Jack reached the well first. The old stone rim was now dusted with purple. He leaned over to drop the pail, but the petals had clogged the mechanism. The rope slipped. The pail tumbled into the lavender-slick darkness.
Together, they plunged into the darkness. But the well had no water at the bottom. It had only lavender—a deep, dry, rustling sea of petals that broke their fall. They lay there, breathless, buried to their chins in purple, staring up at a circular sky still weeping blossoms.
“Jack!” Jill cried, grabbing for him.
Jack scoffed, hoisting the pail. “Never rains on Lavender Hill. You know the rhyme.”