The Garden Wakes

She had to think about it the next morning, when she opened the kitchen door and the garden turned, all of it at once, to look at her. There was no other word for it. The roses leaned. The tall pale flowers along the wall swung their heads round on their stems, slow and deliberate, the way a room of strangers turns when you walk in late. Even the herbs, low and unassuming, seemed to be paying attention. Margot stood very still on the step. She was a sensible person. She worked in insurance. She had a pension. "Hello," she said, because it seemed rude not to. The garden did not answer in words. But the gate at the far end, which had been shut, drifted slowly open, and a path she was fairly sure had not been there yesterday revealed itself between the beds, leading somewhere green and shadowed. An invitation. Or a chore. With this family, Margot was beginning to suspect, those were the same thing.