The days fell into an easy routine. Peter would wake late in the mornings and head out to town in time for lunch with the professor. They spent their afternoons discussing Nelson's naval tactics and the development of gunpowder—"Boys' talk," according to Julia. She spent her time in the garden, reading or drawing or lying on her back doing absolutely nothing at all.

It was in such a mood one evening that she saw the glowing begin. She had, truth be told, almost entirely forgotten the silvery light that first evening in the garden, but now, watching the sun set over the garden walls, the strangeness of it could not be missed. There was a shimmer in the breeze and a sound like bells, but perhaps it was only in her mind. Julia sat up and looked around and gasped. Every tree, every rock, every blade of grass seemed encased in a silver light all its own. 

The glow was stronger than it had been that other night, Julia thought—everything was sharper, clearer. She stood and moved around the garden, watching, drinking in the splendid light. She came to the edge of the pond and stopped, feeling a pull she could not quite define. Something was propelling her forward—something strong. Something powerful.

Another ringing—louder this time—brought her sharply out of the moment. Grandmother's dinner bell summoned her back to reality, and she ran back to the house.

Dinners at the old house were of a formal nature, hearkening back to the days of the professor's youth. Children were not expected to be 'seen and not heard'—not exactly—but the food was rich and the courses were numerous, and the conversation was generally limited to the weather and college affairs. The professor was, this particular evening, discussing his views on the leaking library roof, and aside from Peter's muttered instructions to "blow the whole thing sky-high," it was understood that the children would be all but silent.

Which is why it was so unusual for Julia to break into the conversation. Between the soup and the main course she could no longer contain her curiosity, and asked: 

"Grandmother, is there any particular reason why the garden outside should glow at night?"

Her grandmother looked at her in astonishment, a fork full of roast beef halfway to her mouth.

"Glow? My dear, your eyes must have been playing tricks on you. Maybe you're feverish! Sometimes people see things when they have a fever." She hurriedly placed a hand on Julia's forehead. "No, no sign of a fever. Dear?" She looked over at her husband. "Is anything wrong with the garden?"

"What's this, my dear?"

The professor was deeply engrossed in his mashed potatoes.

"Julia was wondering why our garden glows at night, dear."

"I have no idea. Does it glow at night? I'd never noticed that. Aha!" He stabbed triumphantly at a pea that had been eluding him.

Julia was not entirely satisfied by her grandfather's reply. 

"Then could you tell me something about the garden? I mean, how long has it been here?"

"Well, it's all lost in the mists of history, my dear. The garden is one of the oldest parts of Oxford. It was built centuries ago by a—a monk, I believe. In fact, Julia,"—the professor paused to swallow his peas—"there's an old story about that monk. They say he was murdered in that garden, and he'll never be able to leave it."

Julia's eyes opened very, very wide.

"You mean the garden is haunted?" Peter guffawed into his water glass. His grandmother intervened quickly.

"Now, dear, we don't want the children getting too excited! I don't want them lying awake at night looking for some ghostly figure in the garden, or worrying that something will creep in through the bedroom window!"

"Of course, of course. You are quite right. Julia, it's just a story. No need to worry! I've never seen any such monk! And—ahem!—neither has anyone else."

And with another ahem!, the professor returned to his potatoes.

Julia was sent off to bed early that night. Her grandmother, still not convinced that she wasn't feverish, tucked her in as if she were still a little girl, fluffing her pillows and listening to her prayers. She kissed her forehead and turned out the light, leaving Julia alone with her thoughts. These thoughts primarily concerned Peter, who was still awake playing with his chemistry set. He was experimenting with gunpowder as usual—the boy was positively obsessed with blowing things up. But Peter was forgotten as her mind once again turned to the garden.

Even from this distance she could almost sense the silver glow. She lay awake, wondering, until the house was dark and silent but for the customary creaks of age. And then she went once more down the stairs and through the creaking door to her garden.

Again she found herself drawn to the pool, guided by the same mysterious force she had felt earlier that evening. She knelt on the grass beside the water, bathed in a ghostly glow, not noticing how the mist from the fountain left a silver stain on her arm. She peered down into it, watching her own reflection. It felt like a gateway. It felt like a beginning.

