A high-pitched scream pulled Dawn from the depths of sleep. She sat upright and clutched at the blankets. Above her head, one shutter hung open. A flicker of moonlight pierced the thick glass of the window and crept over the bed and floor.

The scream tapered off but Dawn waited for it to start again, as though someone out there in the dark were drawing a breath.

“What was that, Mouse?” she whispered to the dog.

Mouse slept on the rug beside the bed, where his sides heaved in steady breaths. The wolfhound hadn’t even woken. Why did the earl suggest him to guard her when it appeared she would be protecting him from strange noises in the dark?

Seconds ticked past without another screech, cry, or even a whimper.

It was just an owl hunting. Perhaps it found a rabbit. They can scream, she convinced herself and settled back down on the pillow.

Morning tugged Dawn into consciousness and she stretched her arms over her head. Her fingers touched wood, and it took a moment to remember she slept in a strange bed in a quaint cottage on a long-neglected estate. She reached up and flicked open the shutter behind the bed to admit the early light. Before moving any further, she evaluated her body. She found no lingering fatigue and her heart seemed slow and steady, without the usual erratic moth’s wing pace that often plagued her.

She allowed herself a quiet smile and sense of enjoyment for the coming day. There was much to be done and she needed to be careful, but how glorious to explore acres of land rather than the same few feet. Then a pang of sadness dropped through her. What she would give to have her mother here later this evening, to sit and discuss the day’s events. She tried to imagine what her mother would say if she confessed that she found the earl rather handsome, although in a dour and stern way. Her mother would give that secret little smile, the one that said she knew something her daughter did not.

Mouse nuzzled her hand and gave her a curious look. Long hairs hung from his eyebrows and partly obscured his eyes. Dawn passed a hand over his face to push the hair away and his tail wagged. Meeting the dog’s brown eyes, she found a keen intellect looking back at her. It was as though he could peer right into her soul and was perplexed by what he found.

Nonsense. Dogs can’t see into our souls.

“Good morning, Mouse. I assume you need me to open the door.” She was quietly pleased that she was already able to interpret the dog’s requests.

She opened the door to let Mouse out. Her gaze roamed over the scraggly lavender, across the lime chip path, and then up the nearby red brick wall to discover the raven. Large wings flapped as it called out and took flight up over the cottage’s roof.

As her line of sight dropped from the bird back to earth, to one side of the door she found another tray with a silver covered plate. She brought it in and lifted the lid to reveal a steaming hot bowl of porridge. Another jar contained fresh milk and on a tiny saucer, a knob of butter. Was the delivery simply coincidental timing or, more fancifully, did the watcher on the wall alert the kitchen?

Dawn brought her breakfast inside and took it through to the bedroom to curl back up in the warm bed. There was no one to see, so what did it matter if she sat at the table or not? After her meal, she contemplated the one thing she missed about the town house back in Whetstone – the bathroom.

She ignored the tiny sink in the water closet in preference for the larger kitchen sink. Once washed, she pulled her hair back in a bun then dressed in a pale green cotton gown. The sturdy canvas apron was tied around her waist. A notebook and pencil went into the large front pocket so she could record her thoughts about the garden.

For a moment she toyed with taking a bottle of her tonic in case the walk proved too much. But she didn’t want to risk it breaking if she knocked against a tree or branch, a distinct possibility given the state of the garden. No, she would simply have to make do until lunchtime. Then she could return to the cottage to take a dose if she felt light-headed.

Next, Dawn borrowed a set of secateurs from the greenhouse. She buckled the worn leather pouch strap around her waist and grabbed a straw hat, ready to begin her exploration.

Mouse waited outside.

“Where to first?” she asked her companion, but he had no response. “I think we should start close to the cottage and then work our way outward in circles.”

She walked along the path, keeping the wall on her right. Each step of woman and dog crunched on the crisp morning air. Twenty feet along the wall and from the cottage, she came upon a wooden door with iron hinges. The top was arched like a church window, and the timbers had weathered to silver and seemed more metallic than wooden. The hinges sprouted nibbles of rust on their flat faces.

