Lucy took a deep breath and struggled to sit up. The world spun. The arms around her tightened—Barnabus—and she closed her eyes, slipping back into darkness.
SHE WOKE IN HER BED. A CANDLE BURNED, Outside, strong winds rattled the house; rain pattered against the roof and window. Miss Lindsay sat in a chair. Her hands were folded in her lap and she wore a man’s robe that smelled of cigar smoke.
Lucy tried to speak, found her voice hoarse, hardly her own. “What happened?”
A sad smile edged Miss Lindsay’s mouth. “Impatience. I pushed you too fast.”
The girl hesitated. “Was it real, then? What I saw?”
Only after she spoke did she realize the foolishness of that statement; Miss Lindsay could not possibly know what she had seen. But the older woman denied nothing, nor did she look at Lucy as though her mind was lost.
“Real enough,” she replied softly, and then, even quieter: “Did you understand what you saw?”
“Some of it. Except at the end… what took Mary…” Her voice dropped to a whisper as a chill swept deep. “That was not human.”
“So little is,” murmured Miss Lindsay, but before Lucy could ask what that meant, she said, “The woman you saw in the forest the day you came here is my brother’s wife, Mary. She did not die, as other have said, but was stolen away. Captured, with the woods as her cage. She cannot leave, and my brother… my brother cannot enter. He cannot see her. He cannot speak to her. But he knows she is there and so he stays and watches, for just one glimpse.” Miss Lindsay looked at her hands. “He loves her so.”
Lucy curled deeper under the covers, staring. “I don’t understand how any of this could happen. It’s not… normal.”
“Normal.” Bitterness touched Miss Lindsay’s smile. “Some would say the same of the moon and stars, or the wind, or a flight of birds, but all those things are natural and real. We accept them as such, without question.” She leaned close, candlelight warming her golden gaze. “You should know, Lucy, that I hired you on false pretenses. Not merely to cook and clean and stay silent in your room. You live here, my dear, because you are the first person in twenty years to see my brother’s wife. And that, if one wished to speak of such things, is not normal.”
Lucy shook her head against the pillow. “The driver, Mr. Wiseman, told me about ghosts. That’s all I thought she was.”
“Ghosts.” Miss Lindsay’s fingers flexed. “To tease a child about ghosts is simple because of the cemetery I control. Because of the dead that people bring. Not because of Mary. Those in town think she’s buried here. And she is, in a way. But the woman you saw is flesh and blood.”
“How?” Lucy breathed, thinking of Mary—Mary in the forest, so lost—Mary in the forest twenty years past, so in love. “Why?”
Miss Lindsay closed her eyes. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will tell you that story.”
“No,” Lucy protested, but the older woman stood.
“Tomorrow,” she said again, and blew out the candle. Lucy reached out and caught her hand. Miss Lindsay gently disengaged herself, swept her fingers over the girl’s brow, and walked from the room. She closed the door behind her.
Lucy lay in the darkness for a long time, listening to the old house, the rumbling storm. It occurred to her, briefly, that she could leave this place and go back to her father and brothers, but the idea made her heart hurt and she realized with some surprise that this place, despite its mystery, felt like home. A better home than what she had left behind. What she had been forced from by her father.
Mother was forced to leave, in a different way, whispered a tiny voice inside her mind, but that was too much, and Lucy pushed back her blankets to rise from bed. She still wore her clothes from that afternoon, but did not bother with her shoes.
The house was quiet. Lucy walked silently through the kitchen. She wanted water, but as she reached for the pump above the sink she noticed a warm glow against the wall in the parlor, and heard the sound of pages turning. She peered into the room.
Henry and Barnabus sat before the small fire, reading. Her heart jumped a little at finding them; she was not quite certain she was ready to face the older man, not after what she had seen inside her head. And Barnabus…
The young man looked up from his book. He had not been long from the rain; his hair was damp, as was his shirt, which strained against his shoulders. She tried to imagine him as a child, wild in the forest—still wild, maybe—and it was easy, as simple as looking into his eyes. She felt shy, looking at him. He was so handsome, breathtakingly so.
