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  Ebony looked about. His room appeared darker, larger, more cathedral than bedchamber. There was a strange echo.

  “You know the rules, Fatima.” It was Miss Possett’s voice – but where was she? “There is always an escape.”

  “I pushed you from the dream.”

  “Yet I am still here.”

  “You are becoming stronger, my dear. Very well then.” Fatima sounded irritated. “I suppose Daphne has a point, Mister Black. Someone may rescue you. But only,” Fatima held up a hand, “if she can wake you; and only if she asks you to come with her. Then you may live your life.” She looked around, as if searching for Daphne. “Does that satisfy you, my dear?”

  Rather suddenly, Fatima disappeared.

  “Do not be afraid, Mister Black,” whispered Daphne. “I will watch over you. And you will not be as unaware as she thinks. There will come an ending. One day.”

  “Miss Possett? Hello? What do you mean?”

  But the room was silent.

  “Hello?” Ebony called. “Hello? Miss Possett?” His voice echoed. If this is a dream, he thought, I will wake now. But his arms were caught and he could not move, and the place he was in was silent, silent as the grave.

  Ebony shouted until his throat was raw, but there was no answer.

  Chapter Six

  From the Diary of Miss Possett

  Diary,

  It has been an age since my last entry. Truly, I am sorry for this delay, although it was not entirely my fault. I have not been myself for a very long time, and much has happened since last I wrote.

  At the time I knew Fatima had changed me, but I had no idea how deep these changes went. All I knew was that she had somehow connected Mister Black and I. At the time I had little understanding of how profound this connection would be and certainly I had no indication how long this would last. Looking back, this was probably a good thing.

  In the beginning it was Mister Black’s servants I felt most sorry for. Unfortunate souls, the disappearance of their master meant that suspicion fell on them. One by one they quit the place until only the manservant, Giles, remained. For a time he tried to maintain the property, managing the gardens and the rooms, but the house was too big for one old man. He removed most of the furniture into storage.

  The once-famed Black roses grew higher, until the walls were smothered in their stems and the trees spread and grew until all sight of the buildings was lost. When the new motorway was built the traffic past the property slowed to a trickle and finally the place was empty and forgotten. Except, of course, for Ebony.

  One night, not long after the strange disappearance of Mister Black, I left a note for Aunt and Uncle Carmichael and stole from the house. I bought passage on a ship traveling south to the Australian goldfields.

  (As an aside: as Fatima had foretold, Amy was packaged off to New York, where she married the heir to a diamond mine and had a long and fortunate life, marred only by a slight tendency to melancholy.)

  I do not know Fatima’s fate. Perhaps she died on the return voyage to England; her vessel may have been besieged by pirates, or wrecked in a sudden storm. Maybe she took ill with a fever. That is what I think happened, for I have heard nothing from her, not since Mister Black disappeared. Although, I suppose it is possible that Fatima lives still – she believed she could cheat death, and who knows, perhaps she has. If so, I pray our paths never cross again. She was cruel enough when I knew her. God only knows how evil she may become, given sufficient time.

  After my journey, I dressed as a man and lived apart; reluctant, I think, to get to know people too well. I explored part of Australia’s red, wild land, then ventured south, first to Tasmania then on to New Zealand. I sailed around the long and rugged coastline with some sealers and became their cook, their general factotum. I had plans to travel even further south, toward Antarctica – I think it was the appeal of moving as far from civilization as possible – but here my luck failed. No vessel would carry me. I suppose this was hardly surprising, for in those days I barely washed; my hair was long and scraggly and I stank. Hardly an appealing ship’s companion.

  My memories of that time are vague. Like Ebony, I felt caught in a dream. People came and went, flames flickering against the darkness. Sometimes I spoke to them; often I was silent. Perhaps I was part insane.

  All this time I watched over Ebony. I caught glimpses: in dreams, in the firelight and once as a glimmer across a dusty window. At first I thought he was dead, despite what Fatima had said, but eventually I saw he was asleep; so deeply asleep that he barely breathed. I thought of animals that hibernate throughout the winter. That was Ebony, except the winter lasted many years.

