The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  That’s Rachel’s legacy now.

  Come to think of it, Rachel’s already living up to Misty’s reputation—three-hundred-and-twelve Halflings’ died because of her rushing through the Fae Realm without a plan in place. Like mother like daughter, right?

  “How could he do this to us?” Rachel asks. “I thought he loved my—I thought he loved her.” She looks up at the clear blue sky through blurry eyes and a curtain of tangled hair, searching for an answer.

  It’s completely possible he didn’t even remember the truth. Who knows? But whether Liam remembered or not, it still takes two to tango, and he’d betrayed his wife. He would forever be responsible for his own actions, just as Rachel will forever have to live with the consequences.

  My father is a liar and a cheater. My birth mother is a traitor and a murderer. What does that make me?

  Rachel pushes herself to her feet, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. She turns in place and marches up to the house, her mind spinning with questions she can’t begin to answer. Will Jenny ever be able to forgive her? How is she going to tell Orion that she is actually the biological daughter of the woman who killed—or rather disemboweled—his father? Should she try and find Misty?

  Who am I?

  A more terrifying thought takes shape in her mind, one she never thought she’d have to ask herself.

  What am I?

  Twenty-Six

  We Are What We Are

  There’s a peculiar somberness in Shadow Grove in the days that follow. When Rachel passes people in the street, she senses shame, self-pity, and guilt. They try their best to act normal in public—this is Shadow Grove, after all—but there’s been a shift in the tightknit community. People had gotten badly hurt, some had even died. None of this has gone unnoticed. So, the town council can spew their propaganda as much as they like, put the blame on a supposed town-wide gas leak if they want, but Golvath’s memory lived on in everyone.

  Two bodies had been found in the school—Mr. Gambini, the janitor, and Ms. Jones, one of the new lunch ladies. The media didn’t report on their bodies being boneless, simply said they had succumbed during the major, town-wide gas leak. Nobody’s recovered their bones yet, and there is no telling if they ever will. What Golvath planned to do with all those bones, Rachel couldn’t say. The third body belongs to Golvath, or rather Cameron Mayer as people knew him, who’d supposedly fallen to his death from the bell tower. There’s no mention of how he was almost cut in half, no talk of the fact that he had no parents to call and no residence in Pine Hill, or anything about his unusual ears. Nope. He’s just another casualty, which works for the cover-story the town council chose to go with.

  Things return to normal as usual, though, or as normal as possible. The school opens its doors once more, the shops fix the damage and clean the sidewalks, services resume as if nothing’s happened.

  People move on. Life goes on.

  The day after the vigil, just as Rachel readied to leave to get Mrs. Crenshaw’s house ready for her return, there’s a knock on the door. She walks into the foyer, opens the door, and finds Greg standing on her doorstep, looking more disheveled than she’s ever seen him. Though he wore his usual ensemble—white shirt, jeans, blazer rolled up to his elbows—there are dark rings under his eyes, and his shoulders slump.

  “Are you okay?” Rachel asks in way of greeting.

  He exhales a humorless laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

  Rachel stares at him, unsure how to answer.

  “Rach, I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I need to explain—” He holds up a hand to silence her before she can interrupt. “Let me finish, please.”

  Rachel shuts her mouth and nods.

  “I literally wasn’t myself, but I remember what I’d said and I can’t forget what I did to you.” Greg squeezes his eyes shut. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment, before sighing loudly as his arm drops back to his side. “And you can deny it all you want, but I saw how scared you were of me ...”

  “I know it wasn’t you, Greg,” Rachel says.

  When he meets her gaze, Rachel sees the unshed tears gleaming in his eyes.

  “What I did to you is inexcusable. What that other ...” He swallows hard, and then shakes his head. “I had to battle against something in my head to keep myself from hurting you.”

  She takes a step toward him, places her hand on his cheek, and says, “It wasn’t you.” The stubble against his cheek scratched the palm of her hand. “I said things to you, too. Horrible things that weren’t entirely true.”

  Greg nods. “Yeah, but I deserved it.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Rachel says. “Greg, I will always love you, but I can’t love you the way you want me to.”

