Glancing back, she caught sight of Mrs. Medlock watching her from an open first-floor window.

Mary carried on, and after a few minutes, she saw Mrs. Medlock come out of the house. Mary smiled to herself and skipped into some nearby trees. Hidden from sight, she ran to an old yew tree and climbed high into its branches. She waited. Sure enough, Mrs. Medlock came hurrying along the path, looking left and right.

So it looks like you’re spying on me, Mary thought. Whatever for?

She waited until the housekeeper had disappeared from view and then dropped down lightly and doubled back through the trees, heading straight for the wall. She was desperate to get to the garden. She wanted to know how the dog was. Would he be better—or worse?

As she scrambled over the wall, Mary wondered whether there was a gate or door that led into the garden. Surely there must be a way in that didn’t involve climbing?

I must try to find the real entrance, she thought.

She climbed down, wondering if Dickon would be there. Hurrying across the carpet of dry leaves, she noticed new green ones unfurling on the branches in the sunshine, and her heart lifted. Spring was approaching, and the garden seemed to be coming back to life.

I could do some weeding, she thought as the magic seemed to guide her feet into the garden of statues. I could tame some of the undergrowth. Make the flower beds look like they did in the photograph of when I was little.

She skipped in happiness at the thought and then spotted Dickon in the temple. He had shrugged off his thick winter jacket and was clearing some brambles with his knife. Dickon had taught Mary to whistle the day before, and now she whistled to him. Dickon looked around and lifted his hand in greeting.

“Have you seen him?” Mary asked anxiously, running over. “Is he healing? Is he . . . is he worse?”

There was a rustle, and the dog ran out from the bushes behind Dickon. With a welcoming bark, the dog bounded toward Mary.

“He’s better!” Mary cried, dropping to her knees. The dog jumped around her, wagging its tail. She stroked and patted him.

“He’s still got a limp,” Dickon said, walking over to them. “But the leg is taking his weight now.”

“The garden cured him.” Mary’s eyes shone.

Dickon grinned. “Aye, well, the garden had some help.”

“No, Dickon,” Mary said earnestly. “This is a magic garden! It can heal people—and dogs.” She gazed around with new wonder at the overgrown garden, the temple, and the statues. The dog barked at her again, and she barked back.

“What are you doing?” said Dickon, looking amused.

“I’m a Yorkshire terrier!” giggled Mary.

Dickon chuckled and then barked himself. “Then I’m a Yorkshire terrier too!”