The Book of Miranda | gxg | ✔︎

(43) David And Goliath

I always forget how early night falls in Northern Englemark in late September, and how little I enjoy lurking outside after dark at that time. I rock from side to side with a groan, trying to take my weight off my legs, which are folded tighter than a paper dove beneath me. We've been crouched here for six hundred and sixty-six years, by my entirely unfounded estimate.

"I wasn't born to be a frog," I say.

Exie raises an eyebrow. "It's been fifteen minutes, Des."

"I want a lily pad. Or a bench." I cast a mournful look around. "All this garden, and no benches? Crying waste of good space."

"There are benches. They're just visible from the house. Also, you didn't want to sit on anything that has snow."

It is indeed snowing. This morning's sky decided we didn't have enough on our hands yet, and added a sorry, soggy ass to my list of woes the first time I tipped backwards while sneaking through this posh gardenscape. It's taken fifteen minutes just to navigate the shrubbery without getting caught, breaking something, or alerting the particularly ornery flock of starlings in a nearby juniper. The last time I made eye contact with the little buggers, I was sure they'd sing a song of sixpence and bake me in a pie. I don't like those beady little eyes.

I shudder. So many eyes.

"Can we at least sit under the hazel over there, where it's dry?"

"That one's visible from the kitchens."

"How do you know all of this?"

Exie pretends not to hear me. I have to admit, I've spent the last few hours retracting whatever fragments were left of my original impression of this woman I love. Exie knows her parents' manor in a level and quality of detail even I would aspire to, and we're not talking being able to recount stories on tapestries here. The first thing she did when we rolled up was hop the back wall with the agility of practice, and it's only gone uphill from there.

I sigh deeply and resign myself to the rapid aging of my knees as I wait for Exie's signal. Somewhere over the city's smoggy skyscape, the sun sinks beneath the covers of its western bed. I'd be jealous if joining it wouldn't involve flinging myself into the ocean to reach whatever celestial duvet our solar friend inhabits on the other side.

Exie holds up a finger. I stop bouncing on my haunches and at least attempt to think like the bush I'm supposed to be impersonating. A chattering not unlike the starling flock breaks out near the house's rear. Scullery workers don coats and shed stray bits of vegetable peel as they bundle out a small door into the garden. True to Exie's prediction, they follow a path that keeps us hidden from them, pausing only to wait for one another beneath an overwrought arbor with so much wisteria on it, it's difficult to tell which curls are metal and which are vine. Exie counts the workers as they hurry home. Only when a final boy has scuttled down the walkway does she rise. It's time.

Silent as a coverup of the Catholic clergy's crimes, Exie sneaks up to the door the workers left from. She slips a hand beneath a dancing pigeon garden statue and comes up with a key. The lock clicks open. We're greeted by a waft of warm, carrot-scented air. Exie pulls me inside and locks the door behind us.

The scullery of this house could occupy the biggest classroom of Melliford Academy back when it still had stones to stand on. I sniff about for residual kitchen-workers, then snag a biscuit from a covered tray. When I turn around, I'm confronted by Exie's outstretched hand.

"At least share," she huffs.

I retrieve another biscuit for her. Our folly quickly catches up with us, forcing us to pause and nibble in the scullery before we leave a trail of crumbs across the carpets like some reenactment of dumb children in a fairytale. It's worth it for the snack. When we've wiped our hands on nearby teatowels, Exie eases open another door and peeks outside. The tinkle of silverware on fine china sounds from somewhere up the hallway beyond.