. But within seconds, the water from the tap turned clear. Daniel let it flow for another minute to wash the gunk down the drain, but he couldn’t bring himself to drink it.

Fresh wood, along with a bucket of kindling, had been stacked beside the fireplace. The cabin was dim and chilly, but Daniel didn’t want to spend time lighting a fire when the sun would warm the room within a few hours. He left the cottage’s door ajar as he stepped back into the garden.

This is mine. The thought was alarming, but as he looked about the tangled overgrowth surrounding him, he realised it was true. He might not own the garden, but it was his to shape and tame. Memories of working beside his grandmother resurfaced. He would dig a hole with his gloved hands, then she would place a new flower into it and hold it steady while he scraped dirt around the roots. Even when the chemotherapy took its toll on her, making it too difficult for her to kneel beside him, she would sit in the shade, giving advice and encouragement as he tended to her plants for her.

His eyes itched. He rubbed the back of his hand over them and set his jaw. The mansion’s gardens were nothing like his grandmother’s tidy, careful arrangements, but he was starting to relish the idea of working in them.