xi. In which the children find a corpse
Charlotte had slept fitfully in her chair and awoken at dawn, exhausted. There had been chores to do, so she’d shuffled to
the kitchen to make tea. That roused her some.
So that’s something, she imagined Arthur saying, as he so often did, and she sighed. With a horse and cart, he could be to Port Lorne and back
in a little over a week, if all went well, but already the time since he’d left felt interminable.
Throughout the day, Jonas slipped into the role left vacant by their uncle’s absence. Distracting Sasha so Charlotte could
have some quiet and get things done. Tidying the house, less erratically than Arthur usually did. Noticing when Charlotte
had a stab of pain or a dizzy spell, bringing her an ointment or stool or whatever else they thought she needed.
At lunchtime, Jonas was making sandwiches when Charlotte entered the kitchen. A piece of ham dropped on the floor; they called
for the cat, but she failed to appear.
Their brow wrinkled. “Where’s Freya?”
Where indeed? Freya’s habitual place at any meal was on the table (if Charlotte wasn’t around) or under the table (if she
was), waiting for an opportune moment—but Charlotte hadn’t seen the cat since yesterday morning.
Sasha had been drawing, but she looked suddenly shifty.
Charlotte sighed. “Dearest, have you done something with the cat?”
“No.”
Charlotte’s head throbbed. “Sasha—”
Sasha jutted her chin. “I didn’t want Uncle Arthur to be lonely, but you wouldn’t let me go!”
“So you sent the cat?” Jonas said in exasperation.
Rubbing her forehead, Charlotte reached for the piece of ham. When she straightened, her heart palpitated. She dropped into
her chair, breathing hard, and Jonas hovered over her. She couldn’t bear it anymore.
“I’m fine,” she snapped.
A flush crept across Jonas’s cheeks. Nodding, they returned to making sandwiches. Charlotte opened her mouth to apologize,
but that snap had been all she could manage. She sat shamefaced at the table, waiting for her heart to calm down. By the time
it had, Jonas had finished making lunch, served the family silently, and disappeared into their room.
Sasha negotiated cleaning up in return for a whole handful of biscuits. Charlotte agreed to it without argument, pushed out
of her seat, and went after Jonas.
She hesitated outside the children’s bedroom, her hand poised to knock. Inside, she heard sniffling.
She didn’t know what to say. She lowered her hand.
Feeling guilty, she returned to her chores.
Early that afternoon, the clouds outside thickened and darkened. Charlotte’s joints ached as they did with oncoming rain.
She worked through the pain, since no one suggested she shouldn’t, until it grew so bad that she was near tears. Grabbing
painkillers, she settled in her armchair by the fire.
The relief was instant. Not total—not even significant. But dear God, just to sit and close her eyes and do nothing . . .
The fire crackled. Outside, distant thunder rolled.
The windows in the kitchen rattled, but in the sitting room Charlotte drifted, warm and comfortable, not asleep but not quite awake, either.
Her fingers twitched on the arm of her chair; she missed the rowan cross.
She hadn’t kept it on her the way she did John’s wedding ring, but it had been a comfort to know it was in her bedside table whenever she wanted it.
To know she had a piece of her father that was hers, to sit and fiddle with it—to remember what little she could of George Throckmorton—without anyone knowing.
The house was silent except for the rattling windows in the other room. How nice, she thought, that Arthur had kept the children
quiet so she could rest.
Then she remembered Arthur was somewhere in Shiftleaf with Agnes Livingston’s horse and cart.
Her eyes snapped open. Without Arthur to keep them so, why on earth were her children (all right, why was Sasha) so quiet?
“Children?” she called, unwilling to relinquish the support of the armchair.
They didn’t answer. Guilt prickled at her once more. She called again, louder, then rose stiffly. Her joints still ached,
but the painkillers had put the ache back into its rightful place as tolerable.
The door to her brother’s workshop was cracked. Beyond, the children were having a whispered argument, the subject of which
Charlotte already did not want to know.
“Children?” She nudged the door wider. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a dead girl outside!” Sasha sang out.
Mud spattered up her legs to the hem of her skirt, and her stockings were falling down. Jonas was in similar disarray.
“I told her not to touch!”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched. “Show me.”
Sasha dragged her outside, pulling her along so fast she stumbled. Lightning flashed on the horizon. Jonas shivered. They reached for their mother’s hand, their earlier contention forgotten. Guilt needled Charlotte like thorns.
“Not so fast,” Jonas told Sasha.
Their sister stuck her tongue out but did as she was told, to Charlotte’s relief.
