xvii. In which Charlotte makes a promise she might not be able to keep #2
Words echoed in her head, dismissive, disdainful. She could handle that and more if she’d try harder.
Her jaw clenched. She gripped Jonas’s hand.
“You take such good care of me. You’re very good to me. And I . . . I appreciate it.”
They reddened but nodded. “I promised Uncle Arthur.”
Charlotte pressed her hands to her face. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Jonas settled in their uncle’s armchair, which had become their habitual seat in the last two days. Seeing them there hurt,
made Charlotte sharply aware of how much they missed Arthur, though they hadn’t said as much.
“I don’t mind.”
“That’s not the point.” Charlotte took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m your mother. You and your sister aren’t supposed to
take care of me. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
“You do take care of us.”
Not like she used to, she thought. Not like she ought to.
The radio played a jingle. Jonas picked at the faded floral upholstery.
“Do you think Uncle Arthur’s okay?”
Had the situation been reversed, Arthur would’ve instantly assured Jonas their mother was fine and would be home before they knew it. He might’ve even believed it, or told himself he did.
Charlotte was too pragmatic for such optimism. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
Jonas hugged a throw pillow.
“If he doesn’t come back,” they said softly, and Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair, “can we talk about
him?”
She looked at them in surprise. “Of course, my love. What do you mean?”
They fidgeted. “It’s just, you never talk about Papa. Or Granddad. Or Nan. Uncle Arthur says it makes you sad to talk about
them.”
Her throat tightened. Damn Arthur. Damn him. She’d never said as much. Why did he have to know her so well, when she worked
so hard not to let anyone know her? When she tried not to let anyone see the cracks in her armor?
She swallowed hard. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
Her radio program came on; they listened to it together. Jonas held the throw pillow against themself like a shield, fingers
tightening whenever anything scary happened. Charlotte was too distracted to enjoy the thrill of fear the program normally
gave her. She tuned in and out, kept thinking of Cormac. She’d been so hopeful, when he’d unexpectedly asked after Arthur,
that she’d found someone who would help—but he’d refused, same as everyone else. He’d been more concerned with what people
might think than a man’s life.
Partway through the program, Sasha emerged from the bedroom with swollen eyes. Charlotte stood so quickly her head swam. Recovering,
she asked, “Are you hungry, dearest?”
Sasha nodded. She said nothing through supper, nothing in the sitting room afterward, nothing when Charlotte told the children
to go to bed.
The latter put Charlotte on her guard. Sasha always objected to bedtime. Charlotte settled back in her armchair, listening.
She sat for so long with no sound but the fire crackling in the grate that she almost gave up. God, she was tired. The chair
was so comfortable. Perhaps she’d been wrong—misinterpreted Sasha’s uncustomary silence—perhaps she could close her eyes like
she so desperately wanted to and comfort her daughter in the morning.
Then a door creaked open. The floorboards in the hall groaned.
Charlotte waited to get up until a second door creaked. The workshop door, opening and shutting. She hurried toward it.
Sasha was closing the garden gate when her mother made it outside. The gate squeaked. Sasha flinched, paused, and closed it
carefully the rest of the way. Over her shoulder was a pillowcase, tied off and bulging, and her rag doll was under her arm.
She wore her coat and boots and a look of determination that made Charlotte want to cry, or hug her, or both.
“Sasha.”
Sasha flinched but turned around.
“I’m going to find Uncle Arthur,” she said mulishly, “since no one else will.”
Charlotte rubbed her forehead with her knuckles. “Come inside, love.”
“I’m going to find Uncle Arthur.”
“I heard you.” Charlotte nodded at the pillowcase. “What are you taking?”
Sasha considered her, as if trying to figure out how much of a trick this was.
“The last of the biscuits. And bandages in case he’s hurt. And a clean frock for me in case I get dirty.”
Charlotte’s mouth tilted into a tired smile. “You do always manage that.”
Sasha did not dignify this with a reply. “And a blanket for when I sleep, and one of Uncle Arthur’s books, in case he’s scared.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. “Please come inside, dearest. Perhaps in the morning—”
“You won’t do anything. He’s lost and you haven’t done anything at all!”
Charlotte was so tired. “Yes, I have. Of course I have. Come inside. Please.”
“You won’t even try to find him!” Sasha stomped her foot. Charlotte reached for her, but she pulled away. “You don’t even
care!”
She burst out crying, angrily, and collapsed on the ground, sobbing into her pillowcase.
I do care, Charlotte wanted to say, I miss him, too, I’m scared, too, but she didn’t. Nothing short of searching for Arthur herself would convince Sasha she was just as desperate to have him back.
Elspeth McIntire’s voice echoed in her head. Both of us together, maybe we’d have a chance.
Maybe she could find him. Maybe, in the wood, there was even a chance of curing the sickness. It was an eldritch disease, a magical disease.
Surely any potential cure must be magical, too.
Of course, if Charlotte went, she might never return. She couldn’t risk orphaning her children.
But if she didn’t go, she feared it was a matter of time before Sasha successfully snuck off alone. Charlotte would be out,
or incapacitated by pain and fatigue. One way or another, Sasha would manage it. Jonas would probably try to stop her, but
Sasha never listened to them.
The forest rustled, feeling more alive than usual in the darkness. Charlotte gazed at it warily as she stroked the top of
her daughter’s head. Unsettlingly, the forest seemed to gaze back.
Being silly, Charlotte thought, but she couldn’t shake it.
At last, Sasha cried herself out and sat hiccuping on the ground. Charlotte pulled her daughter to her feet and dried her
eyes.
Sasha leaned against her, feeling fragile. Charlotte had never thought of her as fragile before. Then again, Sasha was too
young to have experienced the losses the rest of the family had. Only Eileen had died since she’d been old enough to remember
such a thing, and Eileen had been, to Sasha, mostly a weepy older woman who pinched her cheeks too much and was better avoided
unless baking biscuits. She had not been precisely relieved by her grandmother’s death, but she hadn’t grieved the way Arthur
and Charlotte had—though their grief had been complicated by their resentment.
“Let’s go to bed, dearest,” Charlotte said.
Sasha nodded. Charlotte kissed the top of her head, waited for her to collect her doll and pillowcase, and led her back toward
the house. The moon threw their elongated shadows across the garden plots.
“He’ll come back, won’t he?” Sasha asked in a stuffy voice, and this time Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to hedge the way
she had with Jonas.
“Of course, dearest.”
“Promise?”
The two of us could look for the Lord of the Wood together, Charlotte heard Elspeth McIntire saying. I’m leaving first thing Saturday, if you want to go.
She glanced at the dark maw of the forest, having a horrible feeling she would soon disappear inside it herself. Thinking
how inevitable it was she should someday enter it, after the way it had shaped her whole life.
“I promise.”