Deep, deep and down, down, I sink into darkness. But here, the darkness is peace and potential. Here, the soul is just the soul, without memories or wishes or regrets or anything but the knowledge that it is what it is and that is as it should be.
I am an intruder in this sacred space, but the soul doesn’t get angry. Souls don’t judge the way the upper layers of a human do.
Souls simply…observe. And reflect.
I can feel the little girl’s soul notice me, the dream thing in its territory, but the noticing causes only a slight ripple of energy before the darkness goes quiet once more.
I float in the stillness, waiting for the pressure of my intrusion to open the door. And then, suddenly, like an eye opening in the blackness, the portal to the night garden comes into view.
It is smaller than I remember, so tight I’ll have to pull myself even more snugly together to fit through, but the smell is exactly the same.
I pull in a breath, drawing in starlight and moondust and the buttery, leafy smell of newborn Earwigs unfurling their first tightly coiled leaves. Even the faint, putrid undertone of Thieving Tree fruit—pungent and sharp, like a corpse rotting in a bed of violets—is welcome in a strange way. Because these are the smells of home, of my first place, of my beginning. And even though I am someone new now, I still have love for this place and for that innocent planting that I once was, wiggling her fingers at the stars.
The smoke at my core rumbles and churns.
It’s been so long since I’ve thought of this place and felt anything but contempt or betrayal or, occasionally, a bittersweet longing.
Declan was right. Mercy is a gift. It comes back to you like a friendly ghost, haunting you when you need it most.
Filled with emotion and hope and a deep wish to see Declan again so I can tell him how very wise and good he is, I extend smoky arms toward the narrow entrance and am almost instantly sucked through to the other side.
I emerge into the outer reaches gasping for breath, my suddenly reformed girl-hands clutching at my throat for several panicked moments before I realize that I’m not suffocating or suffering. I apparently don’t need air here, on the other side.
I don’t remember that. Was it always like this? I swear I remember breath searing into my lungs as Mother cut me away from my sisters, but I…
My sisters.
The thought draws me up short, making me tremble as I sink toward the surface of the garden, still far below my pale feet.
I’ve been so worried about Declan and focused on confronting Mother that I haven’t had time to think about my sisters.
Are they still planted on the same high hill? The one that overlooks the Earwig and Skritch gardens and has the best view of the stars? Are they still innocent and pure and in love with their creator the way I was?
Back then, I was too young to see Mother as anything but the goddess of goodness I needed her to be. I would have defended her to the death.
Will my sisters be the same? Will they betray me to Mother if I risk visiting their bed before I go hunting for her myself?
I would rather meet Mother strong and focused, not shaken by another betrayal, but even as the thought passes through my head, I know I won’t be able to resist the call of that old bed and the sisters who were once my world. I have to see them again, have to tell them the truth of the world and of Mother’s darkness, even if they won’t listen.
The moment my feet touch down on the soft soil and my breath rushes back into my lungs—here is where the breath comes back, then—I run. I hurry through the gate, past the rows of quiet Earworms and Skritches, and up the hill, my heart in my throat.
I never thought I’d see my sisters again, not even for a moment. I’ve never planned what I would say, what I would do.
Possible combinations of words tumble through my head, making me feel off-balance though my toes grip the earth with confidence and my legs are strong and steady.
And then I crest the hill and my old bed comes into view, and a wave of horror steals every bit of steadiness away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Clara
I stagger forward, gasping and choking, my fists pressed to the shattered, shrapnel-filled place my chest has become.
This can’t be right. This can’t be real.
Mother would never…
Never.
We’re her children. She might use us or abuse us, but she loves her plantings, especially her daughters. We are her treasures, her beauties, her babies. But she would never leave even the lowest Faller dream thing to wither like this, to suffer and starve while the rest of the garden looked on, helpless to do anything to ease their pain.