  He closes his eyes again, nods. “I know,” he whispers.

  Rachel stands on the tips of her toes and presses a chaste kiss against his cheek. Arms wrap around her, draw her closer. She feels Greg lips against the top of her head, hears him breathe in deeply as he nuzzles her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel whispers.

  “Me too.”

  He releases her and takes a step away. “If you ever need anything, call me, okay?”

  She smiles and wipes at her damp cheeks. “Promise.”

  Greg reaches out and brushes his thumb over her cheek, catching a stray tear. “See you around.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rachel walks out on the porch as Greg leaves, and watches Griswold Road long after his Mercedes had disappeared.

  As Rachel put the final touches to Mrs. Crenshaw’s living room, where a banner shouts WELCOME HOME and colorful balloons float against the ceiling, Mercia hisses, “They’re coming,” from the window.

  Orion walks out of the dining room and halts beside Rachel, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “Are they back already?”

  Mercia scrambles away from the window and toward Orion and Rachel. “Happy faces,” she whispers.

  The click-click-click of the walker grows closer, moving with determination.

  “Nan, lemme help ye up the stairs.”

  “Stop hovering, Dougal,” she snaps. “I’m not a damn invalid yet.”

  “She sounds fine,” Orion whispers to Rachel.

  “Break a hip and suddenly even a teenage boy is helpful,” Mrs. Crenshaw mumbles.

  Rachel stifles her laugh by biting the inside of her cheek.

  The front door opens and Dougal steps inside, out of the way, before the walker comes into view. Rachel has to admit she looks much healthier today, in her own clothes, than she had in the hospital. With her hair meticulously done into a tight bun, and the apples of her cheeks shining with rouge, Mrs. Crenshaw’s walker seems more like a prop than a helper.

  “Dougal’s dawdling suddenly makes sense,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, suppressing a smile as she sees the decorations. Her gaze falls on Orion. “I’d curtsy, but my doctor advised me against strenuous activities.”

  Orion guffaws. “I’m sure he did. Welcome back, Nancy.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw’s almost imperceptible nod is accompanied by a small smirk. She turns her attention to Mercia. “A Holstein witch made the journey to this side of town? Well, you lot must’ve thought I was really at my end then. I still have a few years left in me, girl. Don’t you worry.”

  “Actually, Nan,” Dougal says, and clears his throat. “She’s my guest.”

  Electric blue eyes turn on him, widening. “I thought your mother said you were batting for the other team.”

  “That’s Alex, Nan. The middle brother?”

  Mrs. Crenshaw waves her hand through the air as if it’s inconsequential. “All you Mackays look alike to me.”

  Rachel bursts out laughing, joy bubbling through every part of her body. She crosses the distance and leans over the walker to wrap her arms around the fragile woman.

  “I missed you,” Rachel says and means it.

  Mrs. Crenshaw tentatively puts one arm around Rachel and pats her shoulder. �
��I missed you, too,” she whispers back.

  Rachel releases her and steps out of the way.

  Mrs. Crenshaw backtracks out of the front door. “Dougal, bring me a blanket. I want to get some fresh air into these old lungs before the winter comes.”

  The party files onto the porch.

  Mercia and Dougal move onto the lawn, where she conjures a kaleidoscope of butterflies. They talk among themselves, laughing at whatever private jokes they share. Orion sits across from Mrs. Crenshaw, who pokes fun at him often. He smiles, sometimes laughs at his own expense.

  “Show some respect to your elders, Nancy,” he says, much to Mrs. Crenshaw’s delight. It’s probably been ages since she’s been called young, after all.

  Regardless of how Golvath affected Shadow Grove, at the end of Griswold Road, there’s mirth in the air. Rachel’s almost sure even the faeries and pixies and knockers in the forest are happy that Mrs. Crenshaw is back.

  Rachel excuses herself from her company and makes her way to the kitchen, where the cupcakes she’s baked had cooled off enough to be frosted.

  This is normal. This is home.

