Minutes later, as silence stretched unbearably between us, the inevitable happened: we fell into another absurd little game. A few sly nudges, exaggerated tiptoe steps, and an impromptu contest—who could make the other laugh first without being caught.
The maid, moving with the weary grace of one condemned to herd mischievous spirits rather than guests of noble birth, finally halted before a tall window. Wordlessly, she raised a gloved hand and pointed outward.
We leaned in, face planted.
Beyond the window sprawled a garden so vast it seemed to swallow the horizon itself—dense hedges and towering blossoms tangled in chaotic perfection, a living maze steeped in secrets.
"Wow…" I breathed, my voice caught halfway between awe and dread.
"I heard," Ronette whispered beside me, equally entranced, "there's only one gardener who maintains all this."
I tore my gaze away, disbelief sharpening my tone. "One? Are you sure they're human?"
Ronette shrugged, palms up in silent surrender. "Never actually seen them."
The maid gave no reaction. She merely turned, skirts whispering against the stone, and resumed walking. We scurried to catch up, trying not to look too much like stray cats.
As we walked, she began, in the most monotone voice imaginable, to recount the history of the grand garden.
"The garden," the maid began solemnly, "was conceived by the Founder of this manor and his most trusted friend. The Founder's wife, a woman who adored flowers, inspired its creation. In his devotion, the Founder locked himself away for days, tirelessly crafting lists of expert gardeners for the butler to commission."
Her voice dropped, growing conspiratorial.
"Concerned, the trusted friend eventually barged into the office and hauled the Founder out by force."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Ronette, meanwhile, shook like a leaf beside me, stifling laughter.
"Upon learning about the project," the maid continued, "the friend suggested adding a little… entertainment. A secret mechanism hidden beneath the garden—harmless, of course—with only a 0.00000001% chance of triggering accidentally."
Ronette and I exchanged a grim look—an unspoken agreement that those odds were, inevitably, for someone like us.
"It was also designed," she added breezily, "to activate instantly for unauthorized guests."
A silence fell over us, heavy as a guillotine blade.
"The few who tried to trespass," she finished sweetly, "did not live to tell the tale."
Ronette stiffened as if already reading his own epitaph.
I wiped tears from my eyes, drew a scroll from my cloak, and cleared my throat.
"So young… so full of life. Ronette, in case of your untimely demise, allow me to draft your last will."
"What?! I'm not dead yet!" Ronette protested.
I ignored him, voice rich with fake sorrow:
"Last Will and Testament of Lady Ronette Hogg, Brave Yet Extremely Unlucky:
To Lucas, my dear brother, I leave my secret stash of expired candy.
To the manor's rats, my favorite pair of socks—for their excellent judgmental stares.
To the cursed painting that winked at me, my haunted toothbrush.
And to the death garden, my undying resentment.
And finally, Ronette's collection of badly drawn maps shall be placed in the Hall of Heroes, titled 'Places I Almost Survived.'"
"Please, stop! You're actually cursing me!" Ronette groaned.
I tucked the scroll away, hand over heart.
"Fear not, dear Ronette. Should the worst befall you, I shall befriend the garden on your behalf."
"Befriend it?!" Ronette looked horrified.
"Yes! I'll bring offerings—muffins, terrible poetry… maybe sacrifice a sock or two. Charm the bloodthirsty flowers. Convince the soil not to swallow me."
Ronette stared, soul halfway out of his body. Understandable.
"If the garden demands," I added thoughtfully, "I shall become its minstrel. Singing odes to the killer vines, serenading man-eating bushes."
"Best yet, I'll name it," I declared, tapping my chin. "Something cute. Like… Sparky."
"Or Murdertron," Ronette muttered darkly.
"Or Sir Gardenbane the Third," I offered.
Ronette nodded gravely. "It deserves a title for its years of loyal service."
"We can't just pick carelessly," I said, serious as a judge. "This is a moment."
Ronette folded his arms. "We should let the garden choose. After all, it's its name."
My eyes sparkled at the genius of that idea. "Brilliant!"
Without missing a beat, I turned to Ronette and held out my hand expectantly. "Pen. Paper. Now."
The maid, ahead, merely gestured for us to keep walking, utterly unfazed by the existential crisis unfolding two steps behind her.
"And the mechanism," she added lightly, "requires no maintenance. It will function perfectly for eternity."
Of course it would. Unlike the cracked roof tiles, the flickering lamps… or our sanity.
