Chapter 5 #4
Still, I don’t complain about the view of his rippling muscles as he takes out a knife and cuts his shirt into strips.
After removing my shoe, he pads my ankle with a few scraps of cloth, then moves to the nearest tree and carves off two large, curved pieces of bark.
Setting the bark on either side of my wrapped ankle, he ties them in place with more strips of the shirt, forming a protective casing.
My ankle still hurts, but it’s a bit less prone to accidentally bending one way or the other, which helps with the pain.
“Now if you’ll just carry this, we’ll get you home.” He hands me my shoe, then crouches and lifts me smoothly and carefully into his arms.
I was not expecting this today. I didn’t have time to mentally prepare for the stimulation of being cradled against the warm expanse of his chest or experiencing the power of his body as he carries me through the forest at an easy walk, as if I weigh no more than a kitten.
“What were you doing out here in the woods?” he asks. “Foraging for nuts like a squirrel?”
I glance up at him, piqued because I actually did that last winter, when things were at their worst. I searched through the layer of snow and leaves, hunting for acorns, and when I got home we cracked them open and combined them with oil to make a paste.
I fear we burned more energy trying to process them than we gained from their meat, but at least it passed the time.
“I was visiting a friend,” I say crisply. “Grandmother Riquet.”
“And is she well?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“You seem uncertain.”
“She wasn’t acting like herself. Last time she was awful to me, and this time she was too cheerful. And she stared a lot. It was unnerving.”
“I don’t blame her for staring.”
I smack his shoulder. “A grandmother doesn’t stare for the same reason that a man like you would stare.”
“A man like me.” His voice drops nearly an octave, its richness and heat permeating my bones. “You know me so well, do you, squirrel?”
“Oh gods, tell me that’s not going to be a nickname of mine now,” I groan.
“You seem to hate it. So yes. Yes, it will.”
“Fuck you.” I shove his shoulder again.
“So ungrateful.” The corners of his eyes crease as he grins. “I should leave you here among your own kind.”
A chill traces through my bones as I imagine the other things that dwell in this forest—squirrels with scorpion tails, wolves on tall legs, unhinged men with bristly hair and bulging eyes.
“My kind,” I murmur.
“Yes. The squirrels. Although come to think of it, I haven’t seen any squirrels, nor any birds either. This is rather an odd forest, isn’t it?”
“It used to be pretty,” I reply. “But I think it’s haunted now… or possessed, which is worse.”
He doesn’t reply, but a muscle tightens near his jaw, where his beard fades into his cheek.
His hair is pinned over one ear again, fastened with a gold barrette in the shape of a honeybee.
Gold studs and tiny sapphires follow the curve of his ear, and a long earring drips from his lobe, featuring tiny gold moons and stars along a silver chain.
The earring swings with each step he takes.
I reach up and catch it between my thumb and finger.
“You’re lovely,” I tell him.
“Am I?” His jawline hardens beneath the beard.
I pull back a bit so I can look at him more directly. “Why does it upset you when I say that? You know you’re handsome.”
“You haven’t asked me the obvious question yet,” he says. “Everyone does eventually. We may as well get it over with.”
“Why couldn’t I have met you sooner?” I ask. “That question?”
He chuckles. “No. The beard. Do you dye it or is it natural, why is it blue, what’s your real hair color—any variation of those.”
I shrug, tipping my head against his shoulder. “I don’t care.”
“Surely you must be curious. Everyone is curious about everything. They want to know where I came from, where I lived before this, why I bought the estate, where I got my money, where the gardener went, when can they come to dinner again, why do I hold parties on the grounds of the estate but never in my house—”
He’s practically growling the questions, not really addressing me, just grumbling.
“Humans are inquisitive creatures,” I say.
“Is there a cure for it?”
“For curiosity?”
“Yes. It’s a plague,” he says earnestly.
“It’s a sore, a cancer, a poison. It’s the acid that eats away at happiness and erodes trust. Don’t you wish we could put an end to questions and simply exist?
Don’t you agree that it’s usually better not to know everything?
Sometimes secrets are a necessity. Secrets can be the safeguards of happiness. ”
I consider my own life, how hard I’ve worked to control my ability, for two reasons.