Barnabus stood and gestured for her to take his seat. When she did not move, he held out his hand to her, and she let him take it and guide her. His skin was warm. His touch, gentle. Her heart beat a little faster.
Henry closed his book. “Are you better?”
“Yes,” she said, hardly able to look at him. But she did, and though she found terrible sadness in his eyes, there was also compassion. Barnabus very quietly settled himself on the floor beside her chair, the edge of his hand brushing her foot.
Lucy fidgeted, staring at the fire. Henry said, “You want to ask me something.”
She hesitated. Henry frowned, laying his book on the floor. “I’m sorry for earlier. I scared you this afternoon. I didn’t mean to.”
Barnabus sighed. Lucy glanced down at him. “I’m sorry too.”
“So? Ask me what you want.” He smiled gently. “I am here, Lucy.”
You are with your wife, she thought, and summoned up her courage. “Please… why was Mary taken?”
Henry paled. Barnabus’s hand shifted against her foot. A warning, perhaps. Lucy ignored him, refusing to take her gaze from the older man’s face. She watched his struggle—battled one of her own, resisting the urge to take back her question—and thought instead of Mary. Mary in her wedding gown. Mary in the forest, begging for help.
Lucy thought of Miss Lindsay too. She was defying the woman; she doubted that would end well. But she needed to know.
Henry looked at the fire; for a moment his eyes seemed to glow. “Mary did nothing. It was me. I was… foolish. I had a temper, and there was a woman who had too much interest in me. I rejected her, badly. And because she could not hurt me…”
He stopped. Lucy forced herself to breathe. “Does this woman live in the forest?”
Henry closed his eyes; a bitter smile touched his mouth. “She is the forest. She is a witch and its queen.”
“A witch,” Lucy murmured, thinking of fairy tales and crones, women in black hats with cats in their laps, cooking children for supper. “How do you stop a witch?”
“You don’t,” Henry said heavily, and picked up his book, tapping his fingers along its spine. “None of us are powerful enough.”
“She couldn’t hurt you,” Lucy pointed out, and Barnabus once again touched her foot—yet another warning.
Henry’s jaw tightened; his eyes were quite bright. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Just one,” Lucy said softly, thinking of her mother. “What is it like to be married?”
Barnabus went very still. Henry glanced at him and said, “It is a sacred art. A union of souls. To be together is the grandest adventure.”
Lucy shook her head, trying to picture Henry and Mary as her father and mother, to imagine what that would be like, to have parents who loved. It was difficult to do, and disheartening. “It seems like a lot of work.”
Henry studied her. “And?”
“And, nothing,” she said, but hesitated, still chewing on her memories. “I heard a word once, talking about such things. Honeymoon, someone called it. I liked the word, but I still don’t know what it means.”
“It doesn’t mean much by itself,” Henry replied slowly, with a distant look in his eyes. “It’s a symbol, I suppose. You’re married, so the both of you run away where no one knows you, no one can find you, and you make a world that is just your own. For a short time, your own.” He smiled gently. “A month, the span of the moon. Swe
et as honey. And if you’re lucky, perhaps you turn that honeyed moon into something longer, a lifetime.”
“But I still don’t see how it makes a difference,” Lucy said, feeling stubborn. “If you’re married, you’re together anyhow. Happy or not. You don’t need to be all… sticky about it.”
Barnabus shifted slightly, but not before she saw his small smile. Heat flooded her face; she felt deeply embarrassed to have said so much in front of him. She had forgotten herself—was far too comfortable in his presence—far too at ease with all these people, who were supposed to be her employers. Not her family.
As if you were ever made so welcome by your own flesh and blood.
Lucy stood. Barnabus caught her ankle in a loose grip. The contact seared her skin.
“The heart loves,” Henry said softly, so gentle, it made her chest ache. “Listen to your heart, Lucy. Don’t be afraid of it.”
“I’m not,” she whispered, feeling captured, trapped; Barnabus’s hand felt too good. She nudged her foot and he released her.
“Good night,” she said, not looking at either man, and fled the parlor for the kitchen. She almost went straight to her room, but she needed air and flung open the kitchen door that led into the garden. Wind blasted her, as did rain. She worried about others feeling the draft and began to close the door behind her. It caught on something, Barnabus.
