A Botanical Daughter by Noah Medlock

Author:Noah Medlock
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags:  
Publisher: Titan

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Under normal circumstances, Grimfern was made impervious to visitors through layers upon layers of weaponised forgetfulness. Gregor would ‘forget’ to reply to the many letters begging him for access to his botanical menagerie—those dignitaries who requested visits would have to wait until his newest experiment was complete. Now that the groundstaff had been laid off, Gregor also ‘forgot’ to look after the area of the gardens around the gatehouse, which lent it a dilapidated air. Weeds grow quickly where gardeners cease to tread, and the gatehouse now appeared desolate and forbidding, surrounded by a cloak of brambles. Grimfern was protected not by locks or brick walls, but by the insistent sorcery of forgetfulness. Grimfern’s inhabitants forgot about the world, and the world forgot about Grimfern.

Which is all to say, it was rather surprising—alarming, even—when Simon, who was breakfasting on the patio, saw somebody staggering up the long drive to the greenhouse. He ran back inside, leaving the butter knife spinning on his side plate.

“Gregor, we have a visitor,” he shrieked.

Gregor came bounding from his workshop to the front door and scanned about. His eyes were unaccustomed to distance—he was rather short-sighted from long hours staring at tiny sprouts and the fine grain of soil composition. Sure enough, though, there was the figure of a young man—the gatehouse boy, what was his name?—making steady progress up the hill with a pile of parcels wrapped in brown paper. Just a delivery.

“Where’s CHLOE? Where’s Miss Finch?” Gregor enquired urgently.

“CHLOE is by the waterlily pond. Miss Finch, I believe, has stepped out. To the… to the twisted hazel.”

“Take CHLOE down to the cellar, quick as you can. Don’t come up until I say so, you hear?”

Simon nodded and turned on his heels. Gregor rolled up his sleeves and jogged out to intercept the unwanted visitor.

“Morning, sir,” the lad wheezed. “Parcels for you, sir.” The young lad was ruddy-faced from the rise, though he seemed to be filled with the childish thrill of being somewhere he shouldn’t be. Gregor summoned up all the Caledonian granite he could muster. He enjoyed activating his Scottish side. It let him channel his furious mother.

“The gatehouse, boy. You must always stay in the gatehouse and keep the post there. This was agreed with you long ago!”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the boy stammered, “but Jenny, Miss Finch, said you was expecting parcels, and seeing as they’re wrapped in paper and all, and with me fearing a drop of rain later, sir, I just thought I’d bring them…”

“Well, you thought wrong.” Gregor took the parcels from the post boy and marched straight back up to the hedge arch. He shut the gate and glowered back through its many sinews of iron. The young fellow was still standing there, turning this way and that, not quite sure what to make of himself.

Gregor’s capacity for meanness was quite considerable—words were his weapons and the very sharpest ones came to him easily. However, his barbs were often at odds with his heart, which on some level—hidden from all but the most dedicated investigator—was decent and kind.

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