vii. In which Arthur learns to drive a cart #2
into the real thing. He’d done it. He’d driven a horse and cart for the first time, he hadn’t died or destroyed anything,
and now his family was coming outside to see his triumph.
With a shout, Sasha raced over before he’d stopped the cart.
“Careful, duck,” he said, but the gelding stopped the cart itself to nose at the tiny human hugging its leg. Jonas hung back, clinging to Charlotte’s hand. The goat slung her legs over the garden fence with a lusty maaah.
Charlotte’s eyes were bruised as usual, but she smiled as Arthur looped the driving lines over the hook by his feet and clambered
down.
“Did you teach yourself to drive a horse-cart?”
Arthur’s smile faltered as he thought of Cormac, but he said archly, “I’m a man of many talents,” even though he wasn’t. Charlotte’s
eyes flickered over him. To his relief, she turned to the gelding and stroked his nose without further questions.
After tying the horse by the chicken coop, Arthur went inside and packed, nonsensically. He’d never been farther from Seacliff
than some of the outlying farms, to which George had sometimes brought his children on house calls. Having filled a battered
suitcase in the attic with clothes, food, tinctures, and toiletries, and a knapsack with a bottle of water, one more set of
clothes, some herbs, his shaving kit, and no fewer than three books, Arthur was at a loss. What else might such a journey
require?
He lugged the suitcase and knapsack through his workshop, slipping his old travel watch-repairing kit into his pocket for
comfort. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed his father’s silver acorn from its peg, hung it around his neck, and tucked
it into his shirt. It might not protect him on his way through, but it had come from the forest. His father had worn it constantly.
That was a comfort, too.
Outside, Arthur stuck his suitcase in the back of the cart, set his knapsack on the driver’s seat, remembered Cormac’s words,
and grabbed a shovel from the shed.
“What’s that for?” Charlotte asked.
“In case the cart gets stuck.”
Arthur blinked the sting from his eyes. He had a feeling Cormac wouldn’t be speaking to him again.
Sasha stroked the gelding’s nose, chattering to him about school starting next week, which lessons she was looking forward to, and which she found unbearably boring.
She’d named him Maurice, since he didn’t have a name (or Agnes hadn’t told Arthur his name).
Jonas reached out to touch Maurice’s neck, relaxed when the beast didn’t turn and trample them, and shifted closer.
Freya wound around underfoot, threatening to trip everyone.
“Where are you going?” Jonas asked their uncle.
“Port Lorne,” Sasha announced, before Arthur could respond. “He’s going to buy a clock for Mrs. Livingston. Right, Uncle Arthur?”
Putting the shovel in the cart, Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat. “Right.”
It wasn’t for long. A week at most; Agnes was counting on him to return quickly. But now the time had come, he didn’t want
to leave the children.
“I suppose I should be going,” he said reluctantly.
“Can I come with you?” Sasha asked.
I’ll take you when you’re older, Arthur heard his father saying. His fingers curled at his sides.
Predictably, however, before he could say anything, Charlotte said, “Absolutely not.”
“What if Uncle Arthur gets lonely?”
“I’ll be fine, duck.”
Sasha opened her mouth to argue, but at a look from her mother, she turned back to the horse and cat with a huff.
Charlotte caught her brother’s hand and drew him away from the children. Chickens scattered before them.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
Her hand tightened on his. “I mean it, Arthur.”
Arthur squeezed her hand.
“So do I,” he said, though he’d said it automatically, but she shook her head.
“We’ve lost too much. I can’t lose you, too. The forest is dangerous. Don’t forget that. Please.”
Her voice was tight. She blinked rapidly, like she was trying not to cry. Arthur gave a lopsided smile.
Reaching into his breast pocket, he gave her the money Mrs. Livingston had given him earlier that morning, except for the
portion to cover the cost of the clock and his expenses on the trip. Charlotte inhaled sharply.
She thumbed through the bills but didn’t smile as she stuffed them into her pocket. “It’s no substitute for you, if you don’t
come back.”
“I know. It’s worth a good deal more.”
“Arthur.”
“Joking,” he said, even though he wasn’t. Gripping her hands, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll come back, Lottie, I promise.”
“In one piece.”
“Yes.”
“Without the sickness.”
“I certainly hope so.”
She was not amused.
“Yes,” he said. “Perfectly well. Just the way I left. I promise.”
“Wire me at the general store when you get there.”
“Of course.”
“And when you’re coming back.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte pulled a tiny, roughly made cross of rowan from her pocket. “Don’t laugh, but—I want you to take this.”
“Where did it come from?”
She worried her lip with her teeth. “It was with Dad’s things. It’s . . . I’ve had it for years. Like you’ve had the acorn in your workshop. I don’t know where he got it. He always said the rowan crosses, the salt, all of it—it was all . . .”
“Superstition.”
Charlotte nodded. “But it was in his things.”
Arthur’s skin prickled. The rowan cross threatened to unsettle something about his long-held memories of his father, but probably
it had been nothing more than a curiosity. Though he hadn’t believed them, George had always been interested in the villagers’
superstitions.
“Why haven’t you shown this to me before?”
Charlotte gave a tight smile. “I barely remember him. You’ve always had more of him, you were so much older than I was when
he disappeared. I wanted to have a piece of him to myself.”
So she said, but here she was, giving the rowan cross to Arthur because she was worried about him entering the wood.
She cleared her throat, pressing the cross into his hand. “I don’t believe in it, of course. It’s not that I think it will
protect you, I just—”
Arthur hugged her. Charlotte hugged him back, burying her face in his chest in a way she hadn’t done since they were children.
“I’ll come back,” he repeated. “I will. I promise I will.”