by Abigail Agar
“Treasure. We read about it in the book Mother left for us,” Max said. “And Christopher says he reckons he knows where it is. Said he mapped out the tree where it’s buried. Mother, she told us that all our land used to belong to pirates …” As he spoke, fat tears eased down Max’s cheeks. They blubbered up on his lips, making a thin line of liquid.
“Max, it’s all right. Do you—do you think you know where that tree might be?” Marina asked.
But Max just shuddered. He bolted forward, drawing his arms around Claudia’s frame. Marina looked at Claudia, aghast, recognising that she was in over her head. She’d allowed herself to think that she “knew” these kids already, when, in actuality, she’d only entered their world for a very short while.
“Claudia, what should I do?” Marina asked, her voice soft. She hated that she was asking this eleven-year-old girl for help. But there was no one on the planet who knew better than Claudia.
But Claudia nearly broke at Marina’s question. She fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around both Lottie and Max. Max howled, while Lottie just quivered against Claudia, staring at Marina. Marina knew she had to stay calm.
Marina stood upright, sanding her hands down her dress. She marched to and fro, latching her fingers behind her waist. “Okay, my darlings. Now, you know, the forest grows incredibly dark at night. I don’t know these woods, so I’ll need your assistance as best as I can. But we have to go in after him. And we have to stick together. Do you understand me?”
The children nodded. Marina spun back towards the woods, feeling an October wind grip her hair. Back at the house, she could hear the clanging of dinner bells, assuredly demanding that they return home. But she couldn’t return without one of the four children she was meant to care for. She would be immediately expelled from her duties.
And, as she’d said to the children before, she had nowhere else to turn.
Marina dropped her hands on either side of her, bobbing her head to her outstretched fingers. Lottie accepted her right hand, while Max took her left. Claudia frowned, but took a step forward, just in front of them.
“He can’t have gone far,” Marina heard herself say.
But to this, Claudia shot her an ominous look. Her blonde hair whipped out behind her, making her look almost fairy-like—probably like the characters in the children’s books. Probably so much like one in the book that had sent Christopher on his way, darting into the woods with a promise on his lips. A promise to Max, that he would bring back the treasure.
“Oh, you don’t know Christopher,” Claudia said, her eyebrows high. “If he thinks he can do something, he pushes himself as far as he can. It’s gotten him into more trouble than I can say.”
“Well, then. Let’s just. Let’s just keep going,” Marina said, her nostrils flared. “We’re losing time.”
They marched forward, into the woods. Marina’s brain played over all the possible outcomes of the next hours: that she was dragging the children into greater danger, when she should have, perhaps, brought them back to the house while she hunted for Christopher alone; that Christopher had wandered so long and so far away that nobody would ever find him again; that—horribly—someone would discover his body in the morning, or the morning after that, and have to report that news to the Duke (who would have already fired her, it was sure) …
“Christopher!” Claudia cried, and the others followed suit. “CHRISTOPHER! We’re coming to find you!”
The four of them dove deeper into the woods. The shadows were thick, almost three-dimensional, and long, casting darkness across the children’s faces. Marina assessed them as they walked, ensuring that Lottie’s feet were keeping up, that her face didn’t give away any sort of fatigue. Max’s tears continued, but he trekked forward, his chin held high. Nobody spoke. Perhaps it was too much, in the wake of so much fear.
It seemed incredible that they walked for over an hour before they heard anything at all. They continued to cry his name—CHRISTOPHER, with their words echoing from tree to tree. But finally, they heard something back. At first, it seemed like an injured animal, howling into the night. But Marina stopped short, her ears craning.
“HELP ME! PLEASE! MAX!”
“It’s Christopher!” Claudia cried. She broke from the pack, rushing towards the noise. Her feet flapped out behind her.
The other three raced after her, shuffling across snotty leaves and across sticks. Finally, they found themselves off the path, where they encountered a massive hole in the ground. The hole seemed naturally made, a result of running water from a nearby creek. And at the bottom, Christopher lay back, his face towards the sky. It was contorted, strained, all the colour drained out. He’d propped up his leg on a rock, and it was twisted and wrong, seemingly broken. Marina felt the panic in her voice as she spoke.
“Christopher, what happened!”
Christopher swallowed, closing his eyes. Every muscle within him seemed to relax. He’d been discovered.
“I couldn’t find it,” he announced. But as he spoke, his face tweaked up again, showing his pain. “I fell. I was trying to hurry to find it before dark …”
“Christopher, you should have told me …” Marina said, knowing that these words were meaningless in the wake of his pain. She released Lottie and Max’s hands, and began a slow, treacherous trek into the hole after him. She found herself leaning heavily in the mud, her feet dredged in it, assessing the damage. She was no doctor—hadn’t the skills for it, but remembered once when she’d fallen from a tree and broken her arm. Her older brother, Sam, had wrapped her arm in his shirt, ensuring it didn’t move as he carried her back to the house. Now, she reached for her muddy skirt, tearing at the fabric until one half of her was only petticoats. She brought the fabric around Christopher’s leg, creating a kind of pressure. As she wrapped, she hummed both to herself and to Christopher, praying that his fear would release.
