Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Iwalk through the town square as if I have to get home to a burning kettle on the stove.
The air in Sylvan feels thicker. It tastes different—bitter, almost. I nearly trip on an uneven brick as my eyes catch those as dark as the bottom of a grave.
Mayor Hawthorne.
My body immediately contracts, curling inward on itself, as though I could make myself so small that he won’t pay me any mind.
But it’s a fool's hope.
Hawthorne narrows his eyes, stalking me as I hastily walk up to Mr. Pines’ front door, and knock three times. I can feel eyes boring through the back of my head as I wait. I use every inch of self-control within my body not to fidget as I do.
I focus on the painting on the glass at the top of the Pines’ door. The deep green and yellow glass flickers with light as the sun peeks through the clouds, giving the illusion of a warm day in a forest full of pines.
Heavy footsteps sound behind me, and I lift my hand to knock again, my heart in my throat, when the door finally opens. “Miss Greene,” Edward Pines greets me with a smile.
“Is that Everleigh?” I hear Mrs. Pines’ voice singsong from within the house.
“It is,” Edward calls back. “Oh, come in, dear, come in.”
As soon as the door is closed behind me—a safety net between us and the world out there in the town square—I feel relief flood through me.
“I brought that salve, Mrs. Pines,” I say, fetching it from my basket.
She appears out of nowhere, looking as ethereal as always with her long, silken hair the colour of the golden sun draping over her shoulders. “Please,” she smiles. “Call me Maeve. Your mother would be appalled to know you still call me by my husband’s name after all these years.”
I smile as she beckons me into her kitchen, pulling out a seat at the table for me. “Yes, well, my father would be pleased with my manners, I think.”
Her gaze softens as she lays a comforting hand on my arm. “That he would.”
“How is Marcie feeling?” I ask.
“Let’s just say she’s still feeling a bit worse for wear,” Edward says, but I can hear the hint of a smile in his tone.
“It isn’t funny, Edward,” Maeve scolds, untying the berry-stained apron from around her waist and slinging it over the back of one of the mismatched dining chairs.
“She shouldn’t have gotten on the horse in the first place, Maeve. At least she won’t be in a hurry to do it again.”
Maeve just tsks, not having any argument.
Marcie went with one of her friends to the stables last week, it was so late the moon was out—-meaning Silas was settled deep into his sheets, and so heavy in slumber that he didn’t hear the girls sneak into the stables and try to take one of the horses for a ride.
The only thing they didn’t realise was that the horse was unbroken, and it bucked Marcie off its back before she could get out the stable doors.
“Well, this should help,” I say, placing the tin of salve on the table. “Apply it once at dawn, and once at dusk. It should help with any scarring and help those grazes heal up a bit quicker.”
“Thank you so much, Everleigh,” Maeve replies, grabbing my hand in hers once more and giving it a squeeze.
“You’re welcome,” I say, standing up and heading for the door. “And if she has any sort of reaction, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks, Everleigh,” Edward says.
“Oh!” Maeve jumps from her seat. “Take these with you.” She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with her arms full of bright, plump peaches. “They’re from our orchard. I know how much you used to love them.”
I can feel my eyes widen as she carefully places the peaches in the bottom of my basket. “And I still do. Thank you.”
Maeve just nods, a warm smile on her face. “And don’t give any to the birds. It’s a wonder how hard we work to keep them away in the first place.”
“I promise,” I say with a wink to Edward before I’m out the door, and back in the grey town square.
It’s a jarring difference from being in the warmth of the Pines' house. Not because the sun shines in there, but because of the warmth that radiates from Maeve and Edward.
My gaze immediately jumps to where I last saw the mayor, but his presence is like a ghost. He’s no longer there, but I can still feel him.
I attempt to shake it off, to slip into the place within my mind that is filled with warm days at the lake, and the sound of birdsong. My family around me. Peaches.
But my vision is quickly shattered when I see Silas, a stern look on his face as he leans against the barn door, talking to no other than Mayor Hawthorne.
I duck into a doorway, watching the two of them from the shadows. Silas’s brows are pulled together, his eyes narrow. I can’t decipher whether he is confused or upset.
Watching their conversation feels akin to watching a winter storm dump snow on fresh crops.