  Over that time he changed but little, only his hair growing longer until he appeared more beast than man. Now and again some fool tried to break into the house. When that happened Ebony woke. Terrified, the burglar would run away, raving of a monster, and doubtless the stories grew more lurid until even the hardiest thief avoided the house. Poor Ebony, barely half-aware and half-awake, watched them go and returned to sleep when they left.

  Slowly, the world changed. Sealers gave way to farmers and farmers to storekeepers. Roads were built. Later I moved inland, into a rough shack. The world became regulated; society cared little for outsiders and misfits. Hovel-dwellers, like myself, were taken by the state and sent to asylums.

  And that, diary is what happened to me, and it is where I am now. Asylum sounds dreadful, but these are modern times, and this place is generally quite pleasant. It has a strange name: Cherry Tree Farm or somesuch, as if to fool people into thinking it is a holiday resort. But whatever the name, the rooms are warmer than where I used to live, and considerably cleaner. I am cleaner, too. Someone bathed me and cut my hair (I pity whoever had to drive a pair of scissors through that tangle). They feed me proper food: milk and bread and meat. Goodness only knows what I’d been eating until then. Mice, probably, and spiders.

  I sleep in an enormous room, filled with rows of beds covered in green blankets. As the light fades, nurses in white hats usher the patients to sleep with small blue pills. When the light returns, the same nurses take the people out again.

  Except for me. For some reason, they deem me a “special case”, so I am permitted to lie in bed all day. I like this. Above me, curtains blow in the breeze. It is most relaxing; soothing, really. Curtains in the wind, and light through windows and the distant scolding of the nurses.

  After all the patients (save me) are moved into the Day Room (a place very similar to the night room, but without beds), Pania, a large Maori lady, mops and polishes the floor. She hums to herself as she swishes her mop across the shining floor. Often I drift to sleep and wake only once she has left.

  That has been my life for the last few months. A blur of light and sound.

  Until last week.

  That morning was loud and frightening; sensation piled on sensation in one tremendous rush; a crashing wave of reality.

  But not this morning. This morning, Pania overturned her metal bucket. The crash made me jump.

  “Oh, sorry love. Did I wake you?”

  Generally, the staff talked to the air above my head. I wasn’t used to people speaking directly to me. Pania had kind, dark eyes, black hair, and a broad belly. There was something inside that belly; dimly, I saw fists waving and kicking feet.

  I smiled. “You’re having a baby.”

  She looked down at her generous stomach and chuckled. “Not me, girl. I’m just fat.”

  Then she finished her mopping and left with a nod and a wink. I didn’t see her again for a fortnight. When she returned she was breathless. She marched straight to my bed.

  “You! How did you know? About the baby?”

  She must have learned about her pregnancy.

  “She spoke to me. Babies do, sometimes. She likes your singing.”

  Her eyes went wide. Then: “A girl?” Pania smiled broadly, and the warmth of it seemed to light the room. “I’m having a girl! Well!
Tommy will be stoked.”

  “Tommy’s your husband?”

  “Works in the freezing works.” She hugged herself with pleasure. “A spring baby!” She kissed my cheek. “Thank you, Aunty, thank you.” (She called everyone Aunty.) I’m going to name her after you. Daphne’s a real pretty name, eh?”

  I sat bolt upright. “After me?” I felt a sudden rush of sorrow. Now, that was a surprise. Feeling anything was a surprise. I shook my head. “She’ll have your name.”

  “My name?” She looked surprised. “Pania? No way. Two Pania’s in one house – too confusing.”

  I tried not to let my feelings show on my face. Let her have her happiness. “You’ll work it out.”

  “Anything I can get you, Aunty? To say thank you?”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Still. Me and Tommy, we gotta thank you. Go on. Must be something you need.”

  And that was when I thought of you, diary, and how nice it would be to have a pen again, and to see my thoughts written onto paper.

