xxv. In which Arthur does a brief stint as a barber #2
to him. Like he would suddenly realize what a crime it was for other men to be friends with Arthur.
Instead, Ira said things like that, as if they were obvious. As if Arthur was worth something to him, never mind what anyone else thought.
Arthur settled carefully on the fur, facing Ira but leaving plenty of space between them. Ira gave a small smile. It was really
something, Arthur thought, how such a smile could light up his grim face that way.
“I feel like,” Ira said, “when I’m with you, I’m . . . me again. Like the drawing. I’d almost forgotten how much I used to
enjoy it, it’s been so long since I had anything new to draw. But then there was you, making all those faces when you fixed
the watch, and then while you were reading, and I just—it had been so long since I felt like I had to draw, but suddenly I had to.”
Arthur prickled with embarrassment, imagining the expressions he might’ve made without being aware of it, but Ira’s face was
still illuminated with that small, soft smile. Ira, it seemed, not only didn’t mind the way he sank into his work, or a book,
but liked it. Arthur’s embarrassment faded.
“But since it seems so important to you,” Ira continued, “you have been useful. Like I said, I wouldn’t have left the vale, if not for you. I . . .”
His smile faded. He picked at the fur.
“Seeing Maud . . . It’s been a long time. If the sickness had taken her . . .”
He picked harder, digging into the fur with a claw. Arthur scooched closer and laid a hand over his wrist.
Ira stopped picking. “I just wonder what might have happened to her if I’d stayed away any longer. What’s happened to all
the rest of the forest. I’ve been so afraid to leave the vale, and now it’s all . . .”
His fingers clenched. Arthur squeezed his hand.
“I’m the Lord of the Wood.” Ira sounded bitter, whether because he preferred to be, as he’d said in the vale, just Ira, or because he felt like he no longer lived up to his title, Arthur didn’t know. “I’m supposed to protect the forest. Instead
I hid away in the vale telling myself I couldn’t leave if the forest wouldn’t let me. If you want to talk about uselessness . . .”
Arthur touched his cheek. Letting out a breath, Ira relaxed into his hand. That frantic fluttering was back, but Arthur ignored
it, stroking Ira’s cheek with his thumb. Before, Ira had seemed to want to make him feel better about himself; now he hoped
he could return the favor.
“You’re doing something now. That’s all that matters.”
Ira hesitated. “What if we don’t make it?”
Sitting up, Arthur laughed ruefully.
“The only certainty is that nothing will change if we don’t do anything. I know that much too well. Do you know, I’ve always
dreamed of change—always. I spend so much time daydreaming about what our lives could look like if we moved to Port Lorne,
or if I were a different man. But I never do anything about it. I always hope a change will drop into my lap—even that something
dreadful will happen, and I’ll be forced to change. Anything rather than do it myself.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. A blond lock tumbled over his forehead. Settling beside him, Ira brushed it back
into place.
“I’m always so afraid that whatever I do won’t make a difference,” Arthur said, “that I never do anything. When Mrs. Livingston offered to send me to Port Lorne . . . I should’ve said yes right away, but I didn’t because I was so afraid. That’s no way to make a change, is it?”
“Why now?” Ira’s hand lingered at Arthur’s temple. “Why this?”
“I’m planting a tree.” Arthur smiled faintly. “I may not be able to do much, but surely I can do that.”
“There’s all the forest to get through first.”
Arthur’s smile faded.
“Yes. That is a concern, I admit, but—that’s what I have you for, isn’t it? Besides, it’s not just me this time. At home,
I told myself—well, I didn’t tell myself anything, really. I pretended everything was fine. But if I thought about it, it
really only made me unhappy. Moving to Port Lorne might have been good for the family, but I told myself it was too expensive to be worthwhile.
At least in Seacliff we knew what our problems were. This . . .” Arthur let out a breath. “Lottie’s in the forest, and I haven’t
the slightest idea how to go about finding her. But if I do this—I can make sure she’s safe, wherever she is. And . . .”
He met Ira’s gaze, briefly, with a smile.
“If I can help you, too, so much the better.”
Ira’s hand was warm against his temple. Arthur pinkened, thinking again of his romance novels and wondering why all of this
felt so much like something out of one, except that they were both men.
He remembered driving through the village, how he’d felt with Cormac’s thigh pressed against his. Perhaps that had something
to do with it. But if so, Mrs. Young’s angrily muttered words might, too. Arthur swallowed, trying to forget them.
Ira’s hand trailed from Arthur’s temple, down his cheek, to his jaw. His fingers curled in to keep his claws from Arthur’s
skin.
“Arthur, I . . .”
The fluttering in Arthur’s chest pulsed like wings against his rib cage, more frantic than ever. He leaned closer, desperate
to know what Ira might say. Afraid to know what he might say. Mrs. Young’s words whispered at the back of his mind.
In the distance, a mournful howl sounded. Ira wrenched away. He rose stiffly and raised his head, animal-like, listening.
His jaw tightened; his clawed hands clenched.
Whatever had been fluttering in Arthur’s chest sank, weighing in his stomach. He sat up, drawing closer to the fire. Freya
peered into the darkness with wide, golden eyes. Her tail lashed.
Another howl. Several. Ira swiped a hand through the air.
The earth rumbled. Trees burst from the ground. They bent toward each other, forming a protective ring around the fire. Freya
growled at the disturbance but didn’t seem to mind it as much as the howling.
Arthur, on the other hand, minded very much. With the earth quaking underfoot, he nearly fell into the fire. Yelping, he scrambled
close to Ira, in the hopes the sudden trees wouldn’t touch him, and sat trembling against his leg.
Ira touched the top of his head, but his eyes fixed on the trees. They grew together, trunk melting into trunk, branch weaving
through branch, leaving a single opening overhead through which smoke could escape. When the howling sounded again, it was
closer—but muted.
Arthur let out a breath.
Ira glanced at him, antlers gilded in the firelight. “Wasn’t sure that’d work.”
“I’m glad it did.” Despite the apparent safety of their new shelter, Arthur pressed closer and dragged the cat into his lap.
She grumbled in protest. “Do I want to know what’s out there?”
Ira sat beside him. “They can’t get at us, now. Get some sleep.”
Arthur curled up uneasily with the cat in his arms. Did Charlotte have shelter for the night? Or was she out in the open, where any manner of eldritch creature might gobble her up?
Beyond the mass of trunks and boughs, the howling grew closer. Freya’s ears swiveled in its direction, intent, which did not
make Arthur feel any better. With Ira at his side, staring into the fire, Arthur drifted into dreams in which shadowy beasts
clawed at their shelter, trying to get in.