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Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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chessboard. Guessing that none of the aging gardeners would wear such a color, he was about to descend the hill when he glimpsed a horse and rider jumping a hedge from the corner of his eye.
He turned for a closer look, and was startled to see that the leaping horse and rider were topiary, shaped of the same dark green yew as the hedge they were hurdling. In fact, there was a whole life-sized topiary hunt consisting of three riders and a small pack of hounds strung out across the grass as they dashed after a fleet, high-tailed fox.
Enchanted, he went to examine the nearest yew hound. It seemed to soar over the grass, front and back legs stretched out in a run. He’d never seen anything like it, for usually topiary was confined to geometric shapes like spirals and cubes and pyramids.
Inside the dense green leaves, he found a wicker form bent to the rough shape of a dog. Refinement was supplied by the careful trimming of the bush that had been trained around the armature. It must have taken years—decades—to achieve such perfection.
The hound had just been trimmed—clippings lay around it on the grass. He scooped them up and tossed them into a sack, then went in search of Lady Meriel, stopping long enough to collect the trimmings from the green fox.
The fox was heading straight into the collection of topiary chess pieces that had been “removed” from the game. He supposed it made sense, if one was a topiary fox.
As he neared the chessboard, he realized how large the pieces were. Even the pawns loomed over his head. The knights were shorter but magnificent, with broad horse heads and a suggestion of hooded eyes. There couldn’t be finer topiary anywhere in Britain.
Some of the pieces were trimmed as sharply as marble, while others looked rather shaggy. Maintaining the shapes must take an immense amount of effort, especially during the spring growth season. He was admiring the crenellated top of a rook when he heard a soft, lyrical sound coming from somewhere nearby. Not birdsong; perhaps it was some kind of musical instrument. One that sounded almost like a human voice.
Intrigued, he followed the music, moving quietly on the velvety grass. Then he emerged from between two pawns, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Lady Meriel was singing.
She stood with her back to him two squares away, trimming the white queen with a pair of clippers. Her slim form was clothed in a blue tunic and skirt much like what she’d worn the day before, but he scarcely noticed. She was singing!
He thought back and realized that no one had ever said she was mute, just that she didn’t talk, which was not the same thing. Her voice was smooth and light, clearly used regularly, even if only to serenade shrubs. The tune had a wistful minor-key quality that made him think of a harpist he’d heard in Ireland. But she uttered no words, only that haunting ribbon of sound.
Deciding it was time to announce himself, he stepped forward. “Good morning, Meriel. I’ve come to help.”
She used her shears to snip off a branchlet with lethal precision but didn’t turn. Nonetheless, she knew he was there. He could tell by the subtle tensing of her shoulders. Less aloof, Roxana left her spot in the queen’s shadow and loped over to get her head scratched before flopping again. Meriel had trimmed several of the chess pieces in the area, so he gathered the clippings and bagged them as her song wove around him. Then he turned his attention to her again. He was amused to see that the queen’s head was shaggy because Meriel couldn’t reach high enough to trim it. Here was a way to make himself useful.
Several tools were piled by the black bishop, so he lifted a pair of long-handled pruning shears and moved to the far side of the white queen from Meriel. By stretching, he was just able to reach the tip and clip off a ragged sprout of box.
The singing stopped abruptly and Meriel whipped around the shrub, clippers held like a weapon. Her gaze shot to
He turned for a closer look, and was startled to see that the leaping horse and rider were topiary, shaped of the same dark green yew as the hedge they were hurdling. In fact, there was a whole life-sized topiary hunt consisting of three riders and a small pack of hounds strung out across the grass as they dashed after a fleet, high-tailed fox.
Enchanted, he went to examine the nearest yew hound. It seemed to soar over the grass, front and back legs stretched out in a run. He’d never seen anything like it, for usually topiary was confined to geometric shapes like spirals and cubes and pyramids.
Inside the dense green leaves, he found a wicker form bent to the rough shape of a dog. Refinement was supplied by the careful trimming of the bush that had been trained around the armature. It must have taken years—decades—to achieve such perfection.
The hound had just been trimmed—clippings lay around it on the grass. He scooped them up and tossed them into a sack, then went in search of Lady Meriel, stopping long enough to collect the trimmings from the green fox.
The fox was heading straight into the collection of topiary chess pieces that had been “removed” from the game. He supposed it made sense, if one was a topiary fox.
As he neared the chessboard, he realized how large the pieces were. Even the pawns loomed over his head. The knights were shorter but magnificent, with broad horse heads and a suggestion of hooded eyes. There couldn’t be finer topiary anywhere in Britain.
Some of the pieces were trimmed as sharply as marble, while others looked rather shaggy. Maintaining the shapes must take an immense amount of effort, especially during the spring growth season. He was admiring the crenellated top of a rook when he heard a soft, lyrical sound coming from somewhere nearby. Not birdsong; perhaps it was some kind of musical instrument. One that sounded almost like a human voice.
Intrigued, he followed the music, moving quietly on the velvety grass. Then he emerged from between two pawns, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Lady Meriel was singing.
She stood with her back to him two squares away, trimming the white queen with a pair of clippers. Her slim form was clothed in a blue tunic and skirt much like what she’d worn the day before, but he scarcely noticed. She was singing!
He thought back and realized that no one had ever said she was mute, just that she didn’t talk, which was not the same thing. Her voice was smooth and light, clearly used regularly, even if only to serenade shrubs. The tune had a wistful minor-key quality that made him think of a harpist he’d heard in Ireland. But she uttered no words, only that haunting ribbon of sound.
Deciding it was time to announce himself, he stepped forward. “Good morning, Meriel. I’ve come to help.”
She used her shears to snip off a branchlet with lethal precision but didn’t turn. Nonetheless, she knew he was there. He could tell by the subtle tensing of her shoulders. Less aloof, Roxana left her spot in the queen’s shadow and loped over to get her head scratched before flopping again. Meriel had trimmed several of the chess pieces in the area, so he gathered the clippings and bagged them as her song wove around him. Then he turned his attention to her again. He was amused to see that the queen’s head was shaggy because Meriel couldn’t reach high enough to trim it. Here was a way to make himself useful.
Several tools were piled by the black bishop, so he lifted a pair of long-handled pruning shears and moved to the far side of the white queen from Meriel. By stretching, he was just able to reach the tip and clip off a ragged sprout of box.
The singing stopped abruptly and Meriel whipped around the shrub, clippers held like a weapon. Her gaze shot to
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