  The world is coming into focus. In my mind’s eye, Ebony stirs. I worry about him and I worry about Pania. I hate this worrying. I was better off the way I was. Feeling nothing, caring for no one.

  Chapter Seven

  Death and Roses

  Aroha poked her head around the glasshouse door. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Jamie replied. A diminutive Asian girl with braces and a terrified expression stood beside him.

  “Work-based learning,” Jamie mouthed. “What’s up, boss?”

  “Can I have a word?”

  “Sure. Christa, darling, keep deadheading them. Pull the petals off, the way I showed you. Yeah, that’s grand.”

  “They’re squishy,” Christa moaned.

  “Here.” Aroha tugged her gloves from her belt. “Wear these. Then it won’t feel so bad.”

  Each year, Manterory High School asked local employers to take promising students on work placement experience. Each year Aroha vowed to make this her last. And every fall, Jamie talked her out of it, saying it was cheap labor, and a service to the community. Ha! But next year would be different. She nodded to herself. Yeah. She would be firm.

  Jamie followed Aroha into the side glasshouse. The side-house acted as a storage overflow space and wasn’t heated, because in winter just warming the two larger glasshouses cost a fortune. Aroha considered the forthcoming gas bill glumly.

  “Christa’s more interested in computers than flowers, I think,” Jamie said. “Aroha, darling, what is it?”

  Jamie had been with Blooms for as long as Aroha could remember. An expert breeder, he had an instinct for which trait would run true. Unfortunately, Jamie was getting too old for the heavier jobs. But he was part of Aroha’s life; she could never ask him to retire.

  “I found a letter. From Dad.” She showed the scribbled notepaper to Jamie and told him about the half-ruined house, the angry owner and the Rose-Gardner’s Lung. “I thought perhaps he’d just imagined all of it. What do you think? You know what he was like at the end.”

  “I do.” Jamie peered over his horn-rimmed glasses at the sheet of paper. With his bushy hair he looked like a mad professor. “By the end, Charlie was completely bonkers.”

  “It’s just, well … Jamie, there is such a condition. I looked it up.”

  Jamie looked surprised. “What does the doctor say? Does he think it might be this … this fungus?”

  “He says no. That the whole idea is ridiculous. He says we’d have all been infected.”

  “There you go. Aroha, sweetie, you know I loved your father to bits. But Charlie was quite doolally at the end. You know, he used to be an awfully heavy smoker. I used to tell him he should stop, but Charlie was never one for listening to the opinions of others.” He tapped his top lip, thinking. “I do remember those flowers, though. They had an absolutely stunning scent. Charlie would never tell me where he’d found them.”

  “Did you use those flowers?”

  “For breeding? Oh, sure. But you know what scent is like.”

  Aroha nodded. Scent, a recessive trait, was notoriously difficult to breed.

  “It might have worked if we’d tried for a few more generations. Charlie wasn’t keen, though. I remember thinking that was odd – he seemed half-ashamed of the varieties we had grown. At the time that never made any sense, but now … I suppose if he thought he had stolen the parents, I guess he might have been reluctant.” Jamie half-smiled. “I never told Charlie, but I kept some of the crosses. The parents were so unusual, you see – that heavenly color, combined with that deep, rich scent. Old-fashioned, of course, but old-fashioned is the rage nowadays.” He frowned. “You know, Aroha, it would be interesting to back-breed the crosses with the originals. Yes. It wouldn’t take quite so long, having done it before. You think you could find the originals from Charlie’s letter?”

  “Dad said we still had some specimens somewhere. He said to destroy them.”

  Jamie laughed. “That’s ridiculous! What harm can a dead plant do?” He shook his head. “Anyway, even if we do have any specimens, they’re no use. After all this time they won’t be viable parents.”

  “So you think I should look for this place? Dad kind of describes how to find it.” She waved the notepaper at him.

  “The letter. Ah.” Jamie looked down at the scribbled sheets of paper. “Where did you find it?”

  “At the back of my mother’s old writing desk.”