From what Dawn had discerned from the defaced map, beyond lay the kitchen garden. But in what condition? A mystery that would only be solved by pushing into whatever lay on the other side. These hinges were better maintained than those in the glasshouse. The large door opened on a gentle push. Inside sprawled roughly one acre of enclosed garden. Along the south side, in full sun, were a series of glass-covered trenches.

“Pineapple pits,” Dawn murmured. “How grand.”

Pineapples could be grown under the glass; all that was needed was for a stable boy to deposit manure in the covered trench that ran alongside. Heat from the decomposing pile would transfer to the bricks and keep the plants toasty warm.

A corner of the plot sheltered a large shed with a single barn door. Time had faded the cedar cladding to a soft grey, but the roof appeared intact. There were no windows, but that wouldn’t be necessary to stowing larger gardening equipment.

Fruit trees occupied the back third of the garden and were years overdue for a hard prune, but they continued to fruit, regardless. Developing apples and pears hung amid the twisted branches, their perfect skins marred by rubbing against bark.

While over half of the vegetable beds were full of weeds that slumped back over the gravel paths, someone was making an effort to grow vegetables for the big house. In the few planted beds, Dawn spotted cabbages, carrots, and leeks. Tall willow spirals supported beans while others tipped under the burgeoning weight of tomatoes.

It would only take a small amount of organisation and hard work to make the potager far more productive. Her attention drifted to the row of glassed frames on the south side of the enclosure once again. Pineapples were a luxury unless they had someone to haul the necessary manure, but Dawn could mention it to the earl over dinner.

She pulled out the notebook and made a few notes. Somewhere in the cottage or greenhouse she might find the original crop rotation plans that would detail how best to utilise the space and ensure the big house had sufficient produce all year round.

“Onward, Mouse.” Dawn slipped back through the door in the wall and pulled it closed behind her.

With the dog at her side, she turned to study the hothouse. All the panes seemed to be in place, only in need of a good clean to remove years of grime. It wouldn’t be a job for the faint hearted, or the weak hearted. Ladders and scaffolding would need to be erected for the task. Another issue to raise with the earl: Who was nimble enough to climb up the metal structure to clean the windows?

From the hothouse, they veered northeast to the garden behind the big house. The lawn was large enough to play croquet, tennis, or to host a lavish outdoor party. Someone maintained the edges, and it looked regularly mown. The same could not be said for what were once wide herbaceous borders.

While stinging nettle and dandelion had their place in a medicinal garden, they didn’t normally overtake lush borders meant to delight ladies over summer. The hedges at the back were also neglected, and instead of neat lines they sprouted wild haircuts. A thick black vine crept through the hedges and pulled tufts out or split trees as it went.

“The lines on the map,” Dawn whispered. The main trunk of the vine was easily as thick as her wrist, with offshoot tendrils the thickness of her fingers. No label for it sprang to mind. It wasn’t a rose or ivy, or an out-of-control jasmine. She scribbled more notes in her book.

At the foot of the hedge, the borders would need a complete replacement and probably compost added to the depleted soil, which would explain the nettles – they thrived in poorer conditions. Once a new colour scheme was determined, plants, bulbs, and tubers would need to be ordered from catalogues to replace those that died of neglect or were suffocated by the stronger weeds.

She looked up to take her bearings and pondered the next direction to explore. From her recollection of the fuzzy map, beyond the lawn and herbaceous borders lay a twisted mess that might have once been a maze. A few paths had been faintly visible under the edges of black paint. Over the top, the vine spiralled in a tight knot around a remarkably clear centre.

“This way, Mouse,” she murmured to the wolfhound who trotted on silent pads by her side.

Rounding a corner, Dawn discovered that the map in the cottage was a true depiction of the sad garden. This maze would be holding tight to its secrets. The yews that formed the walls hadn’t been trimmed in years and had grown into one another, obscuring the entrance and any alleyways within. The yew in itself wouldn’t have been too big an obstacle. Hedge trimmers would have been her weapon of choice to reclaim the entrance.

