i. In which Arthur tells a bedtime story #2
Unfortunately, it did little to muffle the sounds of her fidgeting. Snuggled into their bedclothes with the cat, Jonas pulled
a pillow over their head with a huff.
Sasha bounced on the edge of her bed. Forgetting Cormac Young, Arthur bit back a smile. Sasha was his darling; his sister
often chided him for laughing at Sasha’s behavior when he should have been telling her off. He tried to look stern as he handed
his niece the glass of milk, but stern was not part of Arthur’s natural makeup.
“Don’t bounce on the bed,” he said half-heartedly, because he knew Charlotte would want him to.
“It’s fun.”
“I know, but Jonas is trying to sleep.”
“Yeah,” Jonas muttered from the other side of the screen. “Trying.”
“That’s because Jonas is boring.” So saying, Sasha stopped bouncing, downed the milk, and held out her empty glass. “Done.”
She started getting up, but Arthur pushed her gently back into bed. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I have to wash my face again.” Sasha turned her face upward to show him the full glory of her milk mustache. “See?”
Arthur had prepared for this, however, and plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of his nightshirt. “Then isn’t it lucky
I have one of these?”
Jonas snorted.
“I thought you were sleeping,” Arthur said.
“Trying to,” Jonas said, and fell silent.
Sasha wiped her mouth, looking disappointed that Arthur had thought this far ahead, but she handed the handkerchief back without objection. Arthur waited for her to wiggle into place under her quilt with her old rag doll, which took longer than strictly necessary, and tucked her in.
Sitting beside her, he picked up the novel he’d left on the nightstand before putting on his nightshirt. The battered cover
featured an image of a young woman fainting into the arms of a shirtless man with flowing hair.
Sasha eyed it dubiously. “Is this a kissing book?”
“Of course.” That was by far his favorite kind.
She groaned. “I want a good story, Uncle Arthur.”
He chuckled. “It is good. I promise.”
It was the first romance novel he’d ever read. His father had brought it back for his mother after a trip to Port Lorne. Eileen
had read it once, enjoyed it, and set it aside forever. Arthur, ten, had stolen it from its spot on the side table and been
utterly enamored from the first page. But he’d had a suspicion he was not supposed to be reading this book at this age, or
possibly at all, a suspicion born of the cover’s shirtless, flowing-haired man. The sight of him made Arthur’s stomach clench
pleasantly but guiltily.
The faint suspicion had grown into full-blown certainty when he’d reached a scene halfway through in which the hero and heroine
started undressing each other, at which point young Arthur had flushed, slammed the book shut, and thrown it under his bed.
It had lain there for several weeks until curiosity got the better of him and sent him crawling under the bed to find it.
He’d be skipping that bit when he read it to his niblings, of course.
“I don’t want a kissing book,” Sasha said.
Arthur set the novel aside. “What do you want, then?”
“I want Granddad’s story about the Lord of the Wood.”
Jonas jerked upright. With a hiss, the cat stalked to the foot of the bed to curl up afresh. Her disapproving golden gaze settled on Arthur. She closed her eyes and twisted tighter with a sigh, fluffy black tail curling over her nose.
Jonas spoke in a whisper. “He’s not supposed to tell that one. Mama said.”
“It’s been forever,” Sasha insisted. She held up her rag doll. “Besides, Molly wants to hear it, too.”
“Mama said.”
“Mama can’t tell Uncle Arthur what to do. He’s older.”
Jonas was outraged. “You tell me what to do all the time!”
Sasha ignored them. “Please?”
All Arthur’s best stories were about the wood. Charlotte had once loved them as much as he did. Though she’d never said so,
Arthur thought the stories reminded her of their father as they did him. Her husband, John Prentice, had found them fascinating,
too—especially since the villagers had warned him away from the wood without telling him why.
Then the sickness had come. One case, first. Another. More. Now Seacliff saw at least half a dozen such cases every year,
despite the measures the villagers took to protect themselves from the forest. Salt in the pocket. A rowan cross in the lining
of the clothes. Yellow flowers around the neck. Iron on wrists or ankles, prayers on lips, an elder leaf in the right shoe
to ensure safe return. No matter their precautions, those who returned so often returned with the sickness.
Around nine months ago, four cases had hit all at once. Every person who’d fallen ill had died. Not long afterward, Charlotte
and Arthur’s mother had died, too. They’d found her half frozen by the garden gate, like she’d been dragging herself toward
the forest. They’d brought her in to warm her up, but it had been too late. She’d died delirious, calling for George.
The first time Charlotte heard Arthur telling stories of the wood after that, she suggested he might not. The second time, she asked him not to. And the third time—when Sasha had begged for the stories as she did now, and he’d given in despite his best intentions—she forbade him.
Arthur missed sharing the stories. They were a comfort. A reminder that the way things were wasn’t the way things had always
been. Of the man he’d idolized as a father, who’d loved Arthur despite his many, many failings.
“It has been a while,” he said. “Perhaps just this once.”
Sasha whooped. He hushed her. If Charlotte heard them, he wouldn’t get to tell the story.
“But once I’m done,” he added, “it’s really bedtime, and no arguments.”
“Okay.”
Arthur held out his pinkie. “Promise?”
Sasha linked pinkies with him and shook. “Promise.”
Turning away, Jonas pulled their pillow back over their head so as not to be a party to the misbehaving on the other side
of the screen.
Arthur settled in beside Sasha. She hugged her rag doll, wiggling her toes in anticipation.
“Once upon a time,” Arthur said, because his father had always started the story that way, “the forest was far greater than
it is now. It stretched for miles and miles to the north and east. The—”
“The Lord of the Wood guided lost travelers!” Sasha said, bouncing.
“Are you telling the story or am I?”
“You are.”
“Don’t interrupt, then, please, and stop bouncing.”
She obliged.
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “The forest was so big you simply had to go through it, no matter where you were headed. If you
went around, it took weeks and weeks—if you got around at all. But—”