  “Odd place to find a letter.”

  “I know, right? But it’s definitely for me.”

  “Charlie knew how Becky felt about your mother. He knew she wouldn’t touch Pania’s things. Perhaps that’s why he left the letter there.” Jamie looked over his shoulder. “Ah, the efficient Miss Christa. All finished, are you?”

  Christa stood in the doorway. “I think so.”

  “Excellent!” Jamie got to his feet. “Darling, I do think the breed has potential. It would be worth getting a few samples, just to try.” He hesitated. “Although … take a gun. Just in case.”

  Aroha smiled briefly. Aroha Cuttriss, explorer. “They’re flowers, Jamie. They’re not armed.”

  “Not the flowers I’m worried about, sweetie. It’s the owner.”

  “You’re thinking of the man my father met? Jamie, that was twenty years ago.”

  “So, why are you interested in rose-gardening?” Aroha asked Christa. Picking up a pile of receipts, she deposited them on the pillows of her camp bed and sighed. She desperately needed an office assistant, but where was she going to find one, with the business going as poorly as it was?

  Christa was seated at the computer, crowded in between the bed and the wall. She smiled shyly at Aroha.

  “I like the open air. My parents want me to do a commerce degree, but working for a corporate isn’t really me. So I thought I’d try something different. Although,” Christa looked at her broken nails ruefully, “I didn’t think it would be quite this hard.” She pointed at a dot on the Google map. “Here it is.”

  Christa might not be the best at gardening, but she seemed to be a genius when it came to computers.

  Jamie peered at the Google pin. The marker was set on the edge of a side road, about twenty miles from the 101. “Are you sure?”

  Christa ran a chipped fingernail along Dad’s spidery writing. “Aroha’s father was real precise. Ten to fifteen miles from the highway, a shortcut, a valley and a bridge.”

  Aroha stared at the screen. “Are you sure? I don’t even know which airport he landed at.”

  The light from the screen reflected from Christa’s glasses. “Solomon County.”

  Jamie nodded. “That’s right. It was the closest.”

  “Besides,” Christa hovered her mouse over the pin. “There’s an old building just here.” A blurred image of a leaf-covered wall appeared on the screen. “It kind of matches your Dad’s description.”

  “Thank you,” Aroha said.

  “You’re very welcome.” Christa
tapped Dad’s letter. “What was he like? Your Dad, I mean?”

  “When I was little, he was always away on business, so I didn’t see him that much. After he married my stepmother, he was home more. But he was always kind of distant. You know? There, but not real present.” She shrugged. “He was a good Dad, I guess.”

  “Charlie missed Pania terribly.” Jamie said. “After she died, a part of him died too. Don’t blame him too much, Aroha. He couldn’t help it.”

  Aroha smiled shakily. There seemed little point to love if it left you hollowed out like Dad had been.

  Chapter Eight

  The Cloak and the Diary

  Dear Diary,

  Life here is repetitive. Eat, sleep. Walk. It seems an age since I had a decent conversation.

  Dear Diary.

  Pania came today. She does not look well. I tell her that she should be at home resting, but she says no, her boss won’t let her take any more sick days. She wants to know if she’ll “be okay.” What do I tell her when she asks these questions? Pania won’t take silence for an answer. I know her; she will keep asking and asking.

  Dear Diary

  I will miss Pania. I told her so today, and I could see in her eyes that she felt the same. She was polishing the floor around my bed – she uses this enormous floor polisher that makes the most awful grinding noise, and I’m quite sure is unsuitable for a woman in her condition. She turned the polisher off when I spoke to her. The silence seemed to catch us both by surprise.

  A shadow of foretelling ripped through me. But there is sunshine too; I feel light against the darkness. Still, the darkness is black enough.

  Recounting this on paper makes me feel tearful. I will put this aside until I am calm.

  Later…

  I told Pania the truth. It was hard, diary, but not as hard as I had feared. I put my hand on her belly, and felt the life within move. Like the touch of a butterfly. We both smiled.