Firstly, I want to spare those around me from shock, embarrassment, or danger, and secondly, I want to keep anyone else from finding out about what I can do.
This whole time, I’ve been trying to conceal my secret from Beresford because its revelation could snip the bloom off this tender new thing that’s blossoming between us.
“I think I agree with you,” I admit. “Sometimes secrets are best left alone.”
“Trust is paramount.” His tone is fierce, almost urgent. “When you have trust, you can allow others to keep their secrets.”
“But how can you build trust without knowing another person completely?”
“With actions,” he replies. “A person can prove themselves trustworthy through daily life. There’s no need to dig into the past and root out ugly, uncomfortable things.”
I fall silent, wondering what past ugliness he wants to hide.
“You’re curious right now, aren’t you?” he says ruefully. “You’re imagining all the reasons I might be saying this, all the things I might wish to conceal.”
“Maybe. But there are things I don’t want to reveal either, so I understand.”
I don’t want to tell anyone about the starving demon-wolf, Herron of the bulging eyes, or Grandmother’s new set of hideous teeth. I don’t want to know why I make creatures appear, or where they come from—I just want it to stop.
I’d rather hold those things inside myself, tuck them away in a locked chest in my mind. Then maybe I could simply focus on how Beresford makes me feel: happy, hopeful, and admired.
“I won’t ask you about your past,” I tell him. “If you refrain from questioning me about any oddities of mine. As you said, we’ll build mutual trust based on our actions, our kept promises. Are you still mine alone, as you swore to be?”
He looks me straight in the eyes, not a trace of guile in his blue gaze. “I am. Being true to you is the easiest thing in the world. I could do it for a lifetime.”
My heart flutters wildly in my chest. “That’s not the impression you gave me last night.”
“I was testing you. Gauging what your reaction would be to the suggestion of me fucking another woman. You were bold enough to state what you wanted from me, and you didn’t back down. You earned my respect, and I’m proving that you can trust my word.”
We talk a little more, mostly about music and games, which we both love. He also tells me about the lengthy process of cleaning, repairing, and decorating the barn for the purpose of hosting his parties. He’s proud of how the building turned out, how beautiful and comfortable it is.
His rolling gait carries us swiftly through the forest, and soon we’re emerging from beneath the eaves of Wormsloe Wood. Being under the open sky feels safer, even though the clouds are heavy and the world is darkening as evening approaches.
I can breathe more easily without the stifling influence of the trees. As far as I can tell, no part of me has been changed by the forest… except my ankle, of course, but that’s a normal injury, nothing horrifying or supernatural.
When Beresford reaches the front door of my house, he knocks with the toe of his boot.
Anne arrives within seconds. “Good gods, what happened?”
“Just a sprained ankle,” I reassure her. “If Beresford hadn’t come along, I might have been out there all night. I could hardly move.”
He carries me into the parlor, lays me on the sofa, and bends to place a swift kiss on my forehead. Anne doesn’t miss it. She watches him, interest and calculation in her gaze. She’s a shrewd one, my sister—kind as summer but keen as winter wind.
“Can I get you some water, Mr. Beresford?” she asks. “Tea? Anything?”
“No, thank you. I should be going.”
“Won’t you wait for Mama to return? She should be back soon from looking after a friend’s children.”
The “friend” is a local lady who pays Mama to watch her little ones while she’s off to the city on business. Mama never asks Essienne what business she does in the city that pays so well, nor does Essienne look down on Mama for earning money where she can. It’s a perfect arrangement.
Beresford bows slightly to my sister. “Much as I would enjoy seeing your mother again, I must head home.”
“But you have no coat or shirt, and it’s getting cold,” I protest. “Anne, don’t we have an old cloak he could borrow?”
Anne surveys Beresford’s wide shoulders. “Nothing we have would fit him. I could fetch a blanket, perhaps, or a curtain.”
“We aren’t sending him home wrapped in a curtain,” I exclaim. “Really, Anne.”
She smirks. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Beresford says. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, Sybil, if I may.”
“Of course.”
“Until then.”
The instant the door closes behind him, Anne gives me a wicked smile. “He likes you.”
I don’t try to hide my answering grin. “You know, I really think he does.”