  Rachel can’t broach the subject of her parentage with Mrs. Crenshaw yet. She probably won’t for a while, but for the first time in weeks she’s happy. Of course, she can’t hide the fact that her mother—no, it’s just Jenny now—isn’t at home. Mrs. Crenshaw hasn’t said anything, but Dougal must’ve told her what happened. People have, after all, already speculated over Jenny’s whereabouts, always gossiping and coming up with wild theories. Nobody blames her for leaving, though. Some simply envy her for having the courage to put this place behind her.

  When the pink frosted cupcakes are done, Rachel arranges them onto a tray, and carries the treats outside.

  “If this is about me and Rachel—”

  Rachel stops in the living room.

  “Whatever you and Rachel get up to is none of my business,” Mrs. Crenshaw cuts Orion off. “I’ve never worried about my girl. If you hurt her she’ll chew you up and spit you out, anyway, so that’s the least of my concerns.”

  “So, what is it then?” Orion sounds confused.

  “You and I both know Fae need stability. You can’t be living with one leg in this world and with the other leg in the Fae Realm. It’ll rip you apart,” she says, the seriousness in her voice unmistakable. “We’ve both seen it happen.”

  There’s a pause, before Orion says, “You want me to choose now?”

  “I don’t want you to do anything, Princeling. I just need you to understand that if you’re not careful, you may turn into something you don’t recognize in the mirror, and it’ll fall on Rachel and Dougal’s shoulders to put you down.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  “See that it doesn’t, especially if you and Rachel become more than friends with benefits,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.

  Rachel walks to the front door. “Who’s ready for cake?”

  The conversation ends abruptly and the merriment continues. Dougal and Mercia return to the porch, still chatting, hands accidentally grazing, secret smiles being shared. It’s sweet to see Dougal’s rough edges smoothed out.

  “Isn’t Holland going to be annoyed because you’re spending so much time here?” Rachel asks as she licks a drop of frosting from her thumb.

  Mercia shrugs.

  “I don’t think I can handle her wrath,” Rachel says.

  “In all honesty, I think Holland is glad I’m not around her place as much anymore. She remembers more than she wants to admit, and she knows I remember what she did,” Mercia says. “Suits me, too.”

  Rachel grins. “Oh, really? Pray tell why?”

  “Och! Ye can stop playin’ dumb, Rach,” Dougal says. “Ye know why.”

  “Do I, though?” Rachel snickers.

  Orion says something in Gaelic to Dougal, which makes the Scotsman blush. He laughs, earning a brusque response.

  “Don’t make me put a no-Gaelic sign up,” Mrs. Crenshaw mutters, picking at crumbs on her blanket.

  “Why don’t you tell us about you and Orion instead?” Mercia says, leaning back in her chair. Game, set, match.

  Rachel’s humor fades. She’s been keeping Orion at arm’s length with good reason. There’s no telling how he’ll react when he finds out she’s related to Misty Robins.

  Their eyes meet, and she feels like she’s falling from the bell tower all over again. Rachel doesn’t want to lose this yet. She doesn’t want him to hate her now. He peers at her through his long, dark eyelashes, seeming to want an answer as much as Mercia does.

  “What about me?” Mrs. Crenshaw comes to Rachel’s rescue. “Nobody’s asked me if I met a rich gentleman during my hospital visit.”

  Dougal’s eyes widen. “Surely, ye haven’t, Nan.”

  “Ha!” Mrs. Crenshaw barks a laugh. “You underestimate me, Dougal. One day, I might just bring you a new granddaddy home.”

  Dougal visibly shudders, which brings about another bout of laughter.

  For the first time in what feels like forever, Rachel decides to forget about everything that’s happened in the past and whatever troubles the future may bring, and simply focus on the present. Today is a gift, after all.

  Ziggy greets her as she arrives at home, zooming this way and that, conveying his excitement by blinking dull gold. Rachel giggles as she tickles the Fae light’s surface, the sphere’s flashes turning to ripples.

  “I told you to come along. Mrs. Crenshaw would’ve enjoyed seeing you,” she says, ignoring the loneliness that clings to every piece of furniture and wraps the entire place in gloom.

