After Alice Fell(33)

He’s like Alice: more at home wandering the woods than cooped up inside.

The cicadas’ saw is loud enough to mute our steps along what has become no more than a deer path. The light is deep green and brown; we pass between tumbles of boulders and crawl under trunks of trees that have lain long enough to grow others along their backs.

I catch a glimpse of something bright above my head. A ribbon is tied on a limb, and the brass button weaved to it has caught a shaft of light.

There’s another. Then another.

Toby stops in front of a hedge of wild buckthorn that backs to the boulders. He kneels and slips between the mass of branches, disappearing, then reappearing, this time on hands and knees. “It’s still here.” And he holds out his hand.

“I can’t fit through there.” I pull out my skirts and let them drop.

“Take off the underthings. That’s what Alice does. Then you’ll fit.”

I glance back the way we came and can scarce make out the path, though there’s a glint of the water in the Narrows. Black as mica. Other than that, it seems that if I squeeze between the brush and stone, it’s safe enough to shed the layers. Each petticoat a relief to lose, until I’m only in my overskirt and shirt, no longer stifling in all the material. The cool air from the undergrowth twists up my bare legs.

He takes the quiver and the folded clothes from me, then scrambles through the hedge. With a shift of my shoulders, and a wince at the tear of cloth along a shoulder seam, I just fit through the bushes and find myself in a small cave—a triangular space constructed from the collision of the boulders above. The space is quite long, with a pierce of sun at the far end. I can’t raise my head fully, but keep it cocked to the side, and sit down on a small rag rug that is gritty with fine silt.

Toby crouches in front of me. He lays the bow and the quiver of arrows near my hip. “This is the fort,” he whispers. The words don’t carry any farther than the space between us, the rock dampening the sounds rather than echoing them back as I would expect.

He crawls farther into the black and drags back a wicker basket, then tips back the hinged lid. He looks up at me with wonder, then digs into the crate and presents each item to me.

“What is all this?”

“It’s for when we need to hide.” He shrugs. “Or sometimes just to nap.”

“You and Alice?” My foot has gone to sleep; I shift it out straight.

A tin of yams.

Two tins of tomatoes.

A can of pudding. A square one of loose black tea.

Two mugs.

Can opener.

Four bottles of cider.

Two boiled-wool blankets.

He unbuckles a rucksack and removes a wallet. The leather is cracked and scored with Father’s initials. He unsnaps the coin case and takes care with removing the contents.

Three bullets.

He sets them in a line on the rug, closes the wallet, and gives it to me.

Then he reaches again and lays a small pistol at my knee.

A derringer.

Snub-nosed, the barrel engraved with vines. I stare at it, then pick it up by the wood grip. Turn the barrel to the wall and check to make certain the chamber is empty. “Where would she get this?”

He shrugs.

I think back to Father, to his adamance on keeping firearms from the house. Just a pistol locked to the top drawer of his bed chest. I’d only seen it used when his horse shattered a pastern. “You will watch,” he said. “There is no cruelty in mercy.”

His hand shook as he put the nose of the gun to the horse’s head. Then his hand steadied, and he locked his gaze with the animal’s and shot.

I shift the gun back to the rucksack. Push it to the bottom, under a soft wool scarf.

Toby takes up the wallet. Puts the three bullets to the case. “You can’t tell anyone. It’s only for emergencies. No one else can know. Now you know, but she said you were supposed to. In case.”

“She talked to you?”

“Yes.”

“Aloud?”

I can’t breathe. My stomach twists as I look at him. I reach to grab his sleeve. “What did she sound like?”

“Like Alice.”

“Did she talk to anyone else?”

He twists his arm until the shirt fabric pops free, then starts to pack everything away. “She didn’t get here the last time. We weren’t fast enough. Mama caught us and Alice got in trouble. And then Papa took her away. He said she would be back soon, but I knew it wasn’t the truth.”

“How . . .”

“She said you’d come and not to be afraid.”

“Not be afraid of what, Toby?”

“The Bad Ones. From the pond.”

I shake my head, so frustrated at Alice’s obsessions. “She thought they were in your room. You were escaping. Out the window.”

I blow out a breath. Alice thought she was saving him. By dropping him from a second-floor window. Alice was a danger.

He drops the crate’s top and slides it back behind a pile of stones. “You can’t tell anyone about the fort.”

“I won’t.”

He sits back on his haunches, rummaging in his trouser pocket for his knife, then holds the point to the tip of his index finger. “Blood swear.”

“Oh, Toby—”

But he makes a quick slice, curling his finger toward his palm to keep the small bead of blood balanced on the tip. “Blood swear.”