Mr. Craven struggled to his feet. He looked like a broken man. “Show me,” he said hoarsely to Mary. “Show me my son. I must see him.”

Mary looked at Dickon, who gave a small nod.

“It’s this way, sir,” Mary said to her uncle.

She and Dickon led the way to the ivy-covered gate. Mary glanced at her uncle and saw that his face was rigid. “Colin’s in here,” she said, pushing back the creepers and turning the gate’s handle.

As her uncle and Mrs. Medlock stepped into the garden, the sun shone down through the long canopy of yellow laburnum flowers. Mary saw the astonishment on her uncle’s and Mrs. Medlock’s faces as they walked through the beautiful golden tunnel and out into the garden with its formal flower beds bursting with blooms.

“Why, it’s beautiful!” Mrs. Medlock said wonderingly as she looked around at the overflowing flower beds, the tended trees, and the gravel path that was now free from weeds.

“It’s ours,” said Mary. She glanced at her uncle, who was staring around in shock at the blooming garden with its riot of flowers. “It was hers, but now I think she wants us to share it.”

“And he’s here?” Her uncle looked at her pleadingly. “Where is my son?”

“Call for him, sir,” said Mary encouragingly.

Her uncle moved swiftly through the garden. “Colin?” he called, pushing plants aside as he searched. “Colin?” Mary, Dickon, and Mrs. Medlock followed.

“Please be careful, sir,” said Mrs. Medlock anxiously, but Mr. Craven ignored her.

“Colin!” His voice rose.

Colin was sitting on the grass by the temple, his sleeves rolled up. “There!” Mary said, pulling her uncle’s sleeve and pointing.

“Father!” Colin shouted in relief. “You’re safe!”

Mr. Craven broke into an unsteady run. Mary bounded beside him. He stopped a little way from Colin and stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, his eyes riveted on his son’s face. “And of all the places to find you. Here. In her garden . . .”

He stepped closer, but Colin shook his head. “No, wait. Please, Father.” He began to struggle to his knees and, using a stick that Dickon had carved for him, he pulled himself to his feet. He smiled proudly at his father.

Mr. Craven paled. “You are standing, Colin!”

Colin nodded and took a step toward his father. He paused, then took another and another. Mr. Craven watched, transfixed. “But how is this possible?” he whispered.

Colin stumbled the last few steps and fell forward into his father’s arms. “Magic,” he said as his father grabbed him. Their eyes met. “Secrets.” He glanced around the garden. “Her.”

“Her?” said his father, confused.

“His mother,” said Mary.