After Alice Fell(32)

“Toby.”

“I have something to show you.”

“Can I change first? I’m still in my nightdress.”

It’s quiet then, save for the bump of what I suspect is his ever-present bow against the wall.

“Toby?”

“Do you have trousers? They’ll be helpful,” he says.

“I don’t.”

I hear him sigh and scratch a nail on the doorframe, as if he’s thinking. “It’s all right. I’ll make sure you don’t get caught up on things.”

I smile. “Five minutes, then.”

Pen and paper. I dip the tip to the ink. The bottle is near empty. Enough, though, for this.

Kitty Swain/5 Fayette I will meet.

—M. Abbott

Cathy’s out by the laundry tubs, directing the laundress to the week’s work. The woman looks too thin to lift a sheet from the line, but she stands listening to Cathy, holding a full bucket of water and nodding. She is new; Cathy isn’t sure if she’ll keep her services or find someone else to take on the weekly wash. Her light eyebrows raise and lower not necessarily in time with Cathy’s commands. Her hair and skin are so pale she is nearly luminous. Only her hands, crackled red and knob knuckled give away her age. She slops the water into the laundry tub and drags a sheet from the basket nearby.

“Ja,” she says. “Ja.” And hums and warbles as she dunks in the rest of the whites.

“Hallo, Ingrid,” Toby says.

She cuts a look to him. “Guten Morgen, Tobias. Mrs. Abbott.”

“More bluing this time.” Cathy leaves her and approaches us. Her hair has come undone on one side and looks to tumble out in a mess. “How many times can I tell her?”

“That man . . .” I gesture to the barn.

She slides a look that direction, then back to me—dark eyelids and pale skin a sign she’s not slept—and keeps walking toward the kitchen. “He won’t be here long.”

Toby and I pass the barn. Elias is alone now, mucking the stalls. I amble over to him. “Fine morning.”

He doesn’t stop the scoop and flip of manure. “Fine morning.”

I hook my arms over the rail. Toby puts a toe to a board and pulls himself up. “We have a hired hand?”

“Ayuh. We’ve that boathouse and all the rest of it to clear out.”

“Who is he?”

He straightens up, tossing the pitchfork to the wheelbarrow. “Amos. Amos Searles.” He pushes the wheelbarrow through to the main barn and to the next stall. I follow the rail.

“Where’s he from?”

Elias looks at me and scratches the whiskers along his jaw. “Should ask him yourself, I think. I’m not for saying what isn’t mine to say.”

I sigh. “Fair enough. It’s just that I’ve seen him in the woods.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He picks up the pitchfork and turns to his work. Keeps his back to us as he tosses the straw.

“I’ll ask my brother, then.”

“It was the missus took him on.”

I push away from the fence and give a quick touch to Toby’s shoulder. “Come on.”

He trails after me as I walk to the road and make the turn to Turee. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“A small detour, Toby. To town.” I raise my finger to my lips. “I need to mail a letter.”

“But the postman comes here at eight o’clock.”

“I’m aware. But it’s after eight, and he has been and gone. This is a special letter that needs to go today.”

“But I want to go to the forest.”

“We’ll go after. I promise.”

He nods and shrugs his bow over his shoulder. It drags a line in the dirt, and he stops to adjust it.

“You need a bow your size.” I put out my hand. “Here, I’ll carry that. I have an idea where to get you one. That’s why we’re going this way too.”

I glance back out the window of the small post office, watching Toby play in the triangle park. He’s on one knee, eyeing an imaginary arrow at the poster board for the Future Home for the Statue of the Fallen Soldier.

I slide the letter across the counter and wait for the receipt. “It will be there tomorrow?” I inquire.

The postman taps the coins to the wood counter, then drops them in a square box. “Tomorrow. First light.”

The day warms, though the sky is a low gray. No shadows in the woods as I follow Toby. As if all the trees were cut out of paper. Toby’s jacket is brilliant red. He holds his bow by the leather grip.

“I thought we’d get you a smaller bow.” I’ve been given the honor of carrying the quiver. The hard leather bumps against my back. The ribbon from my hat catches under the strap, and I pull it loose and retie it. “I thought we’d go to the Runyons’.” Her boys are near grown; it’s worth a visit to see if they kept, or ever had, their own bows and arrows.

“I want to show you the fort.” He slaps his knee in frustration that I’m not following right along.

The path we take skirts the pond and then narrows and twists on itself. I wish I’d taken his advice to wear trousers, for the walk is riddled with juts of rock. I envy his surefootedness and keep my eyes peeled to the dirt.