The issue was what surrounded the yew. Thick brambles enclosed the entire maze, like a mother hugging a child tight to her breast. The smothering beast appeared possibly related to the vine strangling the herbaceous borders, except here the new shoots were practically trunks and as thick as her forearms. Along each limb ran one-inch thorns, like exposed spines. Woody fingers splayed out over what was once the entranceway like hands covering eyes. If she tried to push through, her clothing and skin would be torn. Dawn couldn’t identify the plant, and it had no visible flowers or leaves to assist. She had never encountered its like before and would have to consult the botany books to name it.

A raven perched on a vine running parallel to the ground. Its claws wrapped between sharp thorns. The bird cocked its head, watching. Then it let out a throaty caw and took flight. A feather dropped to the ground and landed at Dawn’s feet.

She picked it up only discover it was no feather but an oddly shaped black leaf. It had the same graceful arch as a feather, tapering to a tip, and shared the same shaft and vein structure. When she turned it over in her fingers, the underside was a deep red.

“How odd.” She tucked the leaf into the pocket of her apron. It might have fallen from the strange vine and could aid her identification of its genus.

While Dawn desperately wanted to explore the maze, it was impenetrable, like the dense wall that the prince had to fight through to find Sleeping Beauty within. How would she ever make it past the thorny sentries?

She would need reinforcements. Perhaps Hector could help her slash the first path through the brambles? It might not be so bad once inside, despite the dense covering over the same area on the map in the cottage. Either way, it was impossible to tell from without. Even standing on tiptoes didn’t help as the hedge towered above her.

Dawn bit back a sigh of disappointment and patted the dog’s head. “We won’t find out what is in there today, Mouse. Let us investigate the woodland walk.”

She followed the path into the forest, which sat adjacent to the maze. There the trees were supposed to be overgrown, to give a sheltered, shady walk to escape the heat of summer days. Or a place for young lovers to chase one another and to hold secret trysts in the soft undergrowth. What stories had these paths seen unfold over the last three hundred years?

Overall, the estate was in a sorry condition. The further Dawn walked, the worse it became. Despite the dappled light, she squinted. Staring at trees being strangled by the strange black vines was like staring at the sun, and it hurt her eyes. The chaotic growth didn’t just suffocate the trees struggling to reach the sunlight above. The discordant note pressed on her mind and sparked the headache that throbbed behind her temple. The flutter in her chest stumbled into an erratic gallop. She reached out a hand blindly as though she could grasp fresh air and quiet to silence the turmoil within.

Her mind crashed under the wave of despair that rolled off the neglected forest. It was as though the trees screamed as they were crushed by the vine, and their dying cries pierced her mind. Her hands flew to her throat as her body forgot to draw air. She gasped. Panic clawed at her chest, and her knees buckled as her vision faded to black.

Mouse barked from her side. She struggled to break free of the thing that sought to bind her and steal her senses. Sharp teeth held her hand firm but didn’t puncture her skin. Mouse. Dawn leaned over his back as the wolfhound guided her along the track.

She forgot how to coordinate her limbs. Her feet tripped over leaves and twigs as she tried to remember how to breathe before she fainted. She stumbled over the dog, but he held her upright. Mouse was a warm, steady presence against her side through the sudden darkness.

Onward dog and woman wove until, as though a door slammed shut, the piercing cry in her mind fell silent. A sigh escaped Dawn’s lips and she opened her eyes to find the darkness had lifted. They stood on a bank, free of the cloying woodland walk with its hot, acrid air. A cool breeze brushed her skin, and the delicate scent of lush grass rose from under her feet.

The noon sun shone on water that sparkled as though scattered with diamonds. The lake before her was roughly oval in shape, and water flowed down a small hillock in at one corner and spilled into silent ripples. On the opposite side, a small creek snaked away and disappeared between trees.

The gentle gurgle of water washed over her and carried away the last tendrils of panic. With a steadying pat on Mouse’s head, she stepped to the lake’s edge. Weeping willows lined the bank where their limbs dangled like maidens trailing fingers in the water. A narrow wooden jetty ran out over the lake for ten feet, but she eyed the timbers suspiciously. Being unable to swim, she decided against testing them on her own and kept to the grass.

