The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier Page B

It was a long dark dress, carelessly folded. Atop the dress was a note:
    Molly—
    This is an old frock for which I no longer have any use. I thought you might want it to wear on your errands. It may want hemming.
    It was written in Mistress Windsor’s hand. Molly wondered what might have prompted this sudden show of generosity. Constance did not strike her as the sort of person to give gifts with no strings attached. Was this a peace offering or was it a bribe? Molly thought back to their conversation at the top of the stairs. The woman had been so flustered, so unlike herself. She had not wanted Molly to see the ring. Was she buying her silence?
    Whatever the motive, a new dress was a new dress, and Molly was only mortal. She set down the note and picked up the garment. It was well worn but well made—certainly finer than anything she had ever owned. She ran her fingers over the thick fabric, which she thought might be called “velvet.” The color was almost black but for the edges, which glowed green when caught by the light. Molly loved wearing green because of the way it made her red hair even redder.
    She shed her food-spattered uniform and knickers. The night air was cold against her bare skin. She shivered, quickly pulling the dress over her body. The fabric was as soft as down. The dress was clearly intended for someone who had servants, and it took some struggle for Molly to lace up the back without help. She eventually managed, though, and stood straight like Mistress Windsor, wishing she owned a piece of jewelry to place at her neck. She turned her hips and felt the long skirt swish from side to side at her feet.
    Molly walked to the mirror above her dresser and looked at herself. She had hoped that the dress might make her appear transformed, statuesque even, but it did not. The gown was loose around the bodice, and the skirt hung limp around her legs. She looked exactly as she was: a fourteen-year-old servant wearing a rich woman’s cast-off clothes.
    Molly wondered if she might be helped with a little “propping up”—a phrase her mother used to utter. She dragged her battered trunk from the wardrobe and opened the lid. She knelt and rummaged through the rags in search of a petticoat that might fill out the skirt. Molly’s old clothes were even more ragged than she remembered—allof them threadbare and stained. She reached the bottom of the trunk, where she found the letter to her parents, right where she had hidden it. She expected to feel the top hat but found only more clothes. Molly frowned. She leaned over the trunk and pulled out clothes with both hands, heaping them onto the floor. She stared into the now-empty trunk …
    The top hat was gone.
    Molly sat back, her eyes searching the walls. Someone had gone through her private things, and they had taken the hat. She thought about who in the family might have done it. Penny? Alistair? Master Windsor? Mistress Windsor? Her eyes fell on the clothes scattered at her feet. She reached out and removed a dry leaf from the pile. Or was it someone else?
    Molly was startled by a rapping at her window.
    She turned around to see Kip, crouched on the grass. Molly was not expecting him that night. Ever since the weather had turned, he had insisted on sleeping outside in the stables with Galileo. Molly glanced at the leaf and wondered whether he had made the smarter decision. Still, there was no sense in alarming him with news of the missing hat. She quickly stuffed everything back into the trunk—including the unsent letter—and stood up.
    She smoothed out her velvety dress and opened the window. “Too cold for you?” she said.
    Kip didn’t bother to climb inside. “Galileo’s gone missin’.”
    “The little sneak!”
    “That’s exactly what I said.” He hopped back from the open window. “C’mon on, then.”
    Molly gave an irritated sigh. She pulled a coat over her dress, slipped on some boots, and climbed atop her bed. She cast a final glance