Moonrise. Cassandra King

      

       also by cassandra king

       Queen of Broken Hearts

       The Same Sweet Girls

       Making Waves

       The Sunday Wife

      Copyright © 2013 Cassandra King

      King, Cassandra

      Moonrise/by Cassandra King

      ISBN 978-1-940210-00-1

      1. Southern fiction. 2. Domestic Fiction. 3. Gardens-Fiction. 4. Psychological Fiction. 5. Gothic

      Fiction Interior Design by Karen Minster

      First Edition

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Publishers Note:

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information contact: Maiden Lane Press, 811 Palmer Rd. Suite AA Bronxville, NY 10708 www.maidenlanepress.com

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, or actual events, is coincidental.

      For information on bulk purchases please contact:

       [email protected]

      You may book Cassandra King and other fine speakers for your live events through the Maiden Lane/Rusoff Agency Speakers Bureau.

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       To Rebecca King Schuler,and the beloved memory ofNancy Jane King,who will be with us always.Always, sweet sister.

      And yet to think of you!—such peace

      Around me settles soon

      As if—I’m puzzled how—my gaze

      Were spellbound on the moon.

      —GÖETHE

      Table of Contents

       1 Moon Gardens

       2 A Little Neighborly Spying

       3 Summer Folks

       4 The Gang’s All Here

       5 Ars Poetica

       6 A Patient, And Patience

       7 Mr. Justice

       8 Some Elementary Sleuthing

       9 Painted Lady

       10 Lady of The Night

       11 Nightshades

       12 Birthday Party

       13 Wood Nymph

       14 Garden Spells

       15 Waiting for Rain

       16 End of Summer

       17 Dreams and Visitations

       18 Finding NK

       19 Full Moon

       20 Storm Clouds

       21 Rain

       An Interview with Cassandra King

       Cassandra King on Planting a Moon Garden

      MOON GARDENS

      Isit up with a start, my heart pounding. A noise like the scraping of a chair against the wooden floor wakes me, and for a brief moment, I have no idea where I am. The fire has died out, and a melancholy whiff of woodsmoke lingers in the cool air. Woodsmoke and something else, like the pungent aroma of sage. Pushing aside the crocheted coverlet, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, a bed so high that my feet barely touch the floor. I wait for a minute and listen for the noise again, but the room is quiet and still. The only sound is the soft snoring of my husband, who always sleeps like the dead. His back is turned my way, and I watch the gentle rise and fall of his bare shoulders. He is not one to be disturbed by things that go bump in the night.

      I slip out of bed and stumble through the darkness toward the tall arches of windows just beyond the fireplace. Not once since we’ve been here have I closed the heavy brocade curtains, nor do I intend to. The lace panels provide just enough privacy for me to walk around in my nightgown, or wrapped in a towel after my bath. Tonight, however, I want light more than privacy, so I push the lace panels open. Like everything else in this place, the lace is antique, beautiful but fragile, liable to come apart in my hands if I’m not careful with it.

      With the windows uncovered, the bedroom is bathed in moonlight, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Hugging my bare arms against the cold, I glance toward the bed to see if the moon, or the movement of the curtains, disturbed Emmet. Oblivious, he sleeps on, and I turn back to the window. Every night that we’ve been here, I’ve had disturbing dreams, or been awakened by strange noises. Even the wind rustling through the treetops sounds like someone calling my name.

      It’s different in the daylight. I don’t jump at shadows, or imagine ghostly voices whispering my name. A couple of nights ago, I’d worked so late in my makeshift office that Emmet came downstairs to check on me. I lost track of time, I’d told him, and he had leaned against the doorframe, smiling an indulgent smile. Our eyes locked, and Emmet lingered. Come to bed, sweetheart, he’d said finally, his voice husky. When I muttered that I still had lots of work to do, he frowned. He wasn’t used to me turning away from him, or averting my eyes to avoid his gaze. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders and went upstairs alone. Because he’d think I was crazy, that he’d made a terrible mistake marrying me, I didn’t tell him the truth: I have to wear myself out before I can go to bed. It’s the only hope I have of sleeping.