“You don’t understand!” said Mary, knowing her plan was going horribly wrong and wanting desperately to make it right. “Colin, your mother didn’t want to leave you, but she had no choice. She came here to die because it was beautiful, and I think that, when she died, she made the garden magical. It cured Hector’s leg and . . .” She swallowed. “And I believe it could . . .”

“No!” Colin cut in furiously, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. “Don’t say it. Don’t!” he ground out. “I didn’t want to see the dresses and I didn’t want to see this. I want to go home!”

Mary lapsed into silence as Dickon handed the white flowers to Colin. Without a word, Colin scattered them on the grass, bright splashes of white against the green.

His shoulders slumped. “Take me home, please,” he said to Dickon.

“Of course.”

Dickon wheeled Colin away. As they headed back through the trees, the plants around Colin’s chair seemed to shrink, gunnera and vines curling in on themselves, branches drooping and leaves turning brown with sadness as he passed.

Disappointment crashed over Mary. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Maybe that Colin would find some peace in seeing where his mother had died, in knowing that she was still there, in her way, in the garden. Mary hadn’t meant to hurt him. She looked around the clearing. What was she going to do now?

“Tell me,” she whispered to the garden. “Please show me the way.”

Mary couldn’t sleep that night. She got up and fetched her mother’s letters, then she sat on the floor in her room, looking through them, her mind turning over everything again, trying to work out what to do for the best.

A memory flashed into Mary’s mind. Her father was hugging her, wiping away her tears. Your mother is sad at the moment, monkey, and her sadness has made her unwell. Don’t be angry with her that she doesn’t want to see you. It’s not her fault. One day you’ll understand.

Do I understand now? Mary thought. She certainly felt like she was beginning to see the past differently.

She looked up and saw her mother standing by the window. Her eyes were full of sadness—sadness, Mary now knew, for the sister she had lost.

Mary was too shocked to speak. A gust of wind rushed through the room. It swept the letters up and sent them swirling high into the air. Mary grabbed them.

“Mummy, I’m sorry,” Mary whispered. “I didn’t understand. But I think I do now.”

Her mother’s gaze met hers, and she smiled, then vanished. Mary suddenly knew what she had to do.

In the morning, she went straight to Colin’s room with the letters. The door was locked. She rattled the handle.