After Alice Fell(14)

“Are you ailing, missy?”

“No. No. I . . .” I pick at the doorframe with my thumb, then lift the edge of wallpaper running its length. A tiny line of penciled letters runs along the seam. The paperer’s marks. “Thank you for taking care of my room. But I wish to do it myself.”

She shifts her jaw left to right. “Are you settling with us for good?”

“I don’t know.” I spread my hands and shrug, wait for her to look away. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s that, then.” She turns to make her way back to the parlor.

“Saoirse.”

“Aye?”

“What did Alice do?”

She stops. Flaps the rag against her thigh, then folds it and tucks it into her apron pocket.

“Saoirse.”

“About killed the child, she did. If Missus hadn’t found them, who knows what.”

“But why?”

“Not my place to say.”

“You knew her, Saoirse. She’d never . . .”

But she raises her hand to stop me and walks back into the parlor.

Later, I find Cathy and Toby in the field. They’ve set one archery bale against the old barn and another, closer, painted with rings of yellow and red and blue. A beginner’s distance. The sheep, normally lounging by the barn’s shadows, have wandered to the stone wall facing the road and house; some lie in the sun, others rest their heads on the crumbling wall and stare at nothing.

Cathy is dressed in an open vest, loose shirt tucked into her skirts. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Hair loose and tied with a single ribbon. She settles the bow in Toby’s hand, curling his fingers round the grip.

“Nose to the string, Toby.” She bends down to sight along the bow with him, corrects the cock of his elbow. Then she steps back, hands to hips, watching the arrow release and arc and drop to the ground.

“Well. Not terrible,” Cathy says. “Maybe we can convince your auntie to join us?”

“I’d like Saoirse to stay out of my room.”

“If you wish. It’s your room.”

“They haven’t delivered Alice’s trunk. It’s been four days. I want her things.”

“Archery is much more fun to worry about.”

“Cathy—”

“Wait. One more try, Toby.”

A single arrow lies near Toby’s feet. He bends to reach it, and the bow swivels and drops.

“It’s too large. Is it Lydia’s old one?”

Cathy shrugs. “Do you want your own bow and arrow, Toby?” She glances over her shoulder at me. “We can go to town.”

Toby squints up at Cathy, then shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls on his toes. The empty quiver on his shoulder twists and bumps against his thigh.

Cathy picks up the bow and holds it out to the boy. “I forgot how much fun this all is. We haven’t done this . . . well, since . . .” She shakes her head. “Your aunt is an excellent archer, Toby. Did you know she won Mrs. Brown’s Academy tournament five years running?”

“That’s not true.”

“You did.” She kicks out a back foot as she grabs an arrow, nocks it, and takes aim at the far bale. The arrow makes its mark with a thud, feathers quivering against the yellow bullseye. “Then I won.”

Toby stares up at her and frowns. He reaches for her leg and grips it tight.

“Let go.”

He shakes his head.

“Go get the arrows.” She ruffles his hair, then grips his shoulders and jostles him. “Toby. Let go.”

He steps back, then meanders from arrow to arrow, pulling one from the soil or off the ground and dropping them in the quiver. Midway to the barn he drops to his haunches, poking at something in the grass, then holding it aloft on the tip of an arrow—a cicada husk. He flicks it and moves to the barn.

“Lydia was the archer,” I say. “She won those tournaments. Not me. I left midterm. My mother needed care. And I had Alice. You know that.”

“But he doesn’t remember Lydia. So, it’s easier if I say it was you. Not so many questions.” She unties the hair ribbon, combs her fingers through the locks, and then watches Toby as she ties the bow. “I loved Lydia. But if I tell him about that, he’ll ask for more. And I’m not willing to tell more.”

“He should know of her. He doesn’t need to know she drowned, I understand not telling that, but—”

“No.” She cocks her head and stares at me. In the sunlight, her eyes darken to jet glass. “I’m his mother now. If you had a child, you would understand.”

“I don’t want Saoirse in my room. Things have been moved.”

“All right.”

“And I don’t need to have had a child to know Toby shouldn’t be lied to. Lydia was his mother and she loved him. He should know that.”

“Isn’t it enough he’s lost Alice? Isn’t that enough for a little boy?” She runs a hand across the back of her neck and turns to watch him.

He waves, the arrows clutched in his hand.

“I can’t have children.” She picks at the leather wrapped on the bow’s handle and shrugs. “You could and chose not to.”

“My sister . . .”