Thunder blasted. Barnabus touched her waist, drawing her back until heat raced down her spine, and her shoulders rubbed against his hard chest. His hand closed over hers and they held the door together, blasted by white lightning and tremors of sound.
Barnabus shut the door when the rain began coming in. Cut off from the storm, the air inside the house felt closed, uncomfortably warm. No lightning, no candle, no way to see except by touch and memory.
Barnabus still held her hand. He guided her across the kitchen until she touched the door of her room, and there he eased away. Lucy listened to his soft retreat, the creak of the floorboards, the rustle and whisper of his clothing, the faint hiss of the wind as he left the house for his bed in the work shed. Her hand tingled with the memory of his fingers. Her waist still felt the pressure of his palm.
Lucy lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. She dreamed of a world that was her own, and a sweet moon made of honey in the sky.
LUCY ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. BARNABUS WAS already awake; she could see him in the distance, in the cemetery, digging a grave. Lucy vaguely recalled Miss Lindsay mentioning a death in town. She watched him work for a moment, and then went about her business, feeding the chickens and milking the goats. Crows gathered along the eaves of the house, watching her.
They made a ruckus only once, and Lucy looked up at the sky just long enough to see a streak of golden light in the shape of a bird fall behind the work shed. She did not know what to make of it—again her imagination, perhaps—until she heard a rustle of clothing and Miss Lindsay walked out from behind the small structure, buttoning the top of her dress.
She did not appear surprised to see Lucy, but merely said, “Good morning,” and walked into the house. The girl stared after her, perplexed. So much was odd about this place. Or perhaps Lucy was just odd herself. That did not bother her, she knew, as much as it should. As much as it would have, not so long ago.
The funeral took place that afternoon. Few people came, but one of them was Mr. Wiseman, hauling a coffin in the back of his wagon. Lucy did not feel any great pleasure in seeing him. He was a very real reminder of the world beyond the wood—a world that felt like a distant place—and the sight of his face made her stomach twist with dread.
“I see the ghosts didn’t get you,” he said loudly, with that same sly smile.
“Ghosts are for children,” said Miss Lindsay, coming up behind his wagon. She stood beside Lucy, and rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t you have something better to do with your time, Wilbur, than tease young girls?”
Mr. Wiseman tipped his hat. “Helena, you’re still as handsome a woman as I’ve ever met. I don’t suppose your brother would consent to me courting you?”
“I believe my brother would have very little say in the matter,” replied Miss Lindsay dryly, “nor would your wife be all that pleased with the arrangement.”
His smile was all teeth. He tore his gaze from Miss Lindsay and looked at Lucy. “Got a message for you, girl. Your father’s come down with some kind of sickness. He wants you to come home straightaway to care for him.”
Lucy stared. “He was fine when I left.”
“But he’s not now. You’re to ride with me after I’m done here.”
“No,” she said without thinking.
Mr. Wiseman’s smile slipped. “Maybe you didn’t hear me.”
“I heard you.” Lucy drew in a shaky breath, swept away by such hard emotions that she almost quivered with tension. “No, I won’t go.”
“He’s your father.”
Desperation rode over guilt. “I’m doing a job. He wouldn’t give up his place at the quarry for me. I know that. He told me often enough.”
Mr. Wiseman’s jaw flexed. “You’ll do as you’re told, girl.”
Miss Lindsay’s hand tightened on Lucy’s shoulder. “Wilbur. You and I will discuss this later.”
“No time for that,” he snapped, eyes narrowed. “You been twisting this girl’s mind, making her turn from her family?”
“I like working here,” Lucy told him, voice rising. “And my brothers are still at home. They don’t need me. They didn’t even want me.”
“Go on, now,” Miss Lindsay said to Mr. Wiseman, drawing Lucy away. “There are people waiting on that body.”
He looked ready to argue, but it was true—there were mourners dressed all in black standing at the little cast-iron gate in front of the cemetery, and they were watching Mr. Wiseman with a question in their eyes. The old man grunted, giving Lucy a baleful glare.
