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"The Bard," Henry replied, handing her the book. "Specifically, Romeo and Juliet. A great and tragic love story."
Lucy made a small sound, savoring the smooth feel of the slender red volume in her hands. "Seems like tragic is the only kind of love there is."
Henry tilted his head. "Broken heart?"
She frowned. "Oh, no. Not me, sir. Never been in love. Just… I've seen things, that's all."
"And I suppose you've heard of me," he said with a hint of darkness in his voice. Lucy felt a moment of panic, but then she looked at him and found his eyes thoughtful, distant—but not lost. Nor angry.
"I heard something from someone," Lucy said slowly. "First time I saw you on the road, coming here."
"You saw me?" Henry looked surprised. "Ah. Well."
"You were… distracted," Lucy told him, not wanting him to feel bad. "Staring at the forest."
A rueful smile touched his mouth. "That happens."
Lucy hesitated. "Because of the woman? Mary?"
She knew it was a mistake the moment that name left her mouth. Too much said, too fast. Henry's expression crumpled, then hardened; shadows gathered beneath his eyes, which seemed to change color, glittering like amber caught in sunlight. Lucy had to look away, and found Barnabus watching them with a frown. He put down his ax and began walking toward them.
"I'm sorry," Lucy said to Henry. "Please, I'm—"
He cut her off, leaning close. "You saw her. In the forest. What did she look like?"
Barnabus reached them. He sat beside Lucy, the corner of his knee brushing her thigh. He was big and warm and safe, and she was glad for his presence.
"She was beautiful," Lucy said simply, and then, softer: "She was your wife."
"My wife," echoed Henry, staring at his hands. "She is still my wife."
Lucy stared. "I thought… I thought your wife was dead. What I saw… just a ghost." The ghost of a woman lost in the forest; the walking, speaking, dead; an illusion of life. Nothing else made sense. Even the forest, a forest that had almost captured her—a terrible dream full of ghosts, spirits.
Barnabus went still. Henry exhaled very slowly. Lucy felt a whisper of air against her neck, a chill that went down her spine. Miss Lindsay was behind her. She could feel the woman, even though she could not see or hear her. Lucy always knew when she was close.
Miss Lindsay said, "Perhaps you'd like to walk with me," and Lucy rose on unsteady legs, and joined the woman as she turned and strode away toward the cemetery.
"I'm sorry," Lucy said.
Miss Lindsay raised a fine dark brow. "Curiosity is no crime. And you have a right to know."
"No." She shook her head. "I'm just the house girl. You didn't hire me for—"
"Stop." Miss Lindsay quit walking and gave her a hard look. "Close your eyes."
Her demand was unexpected, odd. Lucy almost refused, but after a moment, Miss Lindsay's gaze softened and she said, "Come, I will not hurt you. Just do as I say. Close your eyes."
So Lucy closed them, and waited. Miss Lindsay gave her no more instructions, which was curious enough in itself, though the girl did not break the silence between them. The darkness inside her mind was suddenly fraught with color, images dancing; not memories, but something new, unexpected. Like a daydream, only as real as the grass beneath her feet.
She saw a thunderstorm, night; felt herself standing in a doorway, staring at the rain. A warm hand touched her waist.
And then that touch disappeared and she stood in the forest, within the twilight of the trees, and the woman was once again in front of her—Mary—hands outstretched, weeping.
Gone, again, gone. Other visions flashed—feathers and crows, golden glowing eyes—but it was too quick and odd to make sense. Except for one: Henry, younger, standing beneath a bough of flowers, holding hands with the woman from the wood. Mary. Smiling. Staring into his eyes like he was where her heart lived.
Then, later: Henry and Mary, riding away in a buggy. Henry and Mary, kissing. Henry and Mary, in the dark, his hands shaking against the clasps of her wedding gown, the white of the cloth glowing beneath the dappled moon. On a blanket, in the forest.
Lucy saw a shadow behind them, something separate and u
And swallowed the rest of her. One moment in Henry's arms—in the next, gone. Gone, screaming. Henry, screaming.
Lucy, screaming. Snapping back into the world. Curled on her side in the thick grass. Arms around her. A large ta
"You're safe," said the woman, but that was not it at all. Henry and Mary were not safe. Henry and Mary had been torn apart and Lucy could not bear to think about it. Not for them, not for herself—not when she suddenly could remember so clearly the night her own mother had disappeared, swallowed up by the world. Her choice to go—but with the same pain left behind.
"Ah," breathed Miss Lindsay, and her fingers slid sideways to caress Lucy's cheek. "Poor child."
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 ca
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."