And the Trees Crept In(17)

And I wake.





Light flickers and flashes through the skyline of the library. The trees are dancing in the storm out there. They creeeeeeak and moan through the night. Or is that Cath pace-pace-pacing in the attic? Nori was asleep in her bed when it got bad, so I left her there, but now I regret it.

It’s just so… quiet… in the library. So still. There is no thunder. I’ve riffled through so many books that my eyes are itching from the dust. There are no answers here.

hopeless.

Such a pretty word.

The floorboards complain in the hallway beyond the door and I freeze, waiting. Too heavy for Nori. Cath wouldn’t leave the attic, surely?

“Silla?”

“Gowan?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Open up, would you? It’s bloody freezing out here.”

I crack the door open a little and see his face pressed to the gap. “Let me in,” he says, his breath fogging.

I step back, more out of surprise than anything else, and a waft of freezing air follows him. I slam the door shut and lock it compulsively.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper. “It’s the middle of the night!”

He heads for the fireplace and sits down on the sheepskin rug, shivering. “It’s freezing in this house. I forgot that.”

“Gowan!”

“What?”

“What are you doing here? How did you even get inside?”

“I fancied a visit,” he says. “I used to live here, you know. It’s kind of a memory. I could still get into this house if you locked every door.”

“Yeah, but in the middle of the night?” Part of me wants to call him stupid, idiotic, pathetic—pervert. I swallow my anger, unsure where it is coming from, and allow myself to feel the relief that is flooding through me. Someone is here. I’m not alone.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Wait—did you walk through Python in the middle of the night?”

“I know the way.”

You are insane. My urge to yell at him becomes an urge to push him, hit him, bite—stop it. Again, I force away my anger. Stop this. Relief rises again.

He laughs at me, as though he can hear what I’m thinking.

“Do I get a hug?”

I step back. “Excuse me?”

He grins. “For warmth purposes only.”

“Uh-huh.” I go to the sofa and throw my blanket at him, a little too hard maybe.

He catches it deftly, grinning. “Thanks.” Wrapped around him, it looks much more pleasant. He’s so… tall. I blink and look away.

“What are you reading?” he asks, coming over, a bulk of fleecy white.

I shake my head, dropping the old text on the sofa by the door. “Nothing in particular.”

“I used to come here every night,” he tells me. “I’d sit for hours, reading. Sometimes just looking. Half of the books are in French, but they are beautiful and I could get lost in the look of the words. Tiny, endless words filling pages upon pages. I used to tell myself I’d fill a whole giant book with words one day, in gothic letters, pressed tightly together. Didn’t really mind what they said. Just seeing the text building up, like a collection, was enough.”

“Mm. Fascinating,” I drawl. But in fact, I am intrigued. By him, by his voice. There’s something so warm and appealing about him. But anger rises again, unbidden.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

He ignores my comment. “I brought you an apple.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls free an apple that is mostly green, but with a blush of red on the side. I take it.

There is a lengthy silence.

“I can see we’re not going to spend much time talking.”

I don’t bother with a reply.

“Do you love anything?” he asks me suddenly. Unexpectedly. “Anything at all?”

He waits for a long time. Patience must be his forte.

“Humor me,” he says at last. “It’s a simple question, and a long night. But it has to be honest.”

I glance at the old clock and see that it’s only ten p.m. I sigh and sit down beside him on the rug, and consider the question. Irritability rises steadily until, finally, at exactly twenty to eleven, I have a truthful answer.

“I love my sister. That’s all.”





Once upon a time, when I was three, Mam told a whispered bedtime story about a manor lost in the woods, where a crazy old lady lived in an enchanted place. A place that was full of magic, surrounded by enchanted woodland, and where things out of the ordinary happened.

Her weak moment became my dream.

I was four when I started begging for a sketch.

And ten when she finally complied.

A ring of woods, denser and blacker than her sketch revealed, and inside it: a ring of fields sloping downward. Inside that, a tiny fence slung around a ring of garden, and there, at the center like a jewel, La Baume. Paradise. Perfect. A secret. How magical it all seemed. I watched Mam’s hands as she sketched, but I should have paid more attention to her face.

I was fourteen when I dragged Nori by the arm to La Baume’s front door. Fifteen when Cath baked me a birthday cake with two tiers, big raspberries and cream decorating the edges. I had eaten three huge pieces before I noticed she had put worms in the batter.