“You be packed by the time I get back,” he told her. “Or else I’ll take you as you are.”
Lucy flinched. She saw Barnabus running toward them, and caught Mr. Wiseman also staring at the young man. Something passed through his gaze, and he slammed the reins against his horses, jolting them into motion.
“Coward,” Miss Lindsay murmured, but Lucy hardly heard her. All she could do was stare at Barnabus as he moved close. He looked dangerous, furious—like he was ready to fight, something she had never imagined of him. He touched the small of her back, his mouth set in a grim line that only grew deeper, darker, as he gazed past her at the old man’s retreating wagon.
And then he looked at her, and in his eyes, a question. Uncertainty.
“If I go, I won’t be back,” Lucy said, speaking to them both, but looking at Barnabus. “I know it.”
Knew it like truth. Just as with those visions of the day previous, she could feel inside her head the future tumbling away into a dark cold place, and if she went with Mr. Wiseman, that would be her fate. Something lonely and awful. Like having her wings cut after a taste of flying.
Miss Lindsay’s eyes flashed golden, and this time Lucy was certain it was not her imagination. “You want to stay here? You’re sure of it?”
Lucy nodded, struggling with her fear. She knew it was terrible—she was terrible—and her father, her father would think she was just like her mother—but she did not care. She had to stay. Something would break inside her if she left this tiny world within the forest—this dangerous forest—this little place with these strange and wonderful people who made her feel safe and welcome. If her mother had felt this way, all those years ago, then Lucy could forgive her. She understood now, what could drive a woman to abandon all. She understood, and if it was selfish, then so be it. She would be selfish, and happy.
“Barnabus,” said Miss Lindsay crisply, “take Lucy to the pond at the bottom of the hill. I’ll handle Wilbur. When he’s gone, I’ll come fetch you both.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, suddenly regretting the trouble she was caus
ing the woman. “If you don’t want me—”
“No.” Miss Lindsay brushed her fingers across the girl’s forehead. “You are no trouble to me or this family. This is your home.”
And with that, she turned and strode away toward the cemetery, where Mr. Wiseman was helping the mourners unload the coffin. Barnabus tugged on Lucy’s hand. It took her a moment to follow; she kept hearing those words, seeing those golden eyes, and felt inside her a flush that could have been what Henry spoke of, that sense of running away. The grand adventure. Making a new world from the old. She was not married, but it felt the same: a union, in its own way.
She and Barnabus crossed the meadow, chased by crows. They climbed a gentle slope through scattered oaks, and at the crest of the hill gazed down upon a body of still water, blue from the sky and filled with lily pads and brown ducks. The forest nudged the northern edge of the pond, but the sun chased back the shadows and the grass was tall and green.
There was a rough dock jutting from the green shore. Barnabus and Lucy sat at the end of it, careful of splinters, and dangled their feet in the water. After a short time, he reached over and held her hand.
She liked that, and felt a stab of fear that she might have to give it up. But then she remembered Miss Lindsay’s calm strength and said, “They’re good people, aren’t they? Henry and Miss Lindsay. But they’re not… like other folk. Regular, I mean.” She had been about to say normal, but recalled Miss Lindsay’s feelings about that word.
Barnabus nodded, squeezing her hand. He did not appear at all perturbed by her question or the implication, but rather, seemed comfortable with the truth: that Henry and Miss Lindsay were different, inexplicably so, and that it was natural. Like the wind or the moon. She liked that too.
“How long have you lived here?” Lucy asked him, jumping slightly as fish nibbled on her toes.
He spread out his fingers. Five, then two. Seven years.
“And before that? Did you really live in the forest?”
Barnabus shrugged, gazing past her at the dense tree line. His mouth moved, but not a sound emerged except the whistle of his breath. He looked, for a moment, frustrated—and Lucy wondered what it would be like to have no voice, to have a lifetime bottled up inside her without words or sound. She reached out, unthinking, and touched his lips with her fingers. She only meant to tell him it was all right, that he did not need to explain, but his face was so close and his eyes were so deep and blue, that she found herself leaning, leaning, until she felt the heat of his breath and her fingers slipped away, only to be replaced by her mouth.
My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon Page 21
