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It is a Wednesday when Layton tells Flora to come straight home from school because London is dangerous, and the wee hours of Thursday morning when he arrives home from work and falls asleep on the sofa.  It is later Thursday morning when Flora stands over him, arms crossed and brow deep in a scowl.  He blinks awake, and flinches in surprise at the put-upon 14-year-old looming over him.

“Hello, dear,” he says mildly.  “It seems I fell asleep here.” 

Flora’s scowl is resolute, and she continues to glare. 

“Is something wrong?”

The scowl only deepens.  “Was something wrong when you left me alone?”

Layton pushes himself into a sitting position and casts an apologetic look upon Flora.  “I’m sorry, my dear,” he says.  “There’s an excavation in Los Angeles – I’ve been offering my expertise.” 

Flora remains unimpressed.  “And you can’t just send emails to them?” she asks.  “We have a computer at home.”

Layton has the grace to let a slight shadow of shame brush over his face.  “I have a great many reference books in my office at work,” he explains.  “I can’t bring them all home, I’m afraid.” 

“Okay,” says Flora, in a tone that suggests quite clearly that it is not okay.  “If you can stay in your office all night, why can’t I spend an hour with my friends after school?”

Layton sighs deeply and smiles up at Flora.  “Terrible things can happen in London, Flora, and we’re in the middle of it all.  I just like to know where you are.” 

“Terrible things could happen in St Mystere,” says Flora.  “Terrible things could happen in Folsense, and in Future London.”

“Yes,” agrees Layton.  “They can, which is why it’s my responsibility to uphold your father’s wish to keep you safe.”

Flora huffs, clearly trying to keep her frustration reined in.  The Professor, she thinks, will not take her seriously if she shouts or screams or throws a tantrum, no matter how unfair he’s being.  “Why does it only need to be you keeping me safe?” she asks.  “My friends are clever and brave, and they can go for tea after school, so why can’t I?”

“Perhaps we’ll discuss this when you return from school,” says Layton, glancing at the clock.  “You’ll be late if you don’t go now, my dear.”

Flora throws him one last glare, then smooths out a wrinkle in her school blouse and heads to the school, or ‘Hospital’, as it’s called, a carry-over from when it was a school for orphans.  Flora thinks it’s fitting that she should go to that school, but she never says so out of avoidance of the pitying stare Layton would give her.  She sits through lessons and comes straight home. 

The Professor isn’t there, of course, and Flora knows it’s unfair, but a pang of annoyance rings through her as she sits at the kitchen table and unpacks her homework.  She is halfway through expanding and solving a quadratic when Rosa pokes her head around the door.

“Hello, Rosa,” says Flora.  “The Professor isn’t here.”

Rosa gives a full-faced smile, cheeks pushing to the side.  “I thought you might like some company,” she says.

Flora’s face sets.  “Did the Professor tell you to come?”

“He said you’d had a bit of a to-do,” admits Rosa.  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“So, he sent someone to be my nanny,” says Flora unhappily.  “Um, no, thank you,” she adds.

Rosa flicks on the kettle anyway, and Flora realises just before she opens her mouth to object that the tea is probably for Rosa.  She goes back to her algebra, but Rosa’s own discomfort is pervasive.

Flora glances up.  “You could read, if you’d like,” she offers.  “I don’t mind if you look through my bookcases.”

“That’s alright, dearie,” says Rosa.  “I’ll let your room be your space.”

Layton arrives home at five, and Flora’s hand jerks as the thought that he has come home early to check on her crosses her mind, leaving one of her commas overextending into the next line.  She huffs. 

Layton pads into the kitchen and undoubtedly notes Flora’s puffed out cheeks as soon as he walks into the room.  “Everything alright, my dear?” he asks.

“Fine,” says Flora, trying to sound distracted rather than short.

Layton nods, and Flora can’t help but feel frustrated that he’s taking her on face value.  He turns to Rosa.  “Hello, Rosa,” he says.  “Thank you for keeping an eye on Flora – can I make you some tea?”

Rosa glances down at her cup.  “No, thank you, Professor,” she says, cheeks looking full and pink.  “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Layton smiles.  “We’ll try not to create too much work for you between now and tomorrow morning.”

Rosa gives a hearty chuckle.  “It keeps me in cashmere jumpers,” she laughs.

Once Flora is certain Rosa is gone, she looks up at Layton, taking care to dose her eyes with suspicion before meeting his.  “You’re home early,” she observes, leaving Layton to formulate it into a question by himself.

Layton bustles around with the kettle and his teapot, favouring loose-leaf over the teabags Rosa had settled for.  “I’ve got a bit of news,” he says, lowering the first of three spoons of Lady Grey into the teapot.

The third drops in, and Flora narrows her eyes.  “Do we have company?” she asks, knowing she’s verging on the immature.

“No,” says Layton.  “Why do you ask?”

Flora glares at the teapot, willing it to shatter.  “Two for each person and one for the pot,” she says.

Layton blinks at her, then down at the teapot.  “A simple ‘no, thank you,’ would have sufficed, my dear,” he admonishes gently.

There’s a moment’s stifled silence, in which Flora considers apologising before deciding that her essay is more important.  Layton takes a seat opposite her, and she looks up.  “I-I hope you enjoy your tea,” she says, feeling a little pathetic.

Layton smiles.  “I’m sure I shall,” he says.  “Now, would you mind putting your essay away?  This is rather important.”

After a moment, Flora slips her folder into her bag and stares at Layton.  He looks serious, and a horrible thought crosses her mind as she considers her own behaviour.  The loneliness of St Mystere rushes back to her.  She meets Layton’s eyes and tries to keep her gaze steady.  “You’re sending me away,” she says.

Layton’s eyes widen.  “Goodness,” he says.  “No, my dear, not at all.”

If she wasn’t so relieved, Flora would savour taking the great Professor Layton off guard.  As it is, she puts a hand to her chest and breathes a sigh of relief.  “Thank you,” she says.

