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"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. Sweet 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.