The Gardener's Girls

Chapter5

Lila pushed herself up, the coarse fabric of the blanket scraping against her skin. For a blissful, disoriented second, she didn’t know where she was. The ceiling was a flat, unfamiliar white, and the air smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner. Then, memory crashed down on her like a physical blow—the dark path, the man’s voice, the cellar, Iris. The scream she had swallowed last night rose in her throat again, a hot, bitter knot of terror. She choked it back down. This wasn’t a dream. This was the morning after.

"Good morning, Lily," a soft voice said. It was Rose, already dressed and moving about the room with a practiced quietness.

The name, Lily, felt like a brand seared onto her soul. She wasn't Lily. She was Lila. A daughter, a friend. A person. But here, in this meticulously clean, sunless world, Lila had ceased to exist. She was a flower, a replacement part in a broken, terrifying machine.

She forced herself to nod, unable to trust her voice. The room was already stirring with a grotesque parody of a normal morning. Poppy was in the kitchen area, the quiet clinking of plates a sound so mundane it was obscene. But there was nothing normal about the way she moved, her shoulders hunched, her eyes darting nervously towards the steel door at the top of the stairs. They were all waiting. They were always waiting.

"It's time to get ready," Rose said, her tone gentle but firm. She laid a neatly folded set of clothes on the edge of Lila’s bed. A pair of jeans and an oversized lilac sweater. The same clothes Iris had been wearing when she… Lila’s stomach churned. She looked at Rose, her eyes pleading.

Rose seemed to understand. A flicker of something—pity, perhaps, or just weary resignation—crossed her face. "They're clean," she said, as if that was the only thing that mattered. "He doesn't like us wearing the same clothes for too long." She gestured to a small, half-width wardrobe beside the bed. "You can wear some of Violet’s things until he gets you some of your own."

Violet. The girl before Iris. The one who had also been "pruned." Lila felt a chill crawl up her spine. She was wearing a dead girl’s clothes. She was sleeping in a dead girl's bed.

Poppy came over, her expression soft with a sympathy that felt both comforting and terrifying. "The morning routine," she whispered, as if sharing a sacred, horrible secret. "We have to shower and be ready by eight. Every morning. That's when he comes down for breakfast."

"Breakfast?" Lila’s voice was a croak. The idea of food was repulsive.

"He likes us to be clean," Poppy continued, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Respectfully dressed. Hair brushed, a little makeup. He likes us to look nice for him."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. They had to make themselves presentable for the man who had murdered their friend. The sickness rose in Lila’s throat again. "I don't want to look nice for him."

"Trust me," Poppy whispered, her eyes finally meeting Lila’s, and in their depths, Lila saw a fear so profound it was like looking into a bottomless well. "It's better than the alternative."

There was no arguing with that. The image of Iris, crumpled on the floor, was burned into her mind. She took the clothes—not Iris’s, but a similar set from the wardrobe—and walked numbly to the bathroom.

The shower was a small, sterile box of white tile. The water was hot, but it couldn't wash away the feeling of being tainted, of being trapped. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, as if she could physically remove the filth of this place. Standing in front of the small, steam-fogged mirror, she barely recognized the person staring back. The dark circles under her eyes were like bruises. She looked haunted.

Following the instructions, she brushed her hair until it shone and applied a single, hesitant coat of mascara. Every movement felt like a betrayal of herself, of Iris, of the life she had lost. She was a doll, painting her face for the puppet master.

When she stepped out, the atmosphere in the cellar had shifted. The tension was a palpable thing, a low thrum of electricity in the air. Rose and Poppy were working in the kitchen, their movements efficient and silent. The smell of frying bacon filled the cellar. It was a smell from her old life, a smell of lazy weekend mornings with her family. Here, it was the smell of impending dread. Her eyes landed on the calendar hanging on the wall. It was Saturday. What would her parents be doing right now? Would they have called the police yet? Would Liam be out there, looking for her? A wave of homesickness so intense it felt like a physical blow washed over her.