Layton blinks, and then he offers her his teacup.  She takes it and takes a long, grateful sip.  When she’s ready, she puts the cup down and awaits his news.  “I’m needed in Los Angeles, and I was wondering if you would come with me.”

Flora’s heart sinks a little as she thinks of a lonely hotel room. 

“Flora?”

Flora loops a strand of hair around her finger.  “Alright,” she says quietly.

*

They are both jetlagged, coming off the plane.  Flora had spent the journey gazing out of her window in amazement, ever a fan of heights, while Layton had taken regular breaks from his book to clutch at the arms of his seat and stare anxiously at the emergency exit. 

A hand bounces up and down, stretching as high as it will go.  It’s almost completely visible among the crowds and is sleeved in blue.  A pang of excitement hits Flora at the same time as a touch of pride.  She is still taller than Luke, she notes with pleasure.  She and Layton travel towards the hand, and the rest of Luke soon comes into view.

“Professor!” exclaims Luke.

Layton maintains a calm smile, but Flora doesn’t miss how his strides quicken ever so slightly as he makes his way towards Luke.  “Hello, Luke,” he says mildly.  “You’ve grown,” he comments.

Luke crosses his arms smugly.  “An inch and a half,” he declares.  “Which means…” he swivels round to Flora, and his arms drop to his sides, aghast. 

“I grew too,” says Flora, a smile on her lips.

Luke swallows a huff, then turns to Layton.  “I’ll catch up,” he promises, more to himself than anything.

“I’m sure you will,” says Layton placatingly, though Flora is fast catching up to him, too, when he isn’t wearing his hat.  “Now,” he says, switching focus.  “Before anything else, I believe we have an old friend to catch up with.”

Luke grins and turns to Flora.  “You’ll like Mr Wright,” he says.

Flora blinks.  Layton and Luke have told her about Phoenix Wright and his spirit-medium assistant before, and the stories spun are so wild that she has only half-believed them.  It’s the trivial details that catch her scepticism: channelling being real and magic not, and all the animals.  She resolves to watch Mr Wright carefully, just in case he is a player in the dishonesty.

They take a taxi to Mr Wright’s apartment, both Flora and Layton quietly rejecting Luke’s idea that they should walk.  The car is air-conditioned, which would not be a luxury in London if Layton would consider an updated model.  Flora lets the cool air blow into her face and closes her eyes.  Los Angeles is jumbled compared to London, with its carefully-partitioned catchments and clear differentiation between the gentrified and the not.  There is a world Flora has never seen, and in Los Angeles, it lives outside towering modern skyscrapers and sleeps on the pavement.

She opens her eyes again.  Layton is looking at her.  “Are you alright, my dear?” he asks, concerned.  “We can go straight to the hotel and drop in on Mr Wright in the morning,” he offers.

Flora gives a little smile.  “It’s alright,” she says.  “I’m not tired yet – just thinking.”

Layton seems content with her answer, giving her a smile.  He runs his hand over their suitcases again, and Flora wonders if he has had bad travel experiences, if he feels the need to keep checking that they have all their luggage. 

Flora is almost lost in thought about this new world again when she feels a light touch on her elbow.  She turns her head, and Luke is smiling at her.  “You get used to how it feels here,” he reassures her. 

Flora nods, but she is sure she can’t believe him.  Even as they drive into a district where laundry hangs from steel fire-escapes and groups of children not much younger than Flora catch hold of their younger siblings to keep them from running into the road, men hurry past in tailored suits and women in the sorts of dresses Flora has only seen in Burlington Arcade.

The car pulls to a stop outside of what looks like a combination of office blocks and flats.  It is a building that Flora would consider ugly in London, but in Los Angeles it carries a sense of home with it. 

Layton leans forward and hands the taxi driver a tip, and then they are all standing outside the building.  Mr Wright lives on the fifth floor, something they discover with tired frustration when they realise that the lift is in dire need of maintenance.  They traverse the stairs grimly, and eventually come to Mr Wright’s door.

Layton give two sharp raps.  Flora hears shuffling from inside, but nobody comes to the door.  For a moment, Flora thinks they must be in the wrong place, but then the door swings open.

A little girl is standing in the threshold, grinning eagerly in a top hat and a cape.  Her brow furrows slightly when she sees them, and she turns back to the interior of the flat.  “Daddy!” she yells, like she’s an old hand at it, “it’s strangers!”

Flora hears a door opening somewhere she can’t see it, and then a man in a beanie is hurrying towards them, hastily drying his hands on his jeans.  “Trucy,” he says, sounding exasperated, “how many times do I need to remind you to please let me answer the door!”

“You were pooping!” says the little girl – Trucy – indignantly, and the man in the beanie flushes a shade of pink that gives Flora’s dress a run for its money. 

The man in the beanie looks at them all.  “Hi, Professor,” he says.  “I see you’ve met Trucy.”  He rests a hand on Trucy’s shoulder, and she grins up at him affectionately.

Layton gives a polite laugh.  “Your daughter, I trust?” he says.

“That’s her,” says beanie-man, and Flora wonders when the spikey-haired Mr Wright will emerge. 

“Flora,” says Layton, “this is Phoenix Wright.”

Flora stares at the man in the beanie.  “I thought he had spikes,” says Flora, before she can stop herself.  She cringes.  “Sorry,” she says.

Mr Wright waves a hand as if to say it doesn’t matter, then steps aside to let them in.  “The place is a little untidy,” he says apologetically.

Flora supposes it’s true, but she has seen the red-brick flat when Rosa has been away, and the apartment doesn’t quite match that.  Mr Wright leads them down the hallway, chattering away with pleasantries and quips on the weather until they reach a small kitchen.  Trucy hops onto a barstool, tugging at her cape when it catches between the seat and the legs.  Flora steps forward and retrieves the stray material for her, gently pushing the leathery seat up.  She hands the cape to Trucy, smiling, and Trucy rewards her with a bright-eyed grin.

Mr Wright fumbles about in the cupboard for a moment, then turns.  “I don’t have any tea,” he says, “but I can do some coffee – my friend brought back some slow-roasted stuff from Italy.”

