the others.
Jan and Charlie hurried out to meet her. She walked up the path to them.
“I’ve found it,” she said, but there was no joy in her voice. “Look.”
She held it out to them, and they stood there, the three of them, staring at it.
It was the saddest-looking rose you ever saw. It wasn’t pink. It was nearly black. And it wasn’t in full flower, like every other rose in the garden. It was only a bud. And it would never open, because it was dying. Its head was hanging limp on its withered stem. Only the thorns looked healthy.
“That can’t be it,” said Charlie at last. His mouth was dry and his voice was hoarse.
“It must be,” said Bindi. She was whispering, forsome reason. “It was growing out of the holly bush. That proves it’s magic. But what’s the matter with it?”
Jan took it gently in her hand and touched the poor dried-up bud. As she did, the black, unfinished petals dropped away, leaving something like a green star with a yellow center. Something flashed from this yellow part, and Jan, with a little cry, dropped the thorny twig on the path.
“It moved,” she whispered. “It twisted in my hand. It—it seemed to burn me for a second, too.”
Bindi was reaching down.
“Don’t touch it!” ordered Charlie suddenly, catching her hand. “Leave it. It’s not your birthday rose; it can’t be. Come inside. It’s time you were in bed.” And he took Bindi’s hand in his and walked quickly with her into the house.
3
The Dried-up Twig
After they’d tucked Bindi into bed, Jan and Charlie sat up late. At first they just sat looking at each other.
Finally Jan said, “Something terrible’s happened.”
And Charlie said, “It’s none of our business.”
Jan felt as if she were married to a stranger.
“How can you possibly say that?”
Charlie turned his face away, and after a few moments he said, in a muffled voice, “I didn’t quite mean that.”
“I should hope not,” said Jan. “Of course it’s our business.”
“I meant,” said Charlie, “that there’s nothing we can do. So it doesn’t help to worry.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Jan.
Just then the phone rang. It was a patient of Charlie’s who said he felt very ill, and could Charlie come? Usually Charlie was fairly cheerful about visiting people at night, but tonight he didn’t want to. It was as if he was afraid to leave Jan and Bindi alone in the house.
“Oh, go on, don’t be silly!” said Jan. “We’ll be all right.”
So Charlie went off. And Jan sat for a bit, thinking and worrying. She kept remembering that strange feeling in her hand when she held the dying rosebud. She thought of the twig lying on the path. And then she thought of something else.
Every year, on the night of Bindi’s birthday, Jan had gone out into the garden and left Tiki a thank-you present. There were only two charms left on her charm bracelet. One was a little woven silver basket. And one was a tiny silver rose.
She took the silver rose off the chain, found the old glue-cap that had been Tiki’s cup, filled it with honey and crept out into the dark garden. She tiptoed across the lawn to the pear tree, keeping well away from the path. The roses on the bushes seemed to glow in the dark. She picked a petal, laid it on the grass and put her presents on it. She was trying hard to make everything seem as it always had in the past.
But as she turned to go back into the house, she caught sight of something that froze her in her tracks. On the path was a weird glowing light. It came and went, never quite going out, like something breathing, alive.
She wanted to run, but she felt she ought not to leave it lying there, any more than you would leave a sharp knife or a bottle of poison lying about. Suddenly she
knew
that everything was not as usual. That
thing
which had stung or burnt her and twisted like something wickedly alive in her hand was deadly dangerous.
Slowly she moved toward it. When she got close,
Jan and Charlie hurried out to meet her. She walked up the path to them.
“I’ve found it,” she said, but there was no joy in her voice. “Look.”
She held it out to them, and they stood there, the three of them, staring at it.
It was the saddest-looking rose you ever saw. It wasn’t pink. It was nearly black. And it wasn’t in full flower, like every other rose in the garden. It was only a bud. And it would never open, because it was dying. Its head was hanging limp on its withered stem. Only the thorns looked healthy.
“That can’t be it,” said Charlie at last. His mouth was dry and his voice was hoarse.
“It must be,” said Bindi. She was whispering, forsome reason. “It was growing out of the holly bush. That proves it’s magic. But what’s the matter with it?”
Jan took it gently in her hand and touched the poor dried-up bud. As she did, the black, unfinished petals dropped away, leaving something like a green star with a yellow center. Something flashed from this yellow part, and Jan, with a little cry, dropped the thorny twig on the path.
“It moved,” she whispered. “It twisted in my hand. It—it seemed to burn me for a second, too.”
Bindi was reaching down.
“Don’t touch it!” ordered Charlie suddenly, catching her hand. “Leave it. It’s not your birthday rose; it can’t be. Come inside. It’s time you were in bed.” And he took Bindi’s hand in his and walked quickly with her into the house.
3
The Dried-up Twig
After they’d tucked Bindi into bed, Jan and Charlie sat up late. At first they just sat looking at each other.
Finally Jan said, “Something terrible’s happened.”
And Charlie said, “It’s none of our business.”
Jan felt as if she were married to a stranger.
“How can you possibly say that?”
Charlie turned his face away, and after a few moments he said, in a muffled voice, “I didn’t quite mean that.”
“I should hope not,” said Jan. “Of course it’s our business.”
“I meant,” said Charlie, “that there’s nothing we can do. So it doesn’t help to worry.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Jan.
Just then the phone rang. It was a patient of Charlie’s who said he felt very ill, and could Charlie come? Usually Charlie was fairly cheerful about visiting people at night, but tonight he didn’t want to. It was as if he was afraid to leave Jan and Bindi alone in the house.
“Oh, go on, don’t be silly!” said Jan. “We’ll be all right.”
So Charlie went off. And Jan sat for a bit, thinking and worrying. She kept remembering that strange feeling in her hand when she held the dying rosebud. She thought of the twig lying on the path. And then she thought of something else.
Every year, on the night of Bindi’s birthday, Jan had gone out into the garden and left Tiki a thank-you present. There were only two charms left on her charm bracelet. One was a little woven silver basket. And one was a tiny silver rose.
She took the silver rose off the chain, found the old glue-cap that had been Tiki’s cup, filled it with honey and crept out into the dark garden. She tiptoed across the lawn to the pear tree, keeping well away from the path. The roses on the bushes seemed to glow in the dark. She picked a petal, laid it on the grass and put her presents on it. She was trying hard to make everything seem as it always had in the past.
But as she turned to go back into the house, she caught sight of something that froze her in her tracks. On the path was a weird glowing light. It came and went, never quite going out, like something breathing, alive.
She wanted to run, but she felt she ought not to leave it lying there, any more than you would leave a sharp knife or a bottle of poison lying about. Suddenly she
knew
that everything was not as usual. That
thing
which had stung or burnt her and twisted like something wickedly alive in her hand was deadly dangerous.
Slowly she moved toward it. When she got close,
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