“We’ll get you back to the house in no time, won’t we?” she said, speaking mostly to herself. “I don’t think this will be a problem at all. Maybe a few weeks without running around in the woods, but there are so many things we can do indoors, hey? We can play games. I know loads of games. I can teach you.”
Christopher’s eyelashes were long and almost feminine, flickering with tears as they blinked wildly at her. “You aren’t angry with me?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Of course I’m angry,” Marina said, lending him her most generous smile. “But I’m only angry because you scared me so badly. And you scared your brother and sisters. Didn’t you.” She turned her head towards her crew up top, who looked down at her with angelic, fearful faces. “I think we’re all just tired and hungry and want to go home.”
Marina had read that when you have a child, suddenly, you’re able to carry far more weight than you ever thought before. Your body learns to have the strength since it’s up to you to ensure they’re safe. She prayed for this capability, despite it being her first day. She reached her arms around the base of Christopher’s body, bringing her towards him. At only nine years old, he wasn’t terribly heavy—lithe and boney, from countless hours running through the moors. She huffed and gripped him tighter against him, hearing him moan with pain.
“It’s OK. It’s OK,” she cooed, rising to full height. Her feet snuck along the base of the hole, stabbing along the roots and tiny stones, trying to get a grip. With a final jolt forward, she brought her feet along solid ground, adjusting Christopher once more, and then strode forward. Speaking like a woman twice her age, she said, “All right, children. Let’s run along home, now. We’re late for dinner, and I’m sure your father will have my head.”
Chapter 7
The Duke had given little thought to the new governess throughout her first day. She was just another name on a list—another tragedy waiting to happen. He’d busied himself at the business, going over the ledgers with Jeffrey, and then heading home, letting his head knock side to side as the carriage ambled back towards the estate. He’d begun to
feel time in a different way, with the blindness, and felt he could “smell” dusk as it approached. Perhaps it was something about the trees or the fog. The air seemed thicker, with a dark fragrance that gave the Duke thoughts lined only with death.
Dinner ordinarily began with the children already at the table. But when he approached, he was told by Sally Hodgins—in a gruff voice, that the children and the new governess were nowhere to be found. “I told you, sir. I don’t have a good feeling about her. She seems irresponsible, ill-trained, and ill-mannered in nearly every respect …”
“Well, haven’t you an idea of where they went?” he demanded. He sat at the head of the table, turning his cane from one hand to the next. He didn’t ordinarily worry about his children in a physical sense. Rather, he always suspected that—if not the governess—then Claudia had everything under control. He knew that Sally Hodgins wanted to meddle. And despite his trust in her, he felt endlessly fatigued, just lying in wait until the next governess took her leave.
“I spotted them heading out to the forest,” she said, her voice cutting like a knife. “The cook’s told me she packed them a few snacks for the journey. A picnic. Perhaps the new governess suspects that it doesn’t matter what time she brings them home. Although I’m sure I told them precisely what time to return to dinner.”
“It’s her first day, Ms Hodgins,” the Duke sighed. “Perhaps we give her a day or two to get into the schedule of the house.”
“I still find it completely inconsiderate to you, Duke. For I know how you look forward to your dinners with your children,” Sally said.
The Duke reached for his fork, missing first and placing his finger along the edge of a knife. The cook ambled in from the kitchen, pouring beef stew into the Duke’s large bowl. She tittered to him, anxious. “I didn’t imagine they’d be gone so long, my Duke. I shouldn’t have allowed them to take so many sweets.”
“Sweets? My God, has the entire estate gone absolutely insane?” Sally cried. “I can’t imagine what topsy-turvy state it might fall into, with this new governess. No, my Duke, I imagine this should be her very last night. We send her off in the morning. Back where she came from.”
The Duke’s heart grew heavy. He knew that if this governess didn’t work, his children would land in boarding school—hours from his reach. They were his last memories of his wife.
The Duke spooned up the beef, sucking at the broth. But his stomach sloshed, growing tight. He ate only three bites before shoving it away from him and rising from his chair. He paced along the edge of the table, making his boots clack on the hardwood. He could feel the heaviness of the cook and Sally’s eye contact, following him as he strutted back and forth. He’d done this so frequently since going blind that he felt sure he’d already traced a heavy hole into the hardwood floor.