It’s defeating. I almost hoped the two of them would never interact, that the mayor’s smarmy attitude would never reach Silas, that it would never touch him.
But as Mayor Hawthorne claps a hand on Silas’s shoulder, I realise any hope of that is lost, and that it was unrealistic of me to imagine it any other way.
He saunters off, on his way to find someone else to bother, I am sure.
I start across the square, heading for where Silas still stands, running a hand through his shaggy hair.
“Hey,” I say as I approach. “What—“
He jumps. “Gods, Everleigh, you scared me.”
“Did talking to the mayor make you jumpy?” I ask.
“You saw that?”
I just nod.
“Yes, well, he’s not an entirely pleasant man to deal with,” he says, straightening the collar on his dusty blue shirt. I just raise my eyebrows in agreement. “I loathe knowing that he spoke to you.”
I almost roll my eyes, but I stop myself. I would have preferred he never spoke to me as well.
“Well, what did he want from you?” I ask. “It looked quite serious.”
Silas hesitates, his throat bobbing as he swallows while his brown eyes avoid my gaze.
“He wants half a dozen horses that I don’t have.
I told him I don’t have what he needs, and…
he didn’t quite like that.” His eyes latch onto something behind me, and when I look over my shoulder, I see the mayor wandering through the town square, his head high and his gait confident.
When I turn back, I notice the tension feathering in Silas’s jaw, a lethal look in his gaze. “I feel as though I am now the one who needs to be telling you to be careful,” I say, stealing his attention back.
He grabs my hand in his as he finally looks down at me, and I didn't realise how desperate I was for his gaze until his eyes are pinned on mine. “I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Don’t make an enemy out of him, Silas,” I say, feeling the need to remind him of the stakes. “None of us can afford that.”
His eyes just soften before they catch on my basket.
“Are those peaches?” He reaches for the basket, plucking a peach out of it before I can so much as blink.
He doesn’t waste a second before he’s taking a gigantic bite out of it, his eyes widening as the fruit hits his tongue. “Gods, those are good.”
“Yes, well, they are mine,” I say, holding my basket out of his reach. “The Pines gave them to me from their orchard.”
He just offers a small smile. “Finnick and I”—he swallows—“we used to sneak in there at night when we were kids. We’d take one of your mother’s baskets and fill it to the brim with peaches, apples, and berries.
” He shakes his head. “Esther could never figure out where we got them. Or maybe she always knew and just never said anything.”
She was like that, my mother. You could do something wrong, but if it caused no harm, she would pretend she never noticed.
I fear there were many things that as children we thought we got away with, but she knew every little thing that we did.
She just let us be, never berating us for having our fun.
That’s only one of the many reasons we were lucky to have her as our mother.
I wonder what they would think of all of this—what my parents would say about these witch hunts.
I can imagine my father sitting at a table in the tavern, shaking his head, his chin in his palm while he talks to his friends over a pint of ale.
I can see my mother, wearing holes in the kitchen floor with her pacing, wracking her brain trying to find a way to help in some way.
They would help.
At the very least, they would try.
But as I try to envision them, their faces look hazy to me, their features less defined as my mind softens the edges of their memory. My throat thickens as I try to remember, as I try to sharpen the images in my mind, but they only grow murkier.
“Everleigh.”
I blink the guilt pooling in my eyes away. “Sorry?”
“I’m sorry for bringing them up.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I like thinking of them.”
Even if their faces aren’t as clear as they used to be, I'll never forget the people they were. They were so loved by everyone for a reason. Esther and Ambrose Greene were such a vital part of this town. I’m not certain there was a single person who didn’t show up at their funeral. Everyone cared; everyone hurt.
“I do too,” Silas says, that small smile appearing once more. “You'd better get a move on before the mayor shows up again.”
“Brilliant point,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ve managed to escape conversations with him and his councilmen twice now. I’m not sure my luck will run for much longer.”
Silas shoots his hand out, snaffling another peach from my forgotten basket before he scurries away.
“Hey!” I yell with an exasperated laugh. His cheeky smile eliminates any lingering guilt in my stomach, replacing it with butterflies.
“Thanks, Evie,” he yells as he disappears back into the barn.
“Sure,” I mutter to myself. “You’re welcome.”
I spin around, heading for the dark line of trees that marks the edge of town and the start of the woods.