June knew Twig was right. But fear had her in its chokehold. There were some things she could not unearth. Some things she was happy to let lie, and rot. Just the thought of talking to Alice about her father made June feel parched, as if the mere threat of being spoken reduced her words to dust.
The sensation of walking on eggshells around Alice, of being vulnerable, of perhaps ruining this second chance, was foreign to June. She was used to being in charge. She planted seeds, and they bloomed when and as she expected them to. Her life had its cycles of sowing, growth and harvesting, and she relied on that rhythm and order. A child coming into her care now, when life was slowing down and she was thinking about retirement, was deeply unsettling. But when June had laid eyes on her granddaughter lying in that hospital looking as if she was fading, she’d pressed a hand over the ache in her chest, realising how much she still had to lose.
As the sun gathered strength outside, June wandered among the native flowers, clipping those in bloom. She might not know where or how to begin talking to the child, but she could do the next best thing. Teach her the ways of speaking through flowers.
Alice woke up gagging. The sickening screech and hiss of fire echoed in her head. She wiped the cold sweat from her face and tried to sit up. Her knickers were wet; her legs were tangled in sodden bed sheets, coiled around her as if they were living things. Kicking hard, she fought her way out to sit on the edge of the bed. The heat of her dreams began to fade. Her skin cooled. Beside her, Toby woofed. Alice shook her head. It was not Toby. He was not there. Her mother wasn’t coming for her. Her voice would not tell another story. Her father wasn’t immersed in fire. He wouldn’t ever be anything other than what he was. She would never meet the baby. She was not going home.
Alice gave up trying to wipe her tears away and let them flow. Everything inside her felt as charred as the seagrass in her dreams.
Slowly, she became aware she wasn’t the only one in the room. She turned to find Harry sitting neatly at the foot of the bed, gazing at her. Almost as if he was smiling. He walked to her, his size reminding Alice more of a small horse than a dog. What had June called him? A bull-something? Harry rested his head in her lap. His eyebrows twitched with expectation. Alice was hesitant, but he didn’t scare her; she lifted her hand and stroked his head. He sighed. When she scratched behind his ears he sat and groaned in pleasure. He sat with her for a long time, his tail sweeping the floor in a slow side-to-side arc.
Her arrival the night before was far away, as if it was at one end of a long, dark tunnel and she was at the other. Moments clacked against each other. The sound of June’s bracelets. Her own skin coated with yellow dust.
Harry stood and gave one sharp bark. Alice kept her head down, her shoulders curled inwards. Harry barked again. She glared at him. Again, another bark. Louder this time. She couldn’t stop herself crying, but eventually her tears subsided on their own. Harry’s tail wagged. Though he could hear perfectly well, Alice held her thumb up to him anyway and wagged it side to side. He cocked his head, studying her. He came forward and licked her wrist. Alice patted him, yawning deeply as she took a half-hearted interest in her surroundings.
The room was hexagonal. Two walls were panelled in long white shelves, each crammed with almost more books than could fit. Three walls were floor-to-ceiling windows covered by thin curtains. In front of one sat an intricately carved desk with a matching chair, drawn as if in invitation. She turned to look at the last wall, behind her. Her bed folded outwards from it like a page unfolding from a giant book. Someone had gone to a lot of effort to set up this room. Did June do this for her? June, the grandmother Alice never knew she had?
She swung her feet to the floor and pushed herself up to stand. Harry turned a circle, panting and ready. Her head spun so intensely that she stumbled. She closed her eyes to wait out the dizzy spell. Harry steadied her. When the dizziness passed, she went to the desk and sat in the chair, which felt as if it was made to fit her body. Alice ran her hands over the surface. The wood was smooth and creamy, its edges carved with suns and moons bound together by butterfly wings and star-shaped flowers. She traced the carvings with her fingertips. Something about the desk was familiar, but why was yet another question Alice couldn’t grasp the answer to. On the desk sat an inkpot beside jars of pens, coloured pencils, crayons, tubes of paint and paintbrushes. A pile of notebooks sat in a neat stack. Alice riffled through the pencils, which were every colour she could think of. In another jar she discovered a fountain pen. She took the cap off and drew a small black line on the back of her hand, relishing the glossiness of the wet ink. She flicked through the notebooks; page after blank page beckoned.
‘This used to be a bell room once.’
Alice jumped.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Harry yapped at the sight of June, who stood stiffly in the doorway with a plate of honeyed toast and a glass of milk. The buttery sweetness filled the room. Alice hadn’t eaten since a few bites of a stale Vegemite sandwich at a petrol station the day before. June came into the room and set the plate and glass on the desk. Her hands were shaking. A yellow petal was stuck in her hair.
‘A long time ago, when Thornfield used to be a dairy farm, this was one of the most important rooms in the house. The bell in here rang out across the property to let everyone know when the day began and ended, and when it was time to eat. It’s long gone, but sometimes when the wind blows the right way I think I hear it ringing.’ June fidgeted, adjusting the plate this way and that. ‘I’ve always thought being up here feels a bit like being inside a music box.’
June looked around, sniffing. She went to the windows and drew the curtains. ‘You open them like this.’ She pointed to a latch that opened the top third of each window.
Alice’s cheeks were hot. She couldn’t watch as June approached her bed. In her peripheral vision she snuck glimpses of June stripping the sheets, bundling them in her arms without fuss and turning for the door. ‘I’m downstairs when you’ve finished eating. A shower might be a good idea. I’ll get you some fresh clothes. And sheets.’ She gave a small nod. Her eyes were still far away.
Alice exhaled. She wasn’t in trouble for wetting the bed.
Once June’s footsteps faded, Alice pounced upon her breakfast plate. She closed her eyes as she chewed, savouring the sweet, oily flavours. She opened one eye. Harry sat watching her. After a moment’s consideration she tore off a piece of toast, a good bit with a dollop of butter, and held it out to him. A truce. Harry delicately took the toast from her fingertips, smacking his jowls. Together they finished the plate and the glass of milk.
A whiff of something sweet caught Alice’s attention. She cautiously approached the window June had opened and pressed herself to the glass, her hands splayed. From the top of the house she had a circular view of the property. From one window, she saw where the dusty driveway ran from the verandah steps towards the gum trees. Alice ran to the next window. Alongside the house was a large timber shed with a rusty corrugated-iron roof, up one wall of which grew a thick vine. A path cut between the shed and the house. At the last window, Alice’s heart started racing. Behind the house and the shed, row upon row of different bushes and blooms stretched into fields for as far as she could see. She was surrounded by a sea of flowers.