She sat on the sofa and curled herself into a tight ball, trying to disappear into the cushions. She couldn't be too far from home. They hadn't driven for that long. Surely, someone would check this house? Surely, a place this isolated would be on a list somewhere? Hope was a dangerous, fragile thing, but it was all she had.

At precisely 7:59, Rose wiped down the already spotless kitchen counter one last time. Poppy placed a plate of perfectly cooked eggs on the table. Then, they both stood by the kitchen island, their hands clasped in front of them, their backs straight. Waiting.

The sound, when it came, was a thunderclap in the quiet room. A single, sharp click from the top of the stairs.

Lila’s breath hitched. Her muscles tensed, her body preparing for a threat it couldn't fight.

He descended the stairs with the same unhurried calm as the night before. He was holding a beautiful bunch of fresh, white lilies. He was smiling warmly. "Good morning, my blossoms," he said, his voice filling the room with a terrifying, gentle authority.

He walked directly to Lila, who sank further into the sofa as he approached. "For you, Lily," he said, holding the flowers out. His eyes were kind. It was the most monstrous thing she had ever seen.

She looked to Rose and Poppy for help, but they stood like statues, their faces blank. A silent message passed between them: Take them. Just play along. Lila stood up on trembling legs, reached out a hand that felt disconnected from her body, and took the lilies. The stems were cold and wet against her skin. "Thank you," she managed, her voice a thread of sound.

"You don't have to be so shy," he chuckled, a soft, fatherly sound. "We're a family now. Why don't you put those in the empty vase." He gestured to the table where the three other vases stood—roses, poppies, and one starkly empty vessel. His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. "I don't want them to die."

The subtle threat was as clear as a scream. So she wouldn't make him angry, she walked to the sink and filled the plastic vase with water. She arranged the lilies, her hands shaking so much she nearly dropped them. The violets that had been there yesterday were gone. The vase was gone. As if Iris had never existed.

She sat in the seat she had been assigned yesterday, directly opposite him. Every muscle in her body ached from the tension. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the psychological torment.

The fried food did nothing to settle her stomach. She could feel his eyes on her as she pushed a piece of egg around her plate. It made her skin crawl. Her mind fled, escaping the cellar and flying back to Liam. What was he doing right now? Had he slept? Was he out there, his face tight with worry, calling her name?

"Lily?"

The Gardener’s voice snapped her back to the present. He, Rose, and Poppy were all staring at her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, prodding her food with her fork to look busy.

"So, Clover," Rose said, her voice a perfect imitation of cheerful normalcy, "what have you got planned for today?"

The name change was seamless. In front of him, he was Clover. Lila felt like she was losing her mind. How could Rose ask him about his day so casually? Was she afraid of him anymore? Or was she so broken that this had become her reality?

He smiled at her, a look of genuine affection in his eyes. "I have a few things to catch up on for work this morning, and then I'll be going out."

He worked? Of course he did. He had to support this… this horror show. A chilling thought pierced through her panic. Where would he be going out? To find a replacement for Iris? Her heart ached for the next girl, whoever she was, whose life was about to be destroyed.

He stared at Lila for a long second, his head tilted. "You should eat now, Lily. We don't want you getting any slimmer." It was a command disguised as a gentle suggestion.

Gulping down her fear, she cut off a tiny piece of bacon and put it in her mouth. She didn't want to make him angry. Not after what had happened to Iris. She forced herself to chew and swallow, the food sliding down her throat like gravel.

Finally, after an eternity of forced small talk and the agonizing sound of cutlery on plates, he stood up. "Right, my blossoms, I must leave for now. Have a good day. I'll see you for dinner."

He stood up and walked around the table. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on Rose's cheek, and then Poppy's. Please not me, please not me. Her pulse was a frantic drum in her ears. He paused in front of her, his shadow falling over her. He smiled down at her, a strange, contemplative look in his eyes.

"Goodbye, Lily."

He turned and walked up the stairs. She held her breath until the final, definitive click of the lock echoed through the cellar. Only then did she let out a long, shuddering sigh, the tension draining from her body, leaving her weak and trembling.