Chapter 7 #2
She’s lying. Her own kindness and good nature won’t allow her to leave Grandmother Riquet to her fate and to the mercy of the forest. I wouldn’t put it past her to march into Wormsloe tomorrow and try to bring Grandmother back out with her.
Why do I have the feeling that neither of them would emerge from those trees, ever again?
“Mama.” I seize her other hand as well. “Promise me truthfully this time. Don’t go after her.
At least wait until my ankle is healed, and then the three of us can go together.
Strength in numbers. We can even take Beresford along.
Or better yet… we can ask him to go check on her with a couple of his men.
They can bring her to our house. I’m not sure how we’ll feed her this winter, but it’ll be better than her staying there alone. ”
Even as I offer the options, a sickening dread clutches my chest, because what if Beresford goes into the woods and comes out changed?
He was in there with me on Thursday, and he emerged unscathed, but if he enters Wormsloe again, will he have the same good luck?
Maybe if he goes quickly to the cottage and returns immediately, he won’t suffer any harm.
Mama pulls her hands gently from mine and places a kiss on the top of my head. “It’s very late. I don’t think we should make decisions or plans at this hour. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I recognize the wisdom in waiting, but the restlessness in me wants to resolve everything now. Long after she goes upstairs, I lie on the couch, staring into the darkness, wondering how it all fits together.
Who is Grandmother Riquet? Why did she move into the cottage, and when did she offer to help my mother with me? What exactly is this “influence” that she wields, and what will happen once it vanishes entirely?
More frightening still is the question of the Barrow-Man. Why did my father’s failed bargain with him result in my summoning power? Could the Barrow-Man put a stop to my ability, or would interacting with him make everything worse?
When a troubled sleep finally descends upon me, I am prey to restless dreams. Wolves as tall as watchtowers stalk the open fields, hillsides crack open to reveal a red glow within, and squirrels with scorpion tails crawl over my body while Herron chants “Tell them I’m dead” over and over.
In the midst of it all, a figure with limbs the color of old bones unfolds from the bowels of the earth, rising tall and threatening over my prone body. He bends down, unintelligible words issuing from his mouth like dark smoke, and he presses one cold finger between my eyes.
In the morning, Mama and I speak of Grandmother again briefly, and I tell her that the old lady still seems spry enough, that the need to get her out of the forest isn’t urgent, that we can wait a while.
I settle her mind with half-truths, and she seems to believe me.
When guilt bites at my heart, I tell myself that the mild deception is for her own good, that I’m protecting my family.
But I’m not sure what family means anymore. Grandmother and Beresford are not my blood, yet they are both important to me, and I don’t want to lose either of them. Beneath that worry, my bones ache with the knowledge that my own father despised me so much that he left me by the Barrow to die.
I don’t blame my mother for not telling me sooner. It’s a difficult enough truth to cope with at age twenty-two. I’m not sure if I could have handled it before now.
Around noon, there’s a commotion on the road outside our house, and Anne runs indoors to tell me that a search party is preparing to enter Wormsloe.
I hop out with my crutches, accompanied by my mother and sister, and we watch from our front gate as two dozen men and dogs enter the forest by the path that leads to Grandmother’s house.
I want to shout at them to turn back, to let it be.
But they would want to know the reason for my warning, and there’s no way I can tell them about seeing Herron in the forest. They’re already cautious of me because of the little demons I summon, and if I’m the last one to see Herron alive, and in a state of borderline madness, I don’t know how they’ll react.
People are horribly pliant, terrifyingly volatile.
They can be kind and tolerant one week and viciously hateful the next.
We’ve been safe in this area for a long time, and I’m not about to jeopardize that, not when Beresford and I are growing closer.
It’s not as if the villagers would listen, anyway. At best they would be more suspicious of me than ever and still go in after Herron. At worst, they would blame me for his demise.
So I stand there in silence, with the crutches digging into my armpits, and I watch Marduc and the others forge into the treeline. Mama’s head turns toward me, and I catch her eye briefly, but neither of us speak.
“The forest is huge,” Anne comments. “It would take weeks to search it thoroughly. And if they were going to search, why did they wait so long to begin? He’s been gone for days.”
“They were putting it off because they’re afraid,” I reply. “But not afraid enough.”
My sister glances at me. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.” I lean on one crutch and swivel around so I can head back to the house. “They’ll be in there until dark. No use standing here and waiting.”
For the rest of the day, I do my best to stay useful.