“That’s alright,” says Layton.  “I’d best not drink so much caffeine this late in the afternoon.”

Flora manages to disguise a smirk at Layton’s thinly-veiled excuse.  She has only seen him drink coffee once, and she has only ever seen his face drawn in utter disgust and distaste once.  After a moment, Mr Wright closes the cupboard door.

He turns to Flora and smiles.  “You must be Flora,” he says.

“Yes,” says Flora, and falls uncomfortably silent.

When it has nearly been too long, Trucy turns to Layton.  “I like your hat,” she says, without a hint of dishonesty.

“Thank you very much,” says Layton.  “Yours is rather dashing as well.”

Trucy turns to Phoenix with a hint of questioning in her eyes, clearly having never heard that particular expression.  She tilts her head.

“Professor Layton means it’s very nice,” says Phoenix with a grin. 

Trucy’s face breaks into a bright, wide smile.  “Thanks, mister!” she says.

*

The next day, Flora wakes early, not used to the shift in time zone, and is surprised to see that Layton is already awake and fully dressed as well.  He holds a finger to his lips and gestures to Luke, who adjusted to the time zone months ago.  He’s snoring lightly, his hand falling over the side of the bed. 

“Shall we go down to breakfast, my dear?” whispers Layton.

Flora nods, and they go down together, finding a spread of food ready for the guests.  Flora pities the kitchen staff, who must have been awake even earlier than the two of them.  Not feeling especially hungry so early, she settles for a cup of tea.  Layton picks up a piece of toast and doesn’t butter it, and they find a quiet table by the window.

“Not eating?” asks Layton, looking concerned.

Flora offers a weary smile.  “It’s a bit early for me,” she says.  “I’m not hungry yet.”

Layton casts a glance out of the window and checks his watch.  “I suppose it’s only 5:30,” he says.  He blinks a few times.  “Still dark,” he remarks, “not like England at all.” 

“No,” agrees Flora.  “I’m used to waking up in the middle of the night and it already being light.”  She sips her tea, which is still too hot.  “What’s happening today?” she asks.

“Luke and I are going to the dig site,” says Layton, “and I thought I would drop you with Mr Wright.”

Flora sighs dejectedly.  “Can’t I join you at the dig?”

Layton shakes his head.  “I’m afraid not, my dear.  You would require a work visa for the United States as company policy, which you don’t have.”

Flora sinks down in her seat.  “What am I going to do all day with an eight-year-old and her dad?”

Layton chuckles.  “I’m sure you’ll find something – young Miss Wright is quite a character.”

He isn’t wrong about that, at least, but Flora is still annoyed.

Flora is sure to make her annoyance clear throughout the drive to Mr Wright’s apartment.  When the taxi stops, Layton turns to her.  “Try to cheer up, my dear,” he says.  “If you get to know them, you’ll be a great help.”

Luke chimes in with a smile on his face.  “You’ll have fun,” he promises.  “Mr Wright is actually really good at puzzles, and you’ll probably be able to get him to crack jokes if you rib him enough!”

Flora manages a little smile for Luke, who had expressed his disappointment on finding that Flora had not been allowed to join them in the excavation.  She resolves to have a good day for him, at least, and begins to trudge up the stairs to Mr Wright’s flat.

She knocks on the door hesitantly, and it opens much more quickly than it had done yesterday.  A man in a striking magenta suit opens the door and appraises Flora with steely eyes.  “Hello,” he says, almost-pleasantly.  “Wright told me to expect you – you must be Flora.” 

“Yes, sir,” says Flora, as politely as she can.  “Is Mr Wright here?”

The man in the magenta suit gives a little smirk.  “He’s still nursing his coffee.” 

Flora startles.  “It’s eight-thirty in the morning,” she says, unable to stop herself from commenting again, and flushing almost as pink as the man’s suit in embarrassment.

The pink-suited man almost smiles.  “Quite,” he remarks, and ushers Flora down the corridor to the kitchen, where Mr Wright is hunched over a mug of coffee like his life depends on it and Trucy is writing something on a piece of wide-lined paper.  “Wright,” calls the man, “Miss Reinhold is here.”

Mr Wright glances up, eyes bleary, though he’s fully dressed.  “Hi, Flora,” he says.  “Do you like coffee?”

Flora doesn’t and doesn’t know how to tell him so.  She looks around, panicked.  She’ll have to say yes, she thinks, just to be polite.  “Y-yes,” she lies.

Trucy fills in a full-stop at the end of her sentence.  Then, without looking up, says “she’s lyin’.”

Flora blinks, stunned. 

Mr Wright gives a wide smile.  “No need to worry about being too polite,” he tells Flora.  “We have juice or water, if you’d like.” 

“Water, please,” Flora says quietly.  “Um, I can get it, if…”

“No need,” says Mr Wright, already getting up.  “Take a seat.”  He gestures at the barstool next to Trucy, and Flora hops up.

She hears murmurs of things she’s sure are private coming from Mr Wright and the pink-suited man and resolves not to listen.  Instead, she turns to Trucy.  “What are you writing?” she asks quietly.

Trucy whips her head up with a grin and looks at Flora.  “Set-list!” she exclaims brightly.  “I do magic!  I’m Trucy Gramarye!”

Flora thinks she has heard of the Gramaryes, but she hasn’t seen them herself.  “Are you performing?” she asks. 

“Yep!” says Trucy.  “I write my setlists in school, ‘cause I don’t much like school, and then I perform ‘em after!” 

A glance at Mr Wright tells Flora that he is as concerned about this habit as she is.  She thinks better of addressing it immediately, instead granting Trucy a gentle smile.  “Where do you perform?”

Trucy shrugs.  “Sometimes the old ladies’ club down the road gives me money to put on a show, or I do it in the park.”

“I’d love to see a trick one day!” says Flora, and Trucy’s face brightens.  Apparently taking this interaction as a cue, Mr Wright and his friend leave the kitchen together and Flora and Trucy are left alone.