The dead girl was yards from Shiftleaf’s edge. The trees shivered in the breeze off the sea. The first raindrops plopped onto
Charlotte’s nose. She clutched the children’s hands tighter. Thunder rumbled, low and much closer than it had been before.
Charlotte’s stomach turned.
Brigid Tierney.
She lay supine on the ground, like she was sleeping: arms neatly at her sides, eyes closed peacefully, long lashes sweeping
over pallid cheeks, dark hair fanned out around her.
But there was the growth.
Moss and heather carpeted her legs, her arms, her belly. Not merely covering her, but growing from her skin and clothes. White
flowers dotted her hair like stars. Only her face, neck, and half her collarbone were bare of greenery.
Charlotte’s skin crawled. Wood sickness was bad enough. This was worse. This, Charlotte had never seen.
She stumbled back, her chest tight with fear. Breathing came hard. Clutching her heart, she sucked down air until the tightness
went away.
“Mama?” Jonas said. Cautiously, like they expected her to snap again.
Charlotte swallowed. “I’m all right, my love.”
Tiny toadstools sprouted in a ring around the girl. Sasha reached for one, but Jonas jerked her away.
Gritting her teeth, Charlotte knelt at Brigid’s side to check for a pulse. The neck, not the wrist. She didn’t want to touch
the wrist, with that greenery sprouting from it.
No pulse. Of course not. Not with that growth. Charlotte’s lips thinned, but she checked Brigid’s nostrils, too, to see if there was any breath.
“Sasha, run get me a spoon.”
Sasha did so. Charlotte held the spoon to Brigid’s nose. Nothing.
Slowly, Charlotte sat back on her haunches and gazed into the forest’s depths. She didn’t know what had happened to Brigid—but
she knew it had happened in Shiftleaf. It was as if the forest, after swallowing her, had spat her back out.
“What do we do?” Jonas whispered.
What indeed. Charlotte liked to think herself mistress of most medical situations—which this wasn’t, admittedly. Mortuary
rather than medical. Dead bodies rarely discomfited her. This one, however . . .
Thunder cracked overhead. Jonas jumped like a cannon had gone off. The sky broke open, drenching them all.
Charlotte stood with difficulty, her joints groaning. She’d pay for being out in the rain later, but for now she had to get
word to the Tierneys, one way or another.
“Come along, children.” Her voice wobbled. Silly. “Let’s get out of this wet.”
Jonas bit their lip, eyes fixed on Brigid. “What about . . . ?”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted.
“She’ll keep.” She hoped she was right. Perhaps Shiftleaf would swallow Brigid back up. “Come along.”
The children sprinted into the cottage. Charlotte staggered after them, wishing she’d thought to grab her cane until Jonas
doubled back with it. She took it gratefully and pressed their hand. Water matted their curls.
Charlotte’s fringe plastered to her forehead, dripping water into her eyes. She sent the children to the washroom to change
into dry clothes, then sat alone in the kitchen, cold, wet, and in pain, with dread creeping through her.
Arthur was in the forest somewhere. Charlotte had worried enough about him going.
Wood sickness, the eldritch beings said to live there—for heaven’s sake, the idea of Arthur in a forest!
Charlotte loved her brother, but he was no woodsman.
Had this been a perfectly ordinary forest, she would’ve worried about him traversing its depths.
Everything that made Shiftleaf what it was had honed that worry to a sharp point.
Now this. Whatever had happened to Brigid might well happen to Arthur, and Charlotte didn’t even know what that was.
She ought to have told him not to go. He’d practically begged her to, but she hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted to urge him, afraid
it would be her own fault if he didn’t come back—but she hadn’t wanted to forbid him, either. The money had been too good
to pass up. Now . . .
She dropped her head into her hands, letting out a long breath, and steadied herself. Her joints ached, she was exhausted,
there was a body out back that needed tending to, and her brother was undefended somewhere in the same forest that had spat
said body out, but she could handle it. No need to worry the children, nor to think anything might have happened to Arthur,
until she had proof. Probably he was fine. He had their father’s silver acorn and the rowan cross. Charlotte didn’t believe
they’d protect him, but she didn’t quite not believe it, either, silly as that was.
She mopped off with a kitchen towel. Rain pounded against the window, but through it came a knock at the front door. Wearily,
Charlotte went to answer.
It was Kitty Tierney, looking half drowned despite her bumbershoot. Charlotte’s sense of mastery over the situation faltered.
She’d intended to inform the family; she had not expected the family to come to her, not realizing she had horrible news to
bear them.