I limp around the house, doing some light chores, but every time Mama or Anne catch me overexerting myself, they yell at me to go put my foot up.
I suppose they’re right. My ankle needs rest in order to heal properly.
If I continue putting weight on it, the recovery will only take longer.
Near dusk, Mama goes outside to watch for the search party’s return. She doesn’t come in until darkness has settled thickly over the land. When she enters the sitting room, her face looks wearier than usual.
“They didn’t come back,” she says.
“Maybe we missed them,” Anne suggests. “Maybe they found him and came out earlier, while we were busy.”
“It’s possible,” Mama admits.
“I’ll go into town tomorrow and ask for news,” my sister says. “You’re staying with Essienne’s children again, aren’t you?”
Mama nods.
“Then you’ll have the house to yourself tomorrow afternoon, Sybil.” Anne gives me a stern look. “No walking around, and no work. You rest.”
“Yes, Mother,” I retort.
Rain moves in overnight, and Mama leaves early in the gray quiet of the next morning, bundled in her cloak. I watch from the sitting room window as she climbs into the carriage Essienne sent for her.
Anne departs around noon to inquire about the search party. She takes our one umbrella, a beat-up old thing that looks terrible, but sheds the rain well enough.
I’m left in the silent house with my thoughts, which is a dreadful fate considering my current frame of mind.
To keep busy, I add some old lace to a well-used petticoat.
My plan is to spruce it up and make it look fancy enough so that I can wear it to the next orgy under my cloak.
Slipping out after my family goes to bed should be easier this time, since I’m sleeping downstairs, though I’m a little worried my crutches will make too much noise.
I’ll have to use them as quietly as I can.
Rain drums on the roof and the windowpanes, and the gutter gurgles, reminding me that we should probably clean it out soon.
Last time, the gutter-cleaning was accomplished with much difficulty, on a pair of shaky ladders, while all three of us shouted at each other about the best way to get it done.
I dread going through the ordeal again. Perhaps I can persuade Beresford to lend us a couple of his servants for an afternoon to help us out.
Distantly, thunder rumbles.
The back door bangs open, then slams, and I startle at the violence of it.
“Anne?” I call. “Are you back already? Did you forget something?”
There’s a double-thump, like boots being removed and set down. Then footsteps beat rapidly across the floor, and Theron Beresford appears in the doorway of the parlor, dripping and disheveled.
“What are you doing here?” I exclaim, but he’s already tearing off his coat, throwing it down, striding toward me with flaming eyes. A bolt of panic and arousal shoots through my whole body, because I recognize the need in his fierce gaze.
He whips aside the blanket covering my legs.
I didn’t bother changing out of my nightclothes or putting on underwear today, and when he shoves up the nightgown to find me bare beneath it, he groans with delight.
He pushes my thighs apart and gives my pussy a sideways kiss, sliding his tongue through the groove between the lips.
“I didn’t bathe today,” I exclaim. “I wasn’t expecting company… Beresford… oh gods…”
He’s sucking, slathering, being utterly filthy with my cunt, shoving his tongue as deep inside as he can get. He doesn’t say a word.
My hand descends on the top of his head, and my fingers curl into his hair. “You fucking magician,” I breathe.
He’s a poet with pussy, writing sonnets to my body with deft strokes of his tongue and the ink of my arousal.
“What if they come back early?” I choke out. “Fuck, Beresford…”
With a needy moan of desperation, he eats me out harder, devouring me like I’m the cure to everything that pains him, like making me come would save his soul.
At first I try to stifle my cries, but the house is empty, so as he slurps and savors me, I allow myself to whimper and moan as loudly as I want.
Fervent little gasps erupt from me, a crescendo to the peak of ecstasy, where I snap into quivering pieces.
My hips arch against his bearded lips as he drinks in my cataclysm.
It’s bliss like I’ve never felt. It’s being wanted with a level of visceral need that I never expected or dreamed could exist. He craved me so badly that he came here straight from his home and walked right inside to taste what he wanted.
“How did you know I was alone?” I ask.
With his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, almost as if he’s in pain, Beresford gives my pussy one final, tender kiss.
Then he stands up, wipes his wet beard with the back of his hand, grabs his coat, and walks out the back door, leaving me there with my pussy and thighs bare and flushed from his mouth.
The water on the floor dries before my family returns, but the area between my thighs remains damp, because every few minutes I think of Beresford striding in, giving me a stunning orgasm, and striding right back out.
That act represented a level of obsession that’s nearly maniacal. And I fear that I love it.