xxxiii. In which Charlotte sees her father’s portrait
xxxiii. In which Charlotte sees her father’s portrait
Charlotte spent the morning in the less shabby of the two armchairs by the stove, relieved to sit with a cushion at her back.
Whenever she needed something, the plant creature retrieved it, slinging itself through the tiny house to retrieve a mug,
or a bowl of stew, or an extra cushion, and then sat in Charlotte’s lap, clicking happily.
Resting seemed less objectionable in the wood, where there were no patients to visit, no cupboards to fill, no house to clean.
Or at least the house was not hers, and neither were the cupboards. So it was a rare rest taken willingly and guilt-free.
Elspeth, however, spent the morning tearing the tiny house apart, searching every drawer, cabinet, nook, and cranny for any
sign her sister might have been here.
She found nothing—no sign of Maggie, anyway.
Of the Lord of the Wood, there was plenty.
The usual odds and ends, or almost the usual, in the room that was kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom all in one.
Sacks of root vegetables, braids of garlic and onion, bunches of herbs.
A pair of boots hidden away in a cupboard rather than sitting by the door where Charlotte would’ve expected them.
In other cupboards, drawers, and cabinets, sparse dishware, no more than two of each item, as if the Lord of the Wood didn’t have much company.
Other kitchen implements: pots, pans, a ladle, a kettle, various types of kitchen knives.
A pipe with a store of tobacco so old the leaves had crumbled into dust. Charlotte had not expected the Lord of the Wood’s home to seem so . . . normal.
In the drawer in the bedside table, Elspeth found an odd makeshift pillow, a roll of fabric tied atop a wooden block. They
weren’t sure what to make of that, nor of the fabric booties tucked in beside it. The booties were clean but torn. Perhaps
the Lord of the Wood had a pet besides the plant creature; that was the best Charlotte or Elspeth could come up with. There
was a whistle of some sort, too, though it wasn’t like any whistle Charlotte had ever seen: ovular, with holes all along the
sides and an opening at the top.
In the chest of drawers by the bed: a couple pairs of mended trousers; lumpy socks worn threadbare but out of use, stuffed
into the back of their drawer; a handful of linen shirts, once pullover in style, cut down the front with toggles added. Beneath
them, a block of paper, a stick of charcoal—and a stack of sketches.
“Sketches of what?” Charlotte asked. Elspeth had been sharing a running commentary of what she’d found, bringing over occasional
curiosities—like the silver basin hanging overhead—to show Charlotte.
Now she perched on the arm of Charlotte’s chair with the sketches, rubbing her lower back with a grimace.
“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.
“Sore today, is all.”
Charlotte’s lips thinned. If she’d been sore, she would’ve thought little of it. Elspeth sore concerned her.
They leafed through the sketches together.
Most were of the forest, or forest creatures, or creatures Charlotte didn’t recognize but was certain must be particular to an enchanted forest. A squirrel-like creature with ancient eyes skirting up a tree.
A frog in close-up, a study more detailed than most of the sketches.
A tiny old woman with tree-bark skin and a shock of pale hair—many sketches of her, most often accompanied by a raven.
There was the plant creature, too, taking various shapes on the page: a ball of greenery; a loose mass of plant anatomy; the shape of a hare or fox or bird or any number of other animals.
Charlotte let one of its tendrils weave through her fingers as she examined the drawings.
Occasionally, a human image cropped up. Most of the humans were figures in full, sketched as if from a distance, but there
were portraits, too. Elspeth paused at one such drawing, a little girl with light hair in twin braids.
“That looks like Gran, when she was small.”
“Perhaps it is. She met the Lord of the Wood once, didn’t she?”
Elspeth nodded, her gaze flickering over the page, taking in the girl’s frock, her eyes, her nose and chin. “Got separated
from her caravan once on a trip through the wood, long ago. Said the Lord of the Wood brought her back to ’em. Say, those
must be Gran’s folks.”
Another sketch of the girl, this time waving from the forest’s edge, amidst a small cluster of covered wagons, shawled women,
capped men.
“Gran’d love this. She’s only got a couple’a pictures, faded as anything . . . Maybe we’ll find a sketch of Maggie in here.
Then we’d know.”
“Maybe,” Charlotte said, but it seemed improbable. The paper was yellowed and brittle with age; the sketches were likely decades
old. But with Elspeth so much calmer than she’d been all day, sounding almost hopeful, Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to
point that out.