  She could have asked Mercia to sleep over another night, could have embraced her inner-vixen and even brought Orion home with her, or she could have stayed the night across the road. But she doesn’t have the strength to fake her way through another round of questions. Every time someone asks her if she’s okay, she wants to throttle them.

  No, she’s not fine. Nobody would be all right after being stalked by a serial killer and then being abandoned by the only mother they ever knew. Nothing about her is fine or okay or all right. She smiles and acts like she can’t be fazed, because she doesn’t want to relive those moments for the rest of her life. She’s too grateful she’s alive. Too happy to have Mrs. Crenshaw back where she belongs.

  Rachel locks the front door behind her, throws the keys into the bowl on the side-table, and kicks off one shoe. Ziggy shoots toward the staircase, taking along his light.

  “Hold on, Zigs.” Rachel hops forward as she takes off her other shoe.

  Ziggy waits until she’s caught up before ascending to the second-story at a gradual pace.

  Rachel takes off her jacket and tosses it onto the swivel chair in her bedroom. She slumps down on the edge of her bed as Ziggy plays around her.

  “Not tonight,” she says, inhaling deeply through her nose. “I’m worn out.”

  Ziggy settles down on the emoji pillow as Rachel leans forward, reaching down between her legs, her fingertips searching beneath the bed for the keepsake box she keeps hidden there. After a few anxious seconds, she touches the autumn leaves decoupage that covers the exterior of the shoe box. She pulls the box out into the open and lifts the lid, sets it aside on the bed. Rachel picks up the card lying at the very top of all her collected memories, and reclines, reciting the words out loud without needing to read the card:

  I was born into the Court of Light, but;

  My world is cast in perpetual gray.

  Shadows are my friends, and;

  Darkness will be my legacy.

  —Nova

  Oh, how she relates to that. Now more than ever.

  Ziggy flashes once beside her, and she lazily looks his way.

  “You don’t approve of my reading material?” Rachel asks in a humorless tone.

  There’s hesitation before Ziggy rolls closer and nestles into her side, dimming ever so slightly.

  “I’m not depressed, Zigs.” Rachel absently tickles Zigg
y’s surface, staring at the card she knows by heart. “Orion isn’t going to take the news well. On the other hand, revealing my heritage will probably help him to make up with Nova. So, there’s a bright side to the whole situation.”

  Ziggy doesn’t respond.

  “What do you think Nova means with this poem, huh? Is it some kind of admission of his allegiance with the Miser Fae?”

  Ziggy shoots away without reason, hovers near her bedroom door, and the gold fades away until he’s a nuclear blinding light.

  “What the—?” Rachel sits upright, blinking in surprise. “Ziggy?”

  The Fae light becomes an anamorphous blob, suspended in the air.

  “Zigs,” she repeats, throwing her legs off the bed. “What’s the matter? What’s happening to you?”

  Suddenly, a small creature runs into her room, disregarding the Fae light completely, and slides to a stop in front of her feet. The knocker—the kind of faeries that mostly live underground in mines and sewers—huffs air and pushes his graying hair out of his face. She hasn’t seen this one before. He is older, and looks somewhat grumpier. Cheeks red, eyes wide, he stares up at Rachel.

  “Err ... Hello?” she says. “You okay there?”

  The knocker moves to rummage around in a miniature leather bag, before producing a card. He holds it out to her, standing on the tips of his toes.

  Rachel leans forward and accepts the message. She turns the card around, studying the blank back before spinning it the other way.

  “Okay,” she says, glancing back at the knocker. “There’s nothing on here.”

  He gestures for her to look back at the card, insists by waving his hand violently through the air.

  “Fine, but who sent this?”

  The knocker’s shoulders slump, and he rolls his eyes. His hands go up to his head, fingers splay, before he mimes putting a crown on his head.

  “Nova?”

  Vigorous nodding in response.

  Rachel looks back as ink bleeds into the card. Random letters are spelled out, coming into existence in no particular order. Her heart races as the message takes shape, a four-word warning.