And it was nice to be out in the light of day, where things were open and uncomplicated. The strange events of the past twenty-four hours were beginning to form a heavy ball of worry in my chest. The shock of Agatha’s existence, her immediate dislike of me (and of poor Blue Bunny), the technological isolation, Laura’s breakdown, my nosebleed, the mystery of Lily’s strange notations (whoever Lily was), the missing hours of my life, the wardrobe that made me feel like I was pretending to be somebody I’d never met before, the writing on my wall . . .

Alone, any one of these things might have seemed like a little blip, a minor hiccup in my quest for peace and happiness.

But together? One after another? It was kind of a lot.

It just made me feel, in the pit of my stomach, that there was something about this place that was unwelcoming. That didn’t want me here. (Gee, Margot, was it the word GO graffitied on your wall, maybe? No, not just that. And not even as small as that.)

This isn’t right, I thought. I shouldn’t be here.

This time, no disembodied voice answered me. But that didn’t make me feel any better.

For the moment, out in the fresh air with the sun warming my back, I could still kill bad plants.

After a while, Laura wiped her brow with her sweaty arm, leaving a streak of dirt across her face. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were serene. Somehow her whole energy was calm, and it made me realize how tense she had been at every other point since my arrival.

“We should get inside,” she said. “You can shower off before lunch and spend the afternoon relaxing instead of working. John will be appalled that I have you out here doing manual labor.”

The idea of being cooped up again sounded horrible, but it wasn’t like I could insist on staying outside by myself.

I helped Laura pack up the gardening tools and carry them over to a little shed tucked under the branches of two huge, gnarled trees. Sharing the shade with the workbench were a pair of small wicker chairs and a little side table.

“Does Agatha come out here with you?” I asked.

Laura shook her head. “I tried for a while, but she got too restless. It might be sensory overload, you know—the scents and colors, the way the light’s always changing. She does much better inside. It works out fine, since it gives her a chance to do her schoolwork.”

Ah, yes. Agatha’s “schoolwork.” A misleading term for Agatha sitting at the small writing desk in the nursery, a blank notebook in front of her and the audio version of a textbook droning on as she ignored it and looked out her favorite window.