Страница 48 из 75
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 ru
"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 causing 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 ru
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.