Ronette leaned closer. "You first."
I struck a heroic pose. "Fear not, dear Ronette. Should I fall, write me a tragic ballad."
"And if I perish," he muttered, "tell them I fought bravely… until the first flower sneezed at me."
Thus, with the resigned dignity of jesters at our own execution, we followed the maid into the waiting jaws of the garden.
At last, we reached the mansion's great doors. The maid pushed them open.
Sunlight slammed into us, blinding and merciless.
"AH!" we cried, shielding our eyes.
Vision cleared slowly—and the garden revealed itself. Vast. Beautiful. Terrifying. Each bloom a secret, each shadow a promise of danger.
"Please follow me," the maid intoned, face unreadable.
We nodded grimly, our earlier bravado shriveling up like a leaf in the sun.
With the heavy steps of condemned prisoners, we followed the maid down the stone steps toward the waiting garden.
Each step made our nerves crackle and fray, like a taut rope slowly wearing thin.
At last, we stood before it—and immediately, both of us froze in disbelief.
The garden towered before us, vast and lush, as if it had swallowed an entire forest and rearranged it into impossible shapes.
"It's uselessly big, ain't it?" I muttered, swallowing.
"I've never even seen a garden before…" Ronette whispered, awe mixing with dread.
Before we could enter, the maid handed us each a small, cold token.
"What's this?" I asked, turning it over.
"Authorization tokens," she explained. "With them, the traps won't activate."
"Harmless traps, right?" Ronette blurted, too quickly.
I lowered my voice. "Just curious… what kind of traps?"
The maid's lips curved into an unsettling, almost fond smile.
"Carnivorous flowers. Vines that drag you under. Hallucinogenic pollen that makes you dance yourself to death. Singing lilies that lull you to eternal sleep. Thorns faster than arrows. Pitfalls disguised as flowerbeds. And, of course..." she paused, "...the charming little creeper plants that think ankles are a delicacy."
Ronette turned an alarming shade of pale.
The maid tilted her head slightly.
"Those," she added softly, "are only the ones that have triggered before."
A nervous laugh escaped my lips as I instinctively took a step back. "Thanks for the input, my sweet nightingale," I murmured, half in jest, half in dread.
Her gaze flicked to my fiddle. "Weapons are forbidden."
"I—my fiddle—" I protested, clutching it.
In a fluid motion, she stepped forward, plucked it from my arms. My protests died in stunned silence.
Without another word, she gestured toward the garden's maw. "Please enjoy."
We turned to exchange one last miserable glance.
"Oui…" we whispered weakly.
When we turned back, the maid had vanished—like a breath snatched by wind.
"Was that all just a dream?" I rubbed my eyes furiously.
"Do we… go in?" Ronette stammered.
I puffed up my chest, defiance fighting panic. "Sure! Madam's kindness mustn't go to waste!"
"What if the traps trigger?" Ronette quaked.
I grabbed his arm dramatically. "Ronette, my love, as long as I live, you have nothing to fear."
He looked at me with pure horror. "Then why did you write my will?!"
"Don't sweat the details!" I chirped, tugging him forward. "Let's enjoy the moment."
"But… but—!" Ronette protested, heels digging in.
"What matters is now, not tomorrow! Move that big oaf butt!"
With a mighty tug, Ronette stumbled forward like a felled tree.
BAAM!
He crashed into me. We collapsed at the garden's edge.
"Argh!" I yelped.
"Oof!" Ronette grunted as he toppled right onto me, knocking the air from my lungs.
Dizzy, I opened an eye—froze.
"Oui? The entrance… it disappeared?" I croaked.
"Dis-disappeared?!" Ronette shrieked, whirling to see only a wall of thorns.
He clutched his face and shrieked. "EEEEKKKK!"
SMACK!
Without hesitation, I slapped him.
"Stop whining," I snapped. "We've survived worse. Besides, we have the token. No harm will come to us."
Ronette collapsed dramatically, tears in his eyes. "Can't we have peace just once?"
"Ah… peace…" I echoed, tasting the word like a stranger. "It's been ages since I've even heard that word."
Ronette's gaze softened, pity clouding his eyes.
'Louis must have suffered so much… never knowing peace…'
But what Ronette didn't know—what I'd never told him—was the bitter truth:
'Most of those tragedies?'
'Yeah.'
'They'd been caused by me.'
'Intentionally.'
'Unintentionally.'
'Maybe… almost all of them.'
'Probably.'