Trucy swings her feet back and forth.  “What do you do?” she asks.

“I like puzzles,” says Flora.  “And maths, and history.”

Trucy pulls a face, and Flora laughs a light, floaty laugh.  “History and math,” she says disdainfully.  “I nearly got held back ‘cuz of my math, but they said I might be able to catch up ‘cuz I wasn’t in school before.”

Flora worries her lip, unsure of whether she should further breach the topic of school with Trucy.  The Professor wouldn’t, she knows that much, but she isn’t the Professor, and the Professor isn’t even always right.  “Where were you before?” Flora settles for asking.

Trucy grins.  “Me n’ my other daddy used to travel around with grandpa and Uncle Valant!”  She looks ecstatic as she tells Flora this, and Flora feels pulled into the story.

“Travel around?” asks Flora.  “Where have you been.”

Trucy takes a deep breath, and Flora prepares for a mammoth story.  “Well,” begins Trucy, “I was born in LA, cause that’s where my mom and dad were touring, but then mom couldn’t be in the troupe anymore.”

Flora pauses.  She thinks better of asking Trucy what happened to her mother.  It doesn’t seem appropriate.

“So,” Trucy continues, “we went to New York, so Grandpa could do more shows on stage, then we went to Texas, and Chicago, and Florida.”  She stops.  “Then we came back to LA, and I started living with daddy!”

Flora blinks, stunned.  “Goodness,” she says.  “That’s more places than I’ve been.”  It’s true. 

Trucy giggles.  “More places than daddy’s been, n’ he has friends in Kurain and everything!”  She’s clearly proud.

They spend the day together, with Mr Wright joining them after an hour with the pink-suited man.  Flora helps Trucy glue pieces of wood together for props, and wonders if the time would be better spent on her summer homework.  She decides not to voice it today.  Mr Wright hasn’t said anything, and Flora thinks perhaps it isn’t her business at all.  When the doorbell rings, Flora is trying her best to escape from a string of once-hot glue that has wrapped around her arms and seems to expand more and more every time she tries to pull it off her.

Mr Wright, appraising her with an amused look, answers the door, and Flora hears him inviting Layton and Luke inside.  The three of them step into the living room, where Flora has not succeeded in her escape and Trucy is so intently focused on a stripe of blue paint that she has not noticed Flora’s predicament.

Flora is sure she sees Layton raise an eyebrow and stifle a laugh.  “Goodness, my dear,” he says.  “It seems you’re in quite the pickle.”

Flora stares back at him, and it is then that she notices Luke giggling.  She scowls, but it’s underpinned by a smile.  Trucy’s head whips around.

“Oh,” she says.  “Um, we have knives in the kitchen.  I could cut you out.”

Mr Wright’s eyes widen.  “No!” he says, stepping forward hastily, as if Trucy already has a knife in her hand.  “No knives.”  He pauses, apparently considering this.  “If we do need a knife, a grown-up will use it.”

Trucy pouts.  “What about my knife-throwing trick?”

“Not until you’re 17,” says Mr Wright sternly. 

Trucy doesn’t look happy with this, but her paint begins to drip, and she dives into her work to even it out before it hardens.  In the meantime, Luke steps forward, takes the string of glue, and plunges a fingernail into it.  He works back and forth like he’s using a saw until the string of dry glue falls into a heap around Flora.

“Thank you,” says Flora.

Luke smirks.  “You’re welcome,” he says, and then sniggers again.

Flora raises an eyebrow at him, and he swallows his snigger just enough to avoid her wrath.

“Well,” says Layton.  “I think we ought to leave Miss and Mr Wright to their evening, don’t you?”

Flora picks herself up from the ground.  “Yes,” she agrees.  She turns to Mr Wright.  “Thank you,” she says.

Mr Wright gives a polite laugh, and then Flora is outside. 

“Well?” she says, once they’re out of earshot, “have you found anything interesting?”

Luke’s eyes light up slightly.  “I watched them sift through it all!” he exclaims.  “They don’t want to use a digger, because they don’t know how deep the artefacts will be, so they’re going through every single layer of sand.”  He holds up a hand marked with tiny cuts.  “I got to help,” he says proudly.

Flora blinks.  “And the artefacts?”

“None yet,” confirms Layton.  “I think we’re looking at another half-a-day’s work before we find anything beyond what they found before we reached America.” 

Flora nods.  “You must tell me what you find,” she says, and then turns to Luke.  “And you must be careful not to break anything.”

Luke gives her an affronted scowl.  “And you must be careful not to get wrapped in hot glue.”

Well, alright.  Flora can’t argue with that.

*

Flora arrives at the Wright home expecting another day of hot glue and acrylic paint.  Instead, she is greeted by Mr Wright looking quiet and focused.  She smiles.

“Hello, Mr Wright,” she says quietly.

Mr Wright returns the smile.  “Come on in, Flora.”

Flora follows him into the kitchen, where the source of the quiet is clear.  Trucy is sitting, head bowed and chewing on her pencil in frustration, over a thin exercise book.  She looks up to acknowledge Flora.

“Hi!” she says cheerfully.  “D’you want to see a trick?”

“No,” says Mr Wright quickly.  “No magic until you’ve finished that homework, Trucy.”

Trucy pouts, furrowing her brow and scowling.  “It’s hard,” she says.  “Hard and boring.”

After a moment’s consideration, Flora shuffles onto the stool next to Trucy.  She peers over at Trucy’s paper to find a blank page.  “What homework is it?” asks Flora.

Trucy huffs and rocks back on her stool.  “History,” she says, as if History is the worst thing in the entire world.

“Don’t you like your assignment?” asks Flora, who had been hoping that Trucy might tell her the assignment from the outset.

Trucy crosses her arms.  “There’s too much,” she complains.  “I have to choose one person and write a wanted poster for them, and then a report explaining it.”

“Who do you want to write about?” asks Flora. 

