Chapter 8

It was Sunday bedtime. Tilly pulled back the curtain to look outside. The moon was rising: a big, full, golden saucer in the blue-black sky. She turned off the lamp next to her bed so she could see outside better. The garden seemed to be extra still, waiting for something to happen.

Tilly climbed back into bed and curled up under the white blanket, one hand on Little Fox. She thought about her den in the secret garden. The way the moonlight would make shadow patterns on the dead leaves.

Imagine! Little Fox whispered in her ear. Imagine being there now.

The moon had moved high up in the sky. The clouds had cleared, and now the sky was scattered with stars. The night garden was full of sounds. An owl hooted. Something scurried through dry leaves under a bush. In her white fleece robe, Tilly moved like a ghost across the grass, under the tree, between the bushes, and through the gate. Across the grassy path she went, through the wooden door into the secret garden. Her feet left hardly a trace on the moonlit grass. The wind barely moved her long hair, loose around her shoulders.

And there, right in front of her, was the fox.

The fox she’d seen before, through her bedroom window.

She stopped short; the fox stopped too. They stared at each other, girl and fox.

The fox looked deep into her eyes.

The fox’s eyes were a deep gold color, like the jewels on Granny’s necklace made from real amber. A tingle went down Tilly’s spine. She took a small step forward. The fox turned, lifted one padded paw, and started to walk again. It stopped, looked over its shoulder, as if it was waiting for Tilly to follow.

Everything looked different in the nighttime garden. The moonlight made every blade of grass, every edge of twig and leaf shine silver.

Tilly followed the fox. It padded softly through the long, silver grass, along the path Tilly had made, toward the tree and the den. It stopped. It turned around. Its ears were pricked up high, its eyes glinting in the moonlight. Its breath made misty puffs in the cold air. Tilly was so close up she could see the way its sides went in and out as it breathed. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, panting.

Something soft whooshed past Tilly and made her jump. She turned; a white owl glided over the garden.

The owl swooped down, and there was a shrill shriek and the owl took off again, something small and furry in its claws.

Tilly shivered.

When she turned back, the fox had gone.

She stared at her den. She went closer to see better.

Threaded in and out of the dried old grass she’d used to cover the wigwam of branches was a string of dark red rose hips, like beads on a necklace.

Tilly pulled one of the rose hips out and crushed it in her hand. Inside were yellow seeds and a kind of fluff that made her skin itch. She looked around, in case someone was watching her. But there was no one there. It was an odd feeling, that someone else had been here and found her den, and put the rose hips there. Who would do such a thing?

The girl, of course!

The girl who sang that old-fashioned song…

Tilly crawled inside the den, and sat down with her back against the tree trunk and hugged her knees. Her feet felt the rough texture of the leaves and the peaty soil where leaves had rotted down to make earth. She sat there for ages. Perhaps, if she waited long enough, the girl would come back…

What was that?

For a brief second, she thought she heard something: a woman’s voice, faint, calling a name.

Tilly peered into the dark garden. The voice seemed to be carried on the wind, from a long way off. Tilly crept forward to listen.

All she heard now were the rustlings and stirrings of a creature rummaging through dead leaves, and then a moth fluttering close to her ear, ruffling the still air with its fast-beating wings.

She must have imagined it. The sound was probably just in her head, the way a tune you’ve heard gets stuck sometimes and plays on, over and over, whether you like it or not.

Something else rustled. Tilly held her breath and watched.

The fox was back. She could see him now, standing still, his dark red-brown fur tinged with silver, his breath making puffs of smoke on the frosty air.

The fox turned, looked at her, and started walking slowly through the long grass.

“Wait,” Tilly said. “Where are you going?” She shivered, suddenly afraid. She was cold all over, cold to her very bones. Instantly, she knew she must get back inside, into the house. What was she thinking, coming out into the garden in the middle of the night, all alone, in the cold, with bare feet and only a bathrobe?

She started to run.