They flipped through more and more sketches, until Charlotte’s father smiled at them from the page. Her breath hitched.
Elspeth considered the drawing. “That’s your old man, then? Looks just like you.”
Charlotte’s eyes stung. “That’s what Arthur says.”
She took the sketch from Elspeth, studying every detail. They had few pictures of George Throckmorton, all faded or blurry
like the pictures Elspeth’s gran had of her folks. Sometimes, Charlotte studied herself in the cloudy washroom mirror, trying
to graft scanty memories over her own freckled reflection.
Now here he was. George Throckmorton, smiling out at her. He had broad cheeks and a high forehead. A rounded chin and matching
nose. Deep dimples. Eyes that sparkled like Sasha’s. Charlotte had always thought her daughter had John’s eyes; now she realized
they were George’s. Her fingers tightened on the sketch, crinkling the paper. She handed it back to Elspeth. The plant creature
curled over her shoulders comfortingly.
“There’s more.” Elspeth checked the remaining sketches. “Lots more. Like there were of that little tree person. And your new
pet.”
Charlotte’s skin prickled as Elspeth paged through sketch after sketch of her father.
George head-on. George in profile. George laughing, or reading, or sorting through plant matter, separating stem from leaf and flower.
George looking over his shoulder, annoyed, and suddenly Charlotte remembered leaving church with him once, her tiny hand in his big one.
A young woman with a nervous complaint, who often wanted his care, had stopped to ask if he might look in on her new baby.
Her husband had interrupted, said she always worried over nothing and what must the doctor think, always coming to the house at odd hours for ailments that turned out to be naught?
Quailing, she’d apologized to George for bothering him.
George had stopped her, given her husband a look much like the one in the sketch (if tinged with disdain), and said, If you’ll let me hand my own wee one off to her mother, I’ll be over directly.
Charlotte blinked back tears. She hardly remembered her father anymore, she’d been so young when he’d vanished, but now she
could picture him clearly that day. How he’d been dressed, his lips pursing when the husband bowled over his wife’s concerns,
the warmth of his hand around Charlotte’s.
The sketches were a gift. Yet the fact that there were so many of them had her reeling.
“I don’t . . .” A headache threatened in its habitual place over one eye. “Why are there so many drawings of him? He only
met the Lord of the Wood once. In all his stories—”
In all Arthur’s stories. Her father had been gone so long, she only heard his stories in her brother’s voice.
She shook her head, then stopped because it aggravated the burgeoning headache. “Are there any more?”
Elspeth shifted through the sketches. “None of your da. Here now, this looks more recent. Paper’s just as yellow, but the
charcoal’s not so faded.”
Charlotte took the paper and almost dropped it.
“Arthur,” she breathed.
Her eyes darted over the page, drinking in his expressions, his posture, the fall of his hair over his forehead. Every sketch
was Arthur sitting in an armchair, reading, and it was all so very Arthur that she started crying.
Her headache spread from its spot over her eye to the rest of her forehead. Different now, a crying headache, but with that
threatening migraine throb beneath it. She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Elspeth set the paper aside. “S’all right, Lottie.”
“It’s not the drawings,” Charlotte said, though it was. “It’s my head.”
Elspeth slid off the arm of the chair. A drawer opened; papers rustled; the drawer closed. Cupboards opened and shut. Elspeth
muttered, “Where’d I put that benighted kettle?” The plant creature slipped off Charlotte’s lap. A moment later, Elspeth said
in surprise, “Oh. Thanks.”
Water being poured, the clink of a kettle set down, the hiss of steam. Charlotte’s insides needled with guilt. She uncovered
her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Elspeth.
“What for?”
“You didn’t find anything of your sister’s. Just more about my family. And now you’re making tea, because my head hurts, instead
of continuing your search.”
“Who says the tea’s for you?”
Charlotte was mortified. Elspeth laughed.
“Of course it’s for you, you numpty.”
Charlotte wanted to object to the insult, but it felt so much like a caress she couldn’t bring herself to do so. She rubbed
her forehead without saying anything.
Elspeth’s laughter faded. Wrapping her cloak around herself, she returned to her perch on the arm of Charlotte’s chair. Rummaging
through the house had warmed her; now she was shivering again.