Conservatory

The fragrant sweetness of Spring permeates the air; floral notes heighted by the recent fall of rain, sugary sharp, petrichor rich enough to sit on her tongue. The hum of unseen insects has replaced the tumultuous churning of water, and she opens her eyes upon the vibrant scene of a conservatory garden.

A riot of flowers in full bloom unravels before her; begonias, lavender, rhododendron, tansies. Faces open gayly, proudly displaying their petals. Their colours are dulled by the thin moonlight bleeding from between a cloud filled sky, but their beauty is unmistakable. Dusk has settled over the greenhouse in a soft blanket, encasing the scene in a silken hush. Japanese holly and Juniper have been molded into smooth spheres, leaves pruned and sculpted into immaculate topiary. It’s clear the foliage is well tended, the vibrant life of the space more than attesting to the presence of a gentle hand.

Her grip loosens, slips off the doorknob entirely as she continues to stare. Her fingers feel vaguely numb as she enters the green space, her feet clumsy, leaden weights as they sink into the soft soil. Given the strange nature of the house, the changeable, fickle shifting of rooms and appearances, this shouldn’t be so jarring to her. Not any longer, at least. And yet, the transformation leaves her unbalanced. Uncertain. The rage of the pool room she is expecting -the cloying, clinging claws of the water, the ever-present threat of being pulled under, sinking into the cold blackness of angry depths- is gone. It has been replaced instead by this serene landscape that she doesn’t know if she can, or should, trust.

A path snakes between the flora, white marble cobblestone polished to a glass finish. She can see the flowers reflected in the stone surface, multiplying their splendor. Her runners pull up loamy dirt as she makes her way towards the only thoroughfare she can see.

She follows the meandering route through the display, her gaze lighting upon each new plant with wonder. Footprints mar the mirrored faces of the rock as she moves from stone to stone, a muddied trace of her existence trailing behind. Part of her is waiting for the atmosphere to shift; for the greenhouse to slip slightly off balance, grow fangs poised to sink into her flesh, grab her by the scruff and shake. The other part is enthralled by the brilliance of the current transformation; the stillness of the air, the gentle hum of living things unbothered by her presence, the simple splendor of budding life. Her admiration surpasses her caution as she wanders further into the conservatory.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was one of her favourite stories growing up. The recollection comes to her suddenly, piercing through her admiration of the wonderous garden. She'd been just as captivated by the oddities -the adventures, the concept of a girl falling down a rabbit hole into a world beyond comprehension- as she is this miraculous space. She’d often daydream about finding herself somewhere else, anywhere but her small room, her cramped house filled to the brim with growing horrors. A place without ghosts waiting in the wings. In a twisted way her dream has been granted; she’s been cast as Alice, left to roam this new world encapsulated in the ever shifting walls of the House.

The cobblestone leads her to a sharp curve that winds around a large oak. She can’t see beyond the foliage to predict the trajectory of the path, but the dense brush makes it clear that this is her only option onwards. Rounding the corner her pace slows, stills as the large wall of a hedge fills her field of vision.

As a child she’d been enamoured with hedge mazes. The frightening thrill of stumbling into a secret place, navigating through twists and turns, never knowing if you would ever get out again. There was something strangely comforting in the concept: trapped and hidden in equal measure. Faced with the reality the thrill is lost. The dread she has been anticipating comes to fruition, the queasy twist of it sitting heavy in her stomach as she assesses the open mouth of the labyrinth before her.

The trail slinks just through the maw before ending abruptly, a convenient completion. There will be no help navigating this trial, of that she is certain.

The bleat of a lamb pulls her attention sharply as she jumps back at the unexpected sound. Her eyes zero in on the placid face of the little creature peaking out from beyond the wall. Dark orbs find her own, a startling connection. If she were closer, she knows she would see her reflection in its eyes. The lamb lifts its chin slowly before shaking its head, a jingle of metal following. The movement jostling the key tied benignly around the animal’s neck. Realization sinks in as the lamb turns and trots off into the maze.

Key. Lock. Exit.

She moves instinctually, pushing off the cobblestone hard as she plunges into the mouth of the hedge. Her rush must have disturbed the creature as a second bleat sounds, hooves picking up speed as it moves further and further away. Prey animal instincts urging it to go faster, put as much distance between the threat and itself as it can manage. She understands the urge intimately. Being on the other end of the paradigm is unsettling, a shift in power she doesn’t relish.

Her pace is brutal, a harsh rhythm she can hardly keep up with as she chases the lamb. She listens for the metallic rattle: the only tangible trace of the animal. The sound grows fainter the more space grows between them, an alarming disconnect. Dense green foliage blurs around her, each corner and curve melting into one continuous expanse of wall. She makes a sharp turn to the right when she hears the clink of the key and runs straight into a dead end.

Branches scrap her cheek, scratching her skin in thin lines that turn immediately hot to the touch. She closes her eyes just in time to avoid impalement, turning her face a fraction too late to skirt the worst of the impact. Her hands flatten against greenage, pushing as if their weft would offer enough counter force to gain any leverage. Instead, her arms plunge through, bark catching at her sleeves and pulling. She falls inside the hedge, sinking into its ruffage. She’s deposited on the other side of the barrier face first; arms thrown out uselessly in front of her.

She takes a moment to recover from the shock of impact, the dizzying disorientation of going from standing to sprawled. Her face burns, her arms feel torn despite their coverings, and her ribs ache from taking the brunt of the initial collision. Wheezing, she tries to take a full breath, but chokes hallway through the inhale. Coughing taxes her already tender ribs, so she attempts to fight the compulsion.

The lamb bleating interrupts her turmoil. Her eyes find the creatures once more, close enough this time that she does see herself through its eyes. Her own miraculously unblemished face stares back at her, her dark wide eyes, open and round and reflecting the lamb back to itself. She doesn’t notice the inky hands digging into the white tufts of fledgling wool until the animal screeches, wailing as it’s lifted into the air.