Trucy stares up at the ceiling as if she blames God himself for her difficulty.  “I don’t know,” she sighs.  “I don’t know anyone interesting.  It’s all presidents and they don’t tell us about anyone else, and Miss Evan said I couldn’t do grandpa.”

“Oh dear,” says Flora, who thinks she might have written about Richard Plantagenet in the same situation, for ease.  “Well, is there anyone else it can’t be?”

Trucy shakes her head.  “Miss Evan said anyone, but it can’t be someone still alive because that’s not kind.”  She pauses.  “But grandpa is dead, and he’s famous.”

Flora glances up, and notices that Mr Wright looks uncomfortable.  “Maybe she wants you to have more of a challenge than if you wrote about someone you know,” she suggests, trying to veer the topic away.

“But I don’t know who else to write about!” says Trucy.  “I don’t like the books we read this year, and people in history are all boring.”

Flora thinks for a moment and wonders what Trucy has read.  She considers privately that she may not have read a wide range of books.  “Have you heard of a lady called Frances Hodgson Burnett?” asks Flora.

Trucy shakes her head.  “She’s got a long name,” she says.

Mr Wright smiles to himself over a wad of paperwork.  Flora thinks he must have the same problems with focusing as Trucy has. 

Flora turns her attention back to Trucy.  “Yes, she has,” agrees Flora.  “She was a writer who liked to write about little girls and their families, and some of her stories are really special.  Do you know about the Secret Garden?”

Trucy thinks for a second, lips folding over the top of her pen again.  “No,” she decides finally. 

“Well,” says Flora, hoping she manages to keep Trucy’s interest.  “The Secret Garden is about a little girl who has to live with her uncle when her parents die, and she moves all the way across the sea.”  She pauses.  “Do you know where India is?”

“Yes!” says Trucy, suddenly brimming with enthusiasm.  “It’s south and in Asia.”

“Exactly,” says Flora.  “Imagine going all the way from India to a little island in the North Sea, because that’s where your only family live.”

Trucy looks as if she’s thinking.  “Didn’t the little girl have any friends she could live with?”

Flora shakes her head.  “The little girl was called Mary, and she wasn’t very nice to be around because she was always grumpy, and when her mum and dad died, so did their friends.”

“Oh,” says Trucy, looking dismayed.  “That’s not very nice.”

“No,” agrees Flora.  “It isn’t.”  She pauses.  “But, when Mary arrives in England, an old housekeeper tells her she can’t go anywhere except her own rooms.  Apparently, her uncle doesn’t want to see her.”

“How mean,” quips Trucy.  “And boring.  Imagine moving to a whole new place and not being able to explore.”

“Yes,” says Flora, and looks away.  “But it’s alright, because Mary has a nice maid called Martha, who tells her she can run out and play in the garden, and Mary meets a little boy calls Dickon, who’s Martha’s brother.  He teaches her about a garden nobody has ever been allowed to go into for 10 years.”

Trucy hums.  “Does she go in?”

“She really wants to!” says Flora.  “It’s forbidden, though, and nobody knows where the key is, and the ivy is so overgrown that she can’t find a door, either.”  Flora pauses.  “So, she decides to grow her own garden.  What do you think you would grow in yours?”

Trucy frowns and swings her legs back and forth.  “Carrots,” she says.  “And mint.”  Just as Flora is about to resume, Trucy speaks up again.  “And Venus Flytraps.”

“Right,” says Flora, holding back a giggle at the eclectic mix.  “Well, Mary wants to grow lots and lots of flowers, so when her uncle asks what she wants, she asks for soil to plant things in.  Her uncle finds that strange, and it makes him sad.” 

Trucy looks at Flora sagely.  “He was the one who said to close the garden,” she says.

“Yes,” says Flora.  “Can you tell me what someone you wouldn’t want to marry looks like?”

Trucy giggles.  “Dirty nails, and-and a wart on his nose, and only three teeth, and red eyes.”

“Mary’s uncle isn’t any of that.  He washes his hands a lot, and brushes his teeth, and his eyes are normal.”  She pauses.  “But he has a big hump, right at the top of his back.”

Trucy mimics a hump by hunching her shoulders forward and looks up at Flora with a toothy grin.

“Just like that,” says Flora, “but he couldn’t stop hunching his back – he was born with a poorly back.”  She stops for a moment.  “Even though he had a handsome face, people thought he was ugly because of his back, but one day, he met a lady.”  Flora realises she doesn’t know the slightest thing about romance.  “The lady was gardening, and Mary’s uncle was riding his horse.  He looked tired, so she invited him for tea and they fell in love.”

“Well, that’s good,” says Trucy.  “The lady sounds nice.”

“She was nice,” says Flora.  “She was kind and honest and very, very beautiful.  She was so happy to marry Mary’s uncle, but lots of people didn’t think they should marry.”  She pauses.  “The lady had a sister, who was vain, and she thought that children were supposed to be perfect.”  Flora doesn’t think Trucy will understand how Edwardian people used to showcase their children.  “Like dog shows for special pedigrees,” she says.

“The lady’s sister sounds stupid,” says Trucy.

Flora smiles.  “The lady’s sister thought that the lady shouldn’t marry Mary’s uncle because when they had children, the children might have humps on their back too.”  She pauses to let Trucy absorb the information.  “And Mary’s uncle had a brother.  His brother was a very handsome doctor, and he was in love with the lady, so he tried to convince him not to marry the lady.”

“Everyone is so mean,” says Trucy. 

“They are,” agrees Flora.  “But those people didn’t matter, because the lady and Mary’s uncle got married anyway.  The lady’s sister moved all the way to India.  The brother lived at home with Mary’s uncle.”

“Oh!” says Trucy.  “So, the lady’s sister is Mary’s mom!”

“Yes!” says Flora.  “And it makes Mary’s uncle very sad to look at Mary, because she has the same eyes as his wife.”

“His wife died, didn’t she?” asks Trucy, not really asking.

“She did,” says Flora.  “And Mary’s uncle locked up her garden because it hurt him too much to remember her, and he worries that letting Mary have some earth will teach her all about how the things she loves will die.  He wants her to have pretty jewellery and lots of dolls.”