“I’ll return to my study immediately,” the Duke said. He reached for his cane and ambled towards the stairwell. He heard the cook behind him, busying herself with taking the stew back to the kitchen, probably returning it to the pot. All that floating meat turned his stomach. All those mushy carrots. He reached the staircase, latched his hand around the pole, and lurched forward—feeling that he might vomit. His head was pure chaos, seeing colours and light, despite his not being able to see anything at all.
“Duke!” Sally shot forward, reaching for him. But the Duke brought his elbow back, trying to create a boundary between them.
“Just leave me!” the Duke said, his heart racing. “Just let me be.”
“I’ll call the doctor,” Sally said, shuffling back towards the door. “You can’t very well believe I’ll let you remain in this state, Duke…”
But the Duke couldn’t hear her. He drew up as much strength as he could and bumbled up the steps, gripping the railing. Each step felt like he was taking it in sand, his feet drenched in it, so heavy. A small infinity later, he reached the doorknob of his study, shoved his shoulder into it, and flung himself into the chair near the fireplace. A small fire sputtered, crackling. The Duke stretched his legs out, feeling his bones creak. He wanted to place his toes as close to the warmth as he could without getting burned.
Where were his children? He imagined them like ants, stirring around the forest. If he’d been able to, he would have bolted out the door, calling their names and hunting for them. What kind of father was he if he couldn’t even be that powerful fighter for his children’s lives? What kind of father was he if he left them out there in the cold and chill, out there to die?
He tried to analyse the governess’ voice in his memory, hunting for any sign that she wasn’t what she seemed to be. But she’d seemed only a bit young, bright, and perhaps at times excitable. Although Sally Hodgins had stated that she was an ugly duckling if there ever was one, the Duke reckoned that there was an element of antagonism between the older maid and the younger woman. An element of jealousy, certainly. For, as far as he knew, Sally Hodgins had never had the opportunity for youth, for love, for family. And perhaps, in her eyes, this governess did …or hadn’t yet lost her shot.
Sally Hodgins did, indeed, hail the doctor—assuredly calling on the stable boy and telling him to ride out fast, along the moor and towards the little shack where the doctor lived. The doctor rapped at his door within the hour, his voice ringing out through the hallway. The Duke didn’t answer, leaving the doctor to open the door just a crack—calling his name.
Of course, the Duke hadn’t anything to do but let the man in. If the Duke was ever going to live properly again, he was going to have to put his trust in this man. Although everything in him wanted to wrap himself up in a kind of cocoon, never see light, or family, or love again.
The doctor placed a chair in front of the Duke’s larger one, tittering and speaking both to himself and to the Duke. “All right, me Duke, it’s quite all right. Looks to me like you’ve developed some kind of a cold, all right. If you would, sir, would you stick out your tongue for me?”
The Duke’s fingers twitched, so hungry to tear the stick from the doctor’s hands and toss it into the fire. But this same stick met with the Duke’s tongue, pulling it further out so that the doctor could stare into the blackness of the Duke’s throat. It was terribly strange to be analysed by a doctor when you couldn’t see anything, yourself. It felt like you were a chicken, being prepared for dinner. Your legs already wrapped up, your body on the skewer. How you spun and spun and spun, without any option to get out of the fire. And then, they doused you with spices.
Sweat continued to pour down the Duke’s face, easing along his cheekbones and dripping towards his shoulders. His lips shook. The doctor placed a washcloth over his head. Yet, the Duke insisted he take it off.
“I’m waiting for my children,” he said, almost scoffing. “I can’t be seen this way when they arrive.”
“Your children aren’t yet home?” the doctor asked, sounding incredulous. “Why, Duke, it’s far past night …”
“I bloody well realise that. Just because I’m blind, doesn’t mean I’m not privy to the passing of time,” the Duke said. “I’m terribly worried about them. We’ve hired a new governess just today, and it seems she tried to take them into the woods …”
“To be honest, Duke, they have been spending a great deal of time indoors…” the doctor said.
“To hell with your opinions, Doctor,” the Duke stammered. He shot up from the chair, letting the washcloth slap to the floor. He paced once more, drawn his arms behind his back. Every muscle in his body felt tense, almost spasming.
Chapter 8
When the children spotted the mansion from the edge of the field, Max let out a wild “whoop” of joy. It felt like they’d been apart from the estate for many months, had been on a strange and at-times horrific journey together. As they eased across the grass, through the very last of the light, Marina watched as the wide front door of the mansion opened like a large mouth—waiting. In the doorway stood the form of Sally Hodgins, her arms crossed over her large chest, and her face sour, do
wn-turned. When Marina and the children took to the first step, Marina heard Sally cluck her tongue.
“The Duke will not take kindly to this.”
Marina blinked up at the maid, feeling the darkness that echoed between them. Beads of sweat trickled down her back, between her shoulder blades, and her hair had grown untucked and was swirling out behind her.