From deep within the shadows of the trees, a hooded figure watched her. Two children were needed to fulfill the prophecy—when would the other appear?

Peter, reading in bed as usual, heard the hinges wheezing downstairs—Julia had returned from her midnight prowl, he supposed. He closed his Sherlock Holmes novel and laid it on the nightstand. The master detective was once again on the brink of triumph, but triumph would have to wait until tomorrow. 

Yawning, he got out of bed to close the window. He looked down at the garden below, feeling a bit entranced in a way that was not remotely scientific. So entranced, in fact, that he didn't hear his sister behind him until she spoke.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

He turned and looked at her without recognition until she smiled. He grinned too—the first Julia had seen him really smile in some time. 

"You've got silver stuff all over you," he pointed out.

"From the fountain," Julia said. She moved over to the window. "You might almost imagine fairies living down there. It feels enchanted, doesn't it?"

"A bit," he agreed, and then caught himself. Enchantment was for girls and children. He gave a harsh laugh. "You've been reading too much Alice in Wonderland, Julia," he said. "All that nonsense about pretend worlds. A garden is just a garden. Why do you have to read books that imagine some kind of other world? There's more than enough to explore in this one!"

Julia glared at her brother. "But Peter, what if we were meant to dream dreams? Suppose we had been given the power to dream of other worlds so we could see our own world in a different way?"

"Don't be silly, Julia. We can enjoy gardens without having to believe that fairies live under the trees. Trees are trees, and stars are stars. They're all made up of atoms. So are we, in fact. We're nothing but lots and lots of atoms, and that's all there is to it. There's no enchantment."

Julia flopped on the bed, already frustrated with the familiar conversation. Peter the realist, Peter the scientist, had absolutely no imagination.

"Surely there's more to it than that, Peter? What if this world is only one of many? You know, like rooms in a building. We're so used to living in only one of them that we don't realize there are others. Better ones, maybe."

Peter yawned, slowly and deliberately. "All right, Julia. Don't work yourself into a fit. I'm sure you'll understand better when you're older, and you won't see fairies or elves or gardens that glow at night."

"You don't see the glow?" Julia asked. "All that silver light—you don't see it?"

"It's the moon, Julia," said Peter, in the patronizing manner of an adult to a young child. Julia was annoyed.

"There's no moon tonight," she announced. "Well, a bit, but just a sliver. Not enough to give that kind of light. Look—" She hopped up and pointed out the window at the dark sky.

And there was nothing for Peter to say.

"Do you see?" Julia asked. "Do you see that it's enchanted?"

"It…it must be…" Peter trailed off, confused. Julia giggled and grabbed his hand.

"Come on, dimwit."

Together they went to the garden—taking care on the creaking stairs not to wake their grandparents—and Julia led him to the pond.

"It's strongest here," she said. "I feel as if it's pulling me."

"It's pulling us," said Peter. He shivered and it was then that he heard his name. It was low, soft—so soft that it might have just been in his mind. But there was an otherworldliness about it that he couldn't quite explain.

He grabbed Julia sharply by the hand and started for the door.

"Julia, we need to get back inside the house. Immediately!" he hissed. "I don't think we're safe here."

But Julia was not listening to Peter. She was staring at the water, and at her reflection within it. The image seemed deeper—stronger somehow. More real than her own face.

"Julia…"

That voice again, calling her name. Calling her name, lovingly and gently.

Peter gripped her hand harder, yanking her back towards the doorway. "Come on, Julia. There's something strange going on. We shouldn't be here." There was a note of panic in his voice.

But Julia pulled her hand free. "It's the door, Peter. It's the rabbit hole down to Wonderland, don't you see?"

"Peter…"

"There isn't a Wonderland, there's no enchantment! Come back inside!"

"It's the door, and I have to see what's on the far side. You go back inside if you want to. Don't worry about me." Peter had never heard her sound like this—so adult and serene. Something was changing her…and changing him too. He seized hold of her hand again but made no attempt to drag her back towards the house and its safety. She lifted her head and smiled at him, and together they stepped into the dark waters.

Continue to Chapter Three.