Trucy wrinkles her nose.  “I wouldn’t want that,” she says.

“No,” laughs Flora.  “Mary didn’t either, but as she got ready to tell her uncle, his brother came in.  There was going to be a huge storm, see, and the whole house needed to get ready.  Everyone told Mary to stay in her rooms, but nobody could watch her because they were all looking after the storm.  Mary found the storm scary, so she went into the hallways and looked for comfort.  The wind howled, and it made draughts in the hallway that carried a different kind of howl, so she followed it.  Do you know what she found?”

“A monster!” says Trucy, excited.

Flora cringes.  Perhaps this isn’t the right story, after all.  “Not a monster,” she says.  “A little boy.”

“So, a monster,” says Trucy, cheeks dimpling.

Flora gives a high, lilting laugh.  “This little boy certainly acts like a monster.  The first thing he does is tell Mary to get out, which she doesn’t.  Then, he asks if she is a ghost, which she isn’t.  After all that, he tells Mary that he is going to die.”

Trucy makes a face.  “Not fun.”

“No,” says Flora.  “But he tells Mary about the dreams and nightmares he has.  In his good dreams, a man with a hump always takes him away by magic and reads with him.  He tells Mary how his father hates him because his mother died giving birth to him, and Mary tells the boy how his father hates her old garden too.  They realise they are family, because they’re cousins, but then the Doctor and Housekeeper arrive.  Mary was not supposed to meet the little boy, in case she made him too excited and he got sicker.  Mary is banished from the room in disgrace and the Doctor forces the little boy to have an injection.”

“The Doctor is nasty,” says Trucy. 

“He is,” says Flora.  “He scared Mary so much that she ran out into the storm and towards her aunt’s garden, but it wasn’t all terrible.  In the fog and the rain and the thunder, Mary saw the moon glinting off something, and when she looked at it, she found it was a key.  It was on top of a pile of leaves, like someone had put it there on purpose.”

“Like magic,” says Trucy.

“Mary doesn’t know a lot about magic, and that’s why Dickon finds her looking glum after the storm, because the Secret Garden looks rotted and wrong, but it isn’t.  Dickon tells her all about the inside of plants, and how they are green and ready to grow, even when the outside looks tired and sick.”  Flora glances up and gives Trucy a bright smile, worried that perhaps she should have picked a shorter tale.

Trucy, however, is staring up at her with an intrigued glint in her eyes.  Flora can tell, then, that Trucy must love puzzles and mysteries.  She wonders whether to throw that into the assignment and see if it holds more interest for Trucy.

“So,” continues Flora, “Mary cheers up and she and Dickon – and Martha – start looking after the garden so that when spring comes, it’s much more beautiful.”

Trucy grins.  “A whole garden?” she says, and a cheeky tone lilts over her voice.  “Daddy can’t even look after Charley.” 

Mr Wright’s eyes dart up from his paperwork.  “Hey,” he says, but he’s smiling. 

“Who’s Charley?” asks Flora, confused.

“Oh,” giggles Trucy, “just daddy’s best pal.”

Mr Wright frowns, but it doesn’t look serious.  “He’s our potted plant,” he says.

Ah.  Flora takes a deep breath, then continues with the story.  “Archibald is still very sad, and he finds it difficult to look at Mary.  The doctor suggests that he should travel and cut ties with the house, and Archibald agrees.  While Archibald is away, Mary works to help grow the garden.  When spring comes, it isn’t beautiful, but it is alive.”

Trucy’s cheeks dimple as she smiles. 

“Mary thinks Colin should see the garden.  He is afraid that he will catch a cold and that it will kill him, but Mary is convinced that is nonsense.  She and Martha sneak him into the garden, where Mary remembers an old spell she learnt in India.”

Trucy is sitting up, now.  Flora thinks that if she was a dog, her ears would be pricked up and alert.

“Mary sings the charm, and Dickon helps to translate it for the garden.  Then, Colin puts two shaky hands on either side of his wheelchair, and he stands.”  Flora pauses.  “It wasn’t magic that did it,” she says.  “It was being surrounded by life.  Colin could always walk, and there was nothing wrong with his back at all.”

Trucy frowns.  “Then, why is the doctor so…”  She trails off and gestures with her hands.  Coming up with no words, she gives an exaggerated shiver and makes an ‘ick’ sound.

“The doctor thinks that if Colin is sick, he will inherit the house and lands instead.”

Trucy tilts her head.  “What’s inherit?”

Flora thinks for a moment.  “In the olden days, rich families had heirs, which means that the head of the family chose one person to get the house and the money when he died.  Usually, it was the oldest son.”

Trucy crosses her arms.  “What about the girls?”

Flora shakes her head.  “Girls were expected to marry heirs, and only a few got to be them.”

Trucy wrinkles her nose.  “Stupid,” she declares.

“Yes,” agrees Flora.  “Now, Archibald was the oldest, and the doctor was the youngest.  Because Archibald had a child, it meant that the child was going to get everything if Archibald gave up the property, and the doctor wouldn’t get anything.  The doctor thought that was unfair, so he pretended Colin was much sicker than he was in the hope that when Archibald left everything, it would go down to him.”  Flora takes a deep breath, then moves on from the diversion.  “Unfortunately, while Mary was doing the spell, the doctor heard the noise and came into the garden, and he was very cross when he saw Colin standing.”

Flora notes with some slight pride that Trucy is starting to look angry herself.  It’s a success, she thinks.

“That meant that the doctor decided to send Mary to a school, which Mary didn’t want.”

Trucy rocks back on the barstool.  “Like me,” she says happily.

“Like you,” agrees Flora.  “So, when a teacher from a strict girls’ school came to see Mary, Mary pretended an evil spirit had taken hold of her, and she threw herself to the floor in front of the teacher.”

Trucy giggles.

“The teacher left, and Mary thought it was a victory, but the doctor held her behind.  He told Mary that if she didn’t behave, she’d be sent away to an orphanage.”

