And the Trees Crept In(14)

“Say it.”

I look away.

“The way I am,” Silla finishes. “The way I have been.”

I nod. You have stone in your heart. I look on Silla. “When you came, things went bad again.”

“You’re blaming this on me? The townspeople leaving, the land dying, the woods—you’re blaming me?”

I shake my head. No. But I mean YES.

“Who is he?”

Does the girl know? Has she seen him? She doesn’t look afraid.…

“When I was a girl, I had stone in my heart, too; it was my fault. Or maybe it was Pammy. So hard to remember. Pammy was like water back then, before she evaporated for your father. For Stan.” My lips curl around the name with distaste. “She was like Nori.” I swallow. No. That’s wrong. It was always Anne. But things are so muddy now, and I can’t quite remember, and there is nothing left.

Too many secrets. Too much danger. Nothing to hold on to.

“Catherine.” The girl is standing now, her hands clenched like the rocks they are. She is so very hard. Granite, through and through.

The hardness I see there resolves me. Absolves me. After all, why should I care?

“He’s watching you,” I say. “He comes from the woods, lives in them. He’s drawn here, and when he comes, the land dies. People sense it and leave. It’s happened before.” I suck in a shudder of a breath. “The Creeper Man. He’s not a protector at all.…”

The girl seems warmer. Like fire coals, burning inside. “What are you on about, you crazy old witch? That was just a story.”

“This place is cursed.”

I can tell that the girl already knows this.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let us stay?” The girl is yelling now. “Why not warn us or send us away!”

“Because I was alone!”

Silence rings loudly. Clarity. Air. Truth. Truthtruthtruthtruthtruth: something true at last.

“I was alone,” I whisper now. “I didn’t know what was real. I didn’t know if I was…” Crazy. “And then there you both were… so young. Nori looks so like Pamela, those little golden-red curls.” My voice hardens. “I couldn’t let her go.” A pause. “Besides. Once you came through, there was never any leaving.”

“So. What? We’re trapped here?” the girl spits, a speck of saliva landing on my lip. Water from fire buried under stone. “With you?”





At least with my father, the danger was out in the open. I knew what to expect. But Auntie Cath is a different kind of dark altogether.

The worst kind.

The kind made from love.





3


he’s already here



The Creeper Man is watching you

while you think you rest

he sows discord between the two

who love each other best.



The boy is there when I hang the laundry, leaning against the garden fence with his arms crossed.

“You were right,” he says. “It’s a ghost town.”

“There is no town. Not anymore. You didn’t believe me?”

He shakes his head slowly. A piece of dark hair falls into darker eyes. “It seemed… impossible. It’s crazy. What happened?”

I wipe the dust from my hands, though I’ll never be clean. “Everybody left?”

“Yeah, but why?”

“The land died. Everything’s gone. This is a poor place.” My voice fades away. “Nothing like London.” I blink. “No one comes here. Not ever. Why would you go to the saddest place on earth?”

“And they say the countryside is so rich in resources,” Gowan says. There’s a smile in his voice. “I can help with the garden. I’m good with earth.”

“Threat of war makes everything die.” I don’t mention the ashes in the garden.

“There’s no war. Not even out there, yet. Just a bunch of people scared and ignorant.” I feel as though he is lying to me. “Why don’t you come and see me. I have apples and pears and radishes. Come and see.”

He offers me his hand, which is so clean it hurts, but the woods loom behind him, and I feel like he’s laughing at me.

“I can’t,” I say, and turn back to my digging.

“Please.”

“Why?”

“Because this place looks fed up.” His eyes scatter over La Baume behind me like marbles. “It’s not how I remember it.”

I stop again, and throw down my tiny spade. “Who are you?”

He grins, and then settles next to me, heedless of the gray that filters into his trousers, his fingers, his skin. I almost want to pull his hand out of the soil, but I stop myself.

It’s infecting you.

“Gowan,” he says unhelpfully. Then he gestures to the manor. “Are you here alone?” In this light, the blood-paint looks like a fresh scab.

Maybe he’s a robber or a rapist. “My aunt is here. She”—is crazy—“takes care of us.”

“And school?”

I shrug. “Done with all of that, I guess. Like everyone is. We have a gun, you know. So you better not try anything,” I add.