Dawn drew a deep breath of peace and solitude. It flowed through her like the gentle water, and the tension eased from her shoulders. Then she sat on the grass, pulled her knees up to her chest, and rested her cheek on the top. A dragonfly skimmed across the water, searching for smaller insects. Mouse flopped at her feet and stretched out in the dappled sunlight.

Bit by bit, the pounding in her chest abated and returned to some semblance of a normal beat. The headache dissipated and she regained possession of all her senses.

How could the earl let the garden deteriorate in such a way? To be fair, what she saw was decades of neglect, and he didn’t look old enough to bear the sole burden for its ruin. Dawn thought of the diminutive garden at the house back in Whetstone. Would it likewise lapse into disrepair without anyone to tend its borders and walks?

“Miss Uxbridge, are you quite all right?” The rich, deep voice cut through Dawn’s contemplation and she startled.

Mouse uttered a solitary woof from her side and then dropped his head back to the soft grass.

“Lord Seton. I did not hear you approach.” Dawn cast a glance to the supposed guard dog who didn’t make so much as a squeak at the earl’s arrival.

“I do not mean to intrude, but I saw you sitting on the ground and wanted to ensure you had not suffered some mishap or injury.” He was dressed for walking, or riding she supposed, with buckskin breeches and high top boots. A frock coat of deep green encased his torso, cut longer at the back so it flared out behind his knees. His brows pulled together as he stared down at her.

Dawn brushed a hand through her hair and encountered a snag. She pulled at the rough piece and discovered a twig. Oh dear. Her blind run through the forest had worked her hair loose from its bun, and she seemed to have picked up an assortment of leaves and twigs. Now she was sprawled on the ground and probably looked like she had just crawled through a bush. No wonder the earl was frowning at her. She was failing at making a good impression upon her employer.

She dropped a leaf to the ground and peered up at the lord. How to explain her shabby appearance? “I was enjoying the serenity of this spot after the screeching from the forest walk.”

He managed to simultaneously frown and arch an eyebrow. He held out a hand to her. “Screeching? Like owls?”

Dawn accepted his help and placed her hand in his. The instant their hands touched, a jolt ran up her arm, across her chest, and wrapped around her heart. She gasped and snatched her hand back, staring at it. On her palm, a large round seed, somewhat like a sweet pea, glowed and rocked back and forth like an egg about to hatch.

“Are you all right?” the earl asked.

“Yes.” She glanced up for a moment, then returned to stare at her hand, but the seed had vanished. Or had she imagined it? She patted the grass but found nothing. Her hand went to her chest. The pang hadn’t been painful but more like a blast of awareness. She sought for some excuse to explain her reaction and the abortive attempt to rise off the ground. “Your hands are cold.”

Dawn tucked her hands into the pocket of the apron.

The earl stared at his hands for a moment and then crossed his arms, still looming over her like a storm cloud about to release the rain.

“You were saying that the estate is noisy.” The frown returned to Lord Seton’s face. He seemed to frown often, but perhaps it was a burden having to run an estate.

She must sound mad, but instead of keeping quiet she blundered on. “Not literally, of course, but the way some growth has taken over and strangles more fragile plants makes me wince. As though I cannot look at their suffering without imagining them caught in silent cries for help.”

Dawn struggled with a way to explain how the rampant overgrowth and the sinister dead patches bombarded her. “You must think me touched in the head. But it is as though I have walked through the middle of an orchestra who are entirely unacquainted with their instruments. Each person competes with the other to make the loudest noise and the entire is…painful. This place by comparison is blessed silence.”

The frown disappeared from his brow as his grey eyes widened slightly. “I do not think you are touched at all. The state of the grounds could be overwhelming to those sensitive to such things. As I would expect from a gardener. But I did not mean to disturb your contemplation. I found myself quite curious to hear your first impressions and had hoped to encounter you somewhere in the grounds. I will leave you until this evening.”

He gave an old-fashioned bow and retreated to the trees, leaving her alone with Mouse and the silent lake.