And the Trees Crept In(28)

10


liar liar liar



Hold your breath,

close your eyes

you are in

for a big surprise!





BROKEN BOOK ENTRY


What is Cath doing up there in the attic? The creaking—her pacing—is so constant. Is she just walking up and down? Is she even eating the food I bring on the trays? I picture her doing all kinds of gross things with it—painting the walls, throwing it at the ceiling. She never comes down; nothing will make her. It must reek of her waste. Maybe she eats that, too. I want to go up and talk to her, I want to make her see reason. But there is nothing of the old Cath left. She is as mad as Mam always said she was.





Remember, I sign at Nori in the kitchen. Remember that game we used to play? You would go and hide and then I’d come looking. You’d make little sounds—clap your hands, close a door, give a whistle—to give me clues?

Nori nods, a wide grin breaking the softness of her face.

“You would cheat,” I say. “Move around. I always thought it was so funny.…” I shut my eyes for a moment, and then open them. “Remember?”

We should play! Nori signs, hands so fast in her excitement that I almost don’t see. I shake my head no.

Please! We can play upstairs! Please, Silla, please!

“You’re too old. And so am I. No more games.”

Nori’s smile dies and I hate myself.

No more games.

There’s danger in it.





My eyes take in the straight line of his jaw, the suggestion of stubble as we sit in the library. The flecks of brown in his eyes and the way his hair falls just so. I linger over the curve of his shoulders, and I inhale his scent. So heady, so wonderful. I’m careful not to let my infatuation show on my face, but I can’t deny it. He is like a shining beacon in this place. Everything is slightly damp, slightly moldy, slightly pale. But he is beautiful and bright and, well, handsome. You notice him.

Gowan.

Something stirs in the stone of my insides. Something warm. Vital. Totally dangerous.

Despite the danger, I’m grateful, for the first time since the day he stepped out of Python Wood, that he’s here.

I am careful to school my face.

But Gowan senses my regard and looks up, smiling. “Hi.”

A slow smile touches my cheeks. “Hey.”

“See something interesting?”

“As a matter of fact.” I nod at the book in his hands. “Looks interesting to me.”

He actually looks disappointed, and a pebble of remorse drops into my stomach. And a little bit of satisfaction, too.

“It’s an old copy of Amadís de Gaula.”

“You read Latin?”

“Spanish, and yes. ‘Gran locura es la vuestra en hacer enojo a quien tan bien vengarse puede,’” he quotes. “The author’s talking about anger, madness, and revenge.”

“Charming.”

“I think you’d like it, actually.”

I close my eyes, but I can’t seem to do that for long. I look around us, at all Cath’s books. Books that have been in my family for generations. “I wish we didn’t have to leave this room.”

Gowan makes a face. “Are you sure?”

“It’s a haven.”

“Only because the manor is so worn out.” I know what he wants to say, what he wants to ask me. I brace myself for it, waiting for the Please leave this house, Silla, but it never comes. Instead, he looks at me for slightly too long, even after I have looked away.

When I look back, the only thing that’s changed is his jaw, which clenches and unclenches, over and over in a rhythm of frustration.

Something like regret bleeds through me. I’m sorry. Why do you keep coming here? Why do you like me?

And then the voice from my dream is there in my head.


LEAVE THIS HOUSE

AND YOU WILL DIE

AND SHE’LL BE MINE.



Never.

Something of my thoughts must reflect on my face because Gowan, now observing me again, sighs, his mouth pinched, and goes back to his book. I watch him for a while, but he’s not seeing the pages. He’s lost somewhere else, probably in a fantasyland where I’m not myself and I take his hand and follow him stupidly into Python, singing and dancing, both of us draped in sunlight.

I have to admit, it sounds appealing. Not being me. Being… I don’t know. Warm, or something. It sounds sort of perfect.

And very na?ve.





THEY COME




I don’t move as much anymore—or maybe I move more. I know this space very well. So well. And I know what to expect, even though they think I am craaaaaayyyyzzzzeeeeeee. I know, oh yes I do.

“This is all your fault!” I spit, my saliva, white and drying, hitting the glass. “This is all your fault!”

I look out the window, past the creeping ivy.

Here they come.

Here they come.

“Oh, dear. oh, dear, oh, dear.”

Here they come again.





I wake to the sound of clapping. Little claps somewhere in the house. Distant, at first. I climb out of bed and open the door.