An unapologetic murderess becomes the guardian of two very unusual girls. What’s the worst that could happen? “You’ll never look at the wicked stepmothers of fairy tales quite the same way again.”—Gwendolyn Kiste, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Reluctant Immortals and The Haunting of Velkwood “Camilla Bruce tills the macabre for all of its Edward Gorey glory . . . At the bottom of this particular garden you will find a wicked sense of humor.”—Clay McLeod Chapman, author of What Kind of Mother and Ghost Eaters Clara Woods is a killer—and perfectly fine with it, too. So what if she takes a couple of lives to make her own a little bit better? At the bottom of her garden is a flower bed, long overgrown, where her late husband rests in peace—or so she’s always thought. Then the girls arrive. Lily and Violet are her nieces, recently orphaned after their affluent parents died on an ill-fated anniversary trip. In accordance with their parents’ will, the sisters are to go to their closest relative—who happens to be Clara. Despite having no interest in children, Clara agrees to take them, hoping to get her hands on some of the girls’ assets—not only to bolster her dwindling fortune but also to establish what she hopes will be her legacy: a line of diamond jewelry. There’s only one problem. Violet can see the dead man at the bottom of the garden. She can see all of Clara’s ghosts . . . and call them back into existence. Soon Clara is plagued by her victims and at war with the gifted girls in her care. Lily and Violet have become a liability—and they know far more than they should. . . . “All the elegance and all the venom, like one of E. Nesbit’s supernatural stories served with a side of arsenic.” —Grady Hendrix, New York Times bestselling author of The Final Girls Support Group and How to Sell a Haunted House “Camilla Bruce writes dark fantasy like no one else out there. A gothic masterpiece, At the Bottom of the Garden is a propulsive novel with gorgeous prose and incredible characters you won't soon forget. You’ll never look at the wicked stepmothers of fairy tales quite the same way again. Put this book at the top of your TBR pile immediately; you won't regret it.” —Gwendolyn Kiste, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Reluctant Immortals and The Haunting of Velkwood “Camilla Bruce tills the macabre for all of its Edward Gorey glory, cultivating one gorgeously morbid gothic novel that’s just as gleeful as it is gashlycrumb. At the bottom of this particular garden you will find a wicked sense of humor that harkens back to the best of Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected, with all its vicious thorns intact.” —Clay McLeod Chapman, author of What Kind of Mother and Ghost Eaters   “Bruce’s unique cast of characters is both charming and terrifying. A young synesthetic musician, an even younger sensitive, a murderous aunt, and a houseful of furious ghosts—it’s all here! A delightful read.” —Louisa Morgan, author of A Secret History of Witches Camilla Bruce was born in central Norway and grew up in an old forest, next to an Iron Age burial mound. She holds a master's degree in comparative literature, and has co-run a small press that published dark fairytales. Camilla currently lives in Trondheim with her son and cat. Clara 1 I wanted to say no, of course. Every sane woman would have said no. I had finally reached a point in my life where things were somewhat settled. I had the house, the garden, and a well-stocked wine cellar. I had a mostly reliable housekeeper and a lovely, big jewelry box crammed with sparkling rocks. I had new dreams, too—plans—that had bloomed forth in my aging heart long after I had deemed that dried-up organ satisfied. All I needed to make the dream of my legacy come true was a sizable influx of cash. That was why I did not immediately hang up on Miss Feely when she called and disturbed my otherwise excellent breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and an assortment of melon balls; why I did not merely snort at her request and call for Dina to come and whisk the phone away again. Instead, I played for time, knowing only too well what kind of wealth my late half brother had inherited. Wealth that he, in my opinion, did nothing but squander on “adventures” and foolishness. He was always blessed, that one—touched by a golden finger at birth and wandered through life as if bad things could never happen to him. He was just that special—so beyond us mere mortals. Until he wasn’t, of course. “Miss Feely, are you telling me there’s no other option for the girls?” I asked, incredulous. “Surely on Amanda’s side . . . ?” I didn’t even care if the busybody on the other end learned just how little I knew about my late sister-in-law. “We weren’t close,” I felt obliged to clarify nevertheless. “I suppose you could call me and my half brother estranged, though there was no bad blood between us.” None that he knew of, anyway. “Mrs. Webb sadly had no one left,” th