Trucy’s eyes are downcast.  Before Flora can say anything, though, she looks up and gives an encouraging nod.

“Mary is very upset, so Martha tells her to write to her Uncle Archibald.  Mary writes that she misses him and enquires about the kinds of children in Paris.  Then, she asks him to come home.”

“Does he?” asks Trucy.

“Well,” begins Flora, “when Uncle Archibald gets the letter, he feels sad.  Mary talks about home, and it isn’t a home to him.  He feels lost and sad, like there’s no point in him being there.”

Flora doesn’t miss how Mr Wright looks up from his paperwork, then.  He rubs his hand around his stubble, and his chest heaves in a deep breath.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asks Flora, suddenly.

“No,” says Trucy.  “But I believe in spirits.  Daddy’s friend, Maya, speaks to them.”

Flora is taken aback.  Another mention of this Maya Fey, who channels spirits.  She’s beginning to think that it must be true.  “Uncle Archibald saw a spirit,” says Flora.  “She arrived to him, because he was so angry and sad that she could feel him from where she was.  The spirit was Lily, and she made Uncle Archibald look at her.  She told him she wished she hadn’t died because it had made him so sad.  Uncle Archibald told her everything: how sad he was, how he felt he didn’t have the means to go on, and how lost he felt.”

Trucy is staring up at Flora, now.  She is enthralled, and it seems the story is hitting her with a thrum. 

“Lily knew that Uncle Archibald didn’t need to change his life.  She told him that he would find what he needed in the garden – her garden, but also theirs – and that he needed to care for their son.  And then she went.”

“Just like that?”

Flora nods.  “Just like that.”  She stops in her tracks, remembering how Luke told her about Celeste – Claire – turning the corner and not being there.  She clears her throat.  “Uncle Archibald went straight home, and he went straight into the garden with the doctor.  The doctor was furious, because he found Colin in the garden with Mary, and he was standing.  Uncle Archibald wasn’t cross at all.  He was so pleased to see Colin standing, and he sent the doctor away.  He apologised to Colin and hugged him, and Mary expected to be sent away.  Then, Uncle Archibald held out one arm, and Mary joined the hug.  He told Mary that he and Colin were her family, if she wanted them – and the garden was hers.”

Trucy sits back on her stool.  “I’m glad they got to be happy,” she says, then pauses.  “What happens after?”

Flora is taken aback by the question.  “What do you think happens?” she asks.

“Mary looks after the garden more, and Uncle Archibald and Colin help her, and she writes books about flowers, and the doctor goes away and never comes back.”  She’s very firm about the whole thing.

“Right,” says Flora, deciding it’s unkind to tell Trucy about The War.  “And if you had to write a poster to get the doctor back, what would it look like?”

Trucy’s face lights up, and she goes into intricate detail about the mean look on the doctor’s face, and why they’re looking for him, and how to lure him into a trap.  Flora is delighted at the success and finds herself doing very little as Trucy makes the poster.

“How was your day?” asks Layton, when he comes to pick her up.

Flora shrugs.  “Oh, you know,” she says, a smile playing on her lips.  Luke rolls his eyes.

Flora arrives at the Wrights’ apartment early the next day, as Layton believes the morning light is ideal for the excavation.  She is still yawning when Mr Wright opens the door to let her in.  He looks tired himself, she notices.

Trucy isn’t awake yet, and Mr Wright ushers Flora into the kitchen.  “I hate to ask,” he begins, “but I have some urgent business to attend to, and I need to be out for a few hours – is that alright?”

“It’s fine,” Flora says, and it’s true.  She’s spent plenty of time alone in her own house before, after all.  Still, Mr Wright looks anxious, pulling at his thumb.  “Is it fine?” she asks, picking up on his nervousness.

“Yes,” says Mr Wright, and looks away.  “I mean, no – maybe?”

Right.  That’s helpful.  Flora smiles.  “I can keep an eye on Trucy,” she offers.

Some of the tension lifts from Mr Wright’s shoulders.  “Thank you,” he says.  “I don’t like leaving her alone – she hasn’t been with me for very long.  Sometimes she gets – anxious.”

Flora nearly raises an eyebrow, keeping it down only through some dredges of Very British Politeness that have settled in her forehead.  She can’t imagine Trucy ever being anxious – it seems to Flora that Trucy would happily charge into the great unknown with an empty rucksack.  Perhaps, Flora thinks, Mr Wright is an anxious parent. 

Flora gives a polite smile.  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” she says.

Mr Wright leaves not long after that, glancing back like he isn’t sure if he should leave.  He checks several times if Flora will be okay, and Flora reassures him each time that yes, she is okay with being alone, and yes, she’s happy to keep Trucy out of trouble.  She settles down, expecting an awkward hour, but Trucy emerges into the kitchen nearly a minute after the front door thumps closed.

Rubbing her eyes, she blinks up into the kitchen.  “Oh,” she says.  “Hey, Flora.”  She hops up onto a barstool.  “Is daddy in the bathroom?”

“He had to go out for some business,” says Flora, shaking her head.  “I’m sure he won’t be long.” 

“How long?” asks Trucy.

Flora blinks.  “I don’t know,” she says.  “It sounded important.”

Trucy’s lips stretch thin, and she nods, then hops off the barstool and pads out of the kitchen.  Supposing she must just be going to the bathroom, Flora waits for her to come back.  She has sipped a whole glass of water before she begins to feel anxious about where Trucy might have gone, and what she might have got into. 

She walks into the hallway and tries to remember where the Wright bathroom is.  She takes a wild guess and knocks on a door to her left.

“Just a minute!” comes a voice.

“It’s okay,” says Flora.  “I just wanted to check if you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” says Trucy, firmly.  She falls obtrusively silent, then.

Flora knocks again.  “Trucy?”

“Just leave me alone!” comes a high, indignant tone.  There’s a hint of panic to it.

Flora knows, then, that she won’t be leaving Trucy alone.  “I’ll be outside the door,” says Flora.

Trucy doesn’t respond, and Flora thinks that must be okay.  The silence is aggressive, though, and Flora soon finds herself feeling uncomfortable.  She roots around for anything that might break the silence.

“You’re into the Steel Samurai?” she says, eventually.  She doesn’t know much about it, other than what she’s seen on shelves, but she hopes it might tease some conversation from Trucy.

“They’re daddy’s,” says Trucy. 

So, no conversation there, then.  Flora decides now is an appropriate moment to take an immense interest in the pattern on her dress.

Sooner than Flora expects, there comes a very small voice.  “If daddy doesn’t come back,” starts Trucy, “who’ll look after me?”

Flora nearly staggers, then, the question hitting her like a strong wind.  “Your daddy is going to come back,” says Flora.  “He’ll look after you.”

“But if he doesn’t,” says Trucy, and Flora can hear a touch of hysteria in her voice.  “What happens then?”

Flora swallows, not sure of how to respond. “M-my daddy didn’t come back,” she says.  “So, the Professor adopted me.”

There is a moment of quiet.  “Why didn’t your daddy come back?” asks Trucy.

“He died,” says Flora.  “But he left a whole village to look after me, so I wouldn’t be lonely.”

“Oh,” says Trucy.  “Wh-what happens when people just leave and don’t come back?”

Flora feels a roughness in her throat.  “I don’t know,” she says, honestly.  “We wait,” she offers.

There’s a long, long pause, and then Flora hears the door handle creaking.  Trucy stands in the threshold, eyes rimmed with red and threatening to run over at any second.  “I’ve been waiting a real long time for my other daddy,” she says, almost inaudibly.  She rubs at her eyes.  “They don’t think he’s coming back.”

Flora fights the urge to pull Trucy into a tight hug.  “Do you?” she asks.

Trucy is very quiet for a long moment.  “I don’t know,” she says.  “Daddy keeps pretending I’ll see him, but I don’t believe him anymore.”  She stops and sniffs harshly.  “I don’t know what he’ll do if I tell him that.”

“I’m sorry,” says Flora, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

“Not your fault,” says Trucy, quickly.  “Daddy always says he’s sorry too.”

Flora forces a smile.  “Mr Wright will be home soon,” she says.  “He even told me he was coming back.”

Trucy rubs at her eyes.  “Then he must be!” she says, plastering a smile onto her face. 

Flora isn’t sure she believes Trucy’s sudden smile, but she thinks better of pushing it with her.  Instead, she holds up Trucy’s exercise book and a Maths worksheet and tells her that if she gets dressed and does and hour of homework, they can play later.

*

Mr Wright arrives home after half an hour of homework, and raises an eyebrow to see Trucy working, but doesn’t press Flora.  There’s a knock on the door at four o’clock, when Flora is sitting privy to one of Trucy’s many magic tricks. 

The Professor walks into the room, and Trucy produces a figure in a brown suit jacket and orange polo neck – and a long top hat. 

“Oh,” says the Professor in mild surprise.  “That appears to be me.”

Trucy holds back a giggle.  “Hello,” she says, in a poor approximation of Received Pronunciation. 

Luke arrives a moment later, almost walking straight into the Professor’s back, earning him a snigger from Flora.  He gives her a light-hearted glare, then blinks at Trucy’s figure.  “That’s clever,” he says.  “If I hadn’t just walked into the Professor’s back, I’d have thought that was him.”

Trucy seems to gleam, and Flora appraises Luke with an approving stare.  “Find much?” asks Flora.

“We’ve finished,” says Luke.  “We found Ice Age bones.”

Trucy’s eyes light up.  “Mammoths?” she asks, “like in the movie?”

The Professor shakes his head.  “People,” he says.  “Sunny Los Angeles used to be covered in snow.”

Trucy’s lips part.  “I’ve never seen snow,” she says in awe.

Flora grins.  “You’ll have to come to London one winter,” she says.  “I can’t promise real snow, but we can go to Hyde Park, where they have their Winter Wonderland, and a lot of fake snow – it’ll be cold enough that you’ll nearly believe it’s real!”

The Professor has a knowing smile on his face.  “We’ll have to arrange that,” he says, glancing at Mr Wright. 

“You bet,” says Mr Wright.

“In the meantime,” says Flora, “I expect a letter at least once a month.”  She turns to Mr Wright.  “Do you have our address?”

“Um,” says Mr Wright.  “I think so?”

Professor Layton pulls out a card from Gressenheller and scribbles out the first address line, replacing it with the address for the little red brick flat.  He hands it to Mr Wright with a smile.

Mr Wright grins and rubs the back of his head.  “I sure have it now!” he says.

*

They get back to London, and everything falls back into place – nearly.

Flora, with her light grey uniform as smart as possible, marches up to her Head of Year’s office and knocks on the door.  She waits, feeling a slight edge of anxiety, but she is sure she won’t let it take over.  She needs to do this.

A woman in a suit, hair tied into a tight bun, with oval glasses, comes to the door.  “Hello, Flora,” she says.  “Is everything alright?”

“I want to start a club,” she says.  “To mentor younger students after school, until maybe six o’clock.”  She pauses.  “I’ve spoken to my friends, and they’re on board – I can do English, Latin and History, Nivar wants to help out with the Sciences, and Sasha’s going to do languages.”

“Right,” says the Head of Year.  “Well, you’ve clearly thought this through.  Come in and sit down.”

*

Dear Flaura,

Its me, Trucy!!!  Daddy gave me your adress so Im writing this letter!!  School started again and Im making more freinds!!  I even had a sleepover at Jinxies house.  Shes got a demon in her that makes her fall asleep all the time which Uncle Miles says is Narcalepsey.

I hope you are doing well with your club!!  I think you will be great because I got an A on the Dr Craven project and I never got an A before!!!  Daddy took me to get ice cream because he was so proud and Uncle Miles smiled (he doesnt smile much).  Daddy says you have important exams next year so GOOD LUCK!!!!!!!!

Please write back.

Love,
Trucy
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