After Alice Fell(38)

The pond glistens mahogany and black in the eddies, slurping around the roots and juts of rocks. Out toward the center, it’s coated with water striders, spindled legs splayed and knotted, thousands upon thousands.

I cross my arms over my stomach, dig my nails to the backs of my elbows and walk past the kitchen garden to the front of the house. My foot catches on a loose stone in the path. I stumble and right myself. Turn to peer behind me at the barn and the closed door. Listen to the muffled sound of Lionel’s chestnut gelding, the constant saw of his teeth to the boards and the rounds of the mare’s quick kicks to her stall.

My eyes snap up to the low roofline of the kitchen and the windows above and stop at Toby’s window. The one that needs a post to stay open. The window is closed, the glass reflecting the sun.

I see it: Alice leaning from the upstairs window, her hands tight to Toby’s wrists and his feet looking for any purchase on the roof below. To run away and to take him with her.

She didn’t want to kill him. She weaved the spells of the Sentinel trees and kept him away from the Bad Ones in the pond. In her twisted mind, she wanted only to save him.

“Something wrong with the window?” Amos stands just by the side of the barn, white shirt buttoned to the neck, pressed coat and trousers. He turns the brim of his hat in his hand. He’s clean-shaven, sharp of jaw, his smile light and his step lighter as he approaches.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

His gaze holds mine, and when I try to look away, he makes a quick chook to catch my eye again. He points a finger. “The boy’s room.”

I touch my throat. My pulse scatters and jags. “There’s nothing wrong with the window.”

“All right.” He puts on his hat and nods, as if he’s answered a question that no one asked. “Good Sunday to you.”

He passes close enough I must pull in my skirts and step back. He twists to face me but doesn’t stop on his way toward the front yard. The smile is still there. He makes another chook and glances at my hands still gripped to my skirt, at my hands curved into my thighs. “I said Good Sunday.”

“Yes. Good Sunday.”

He lifts his hat and bows, feet crossed and arms spread. “And tomorrow’s a Monday, and on and on it goes.”





Chapter Sixteen


“You’re up early.” Saoirse stokes the stove in the kitchen and doesn’t turn to me, just gestures for me to hand her a bundle of kindling.

I take it from the wicker and give it to her.

She pokes the new wood until it catches. Then she stands, flicking the towel tied to her belt. She takes in my traveling gear. “Where you off to?”

“I have a meeting. In Harrowboro.”

“Mm. Taking the coach.”

“Yes.”

“Not waiting for Lionel so’s you can have an easy ride in.”

“Saoirse.”

“Going through the kitchen door and not the front.”

“Cathy knows. I’m not sneaking out.”

She raises her hands. “All right.” She ambles by me, reaching for two mugs and setting them on the table. The lid to the tea box rattles as she jiggles it open, spooning leaves into the iron teapot, then snapping the tea lid closed. She pushes it back to the shelf and drops into a chair, then taps the cloth for me to sit.

The steam from our teas twists and circles after she’s poured it. “Amos says you want the upper windows looked at.”

“I didn’t say that at all. I don’t want him up there.”

“He said you said specifically—”

“I said nothing of the sort. Keep him away from the windows.”

She lifts her mug and frowns at me as she blows on the tea. “I’ll send Elias, then.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the windows.” I gesture to the kitchen door. “The coach.” Give her a kiss on the cheek. She startles with surprise. “I’ll be back on the three forty-five.”

The light on the road is hazy this early. The mist lifts from the packed soil, low and thick. It will dissipate by midmorning, burnt off by the sun. But now it whirls around my skirts, coils around the tree trunks, curbs against the embankments. It floats atop the mill pond in Turee and scatters on the bridge to the livery. The coach sits out front, the four horses in their traces and blinders. They paw the ground and shake their heads, pull at the bits, anxious to go.

The coachman has already taken to his berth, no patience for those who come late. I hurry across the way. A passenger in a tall beaver hat leans from his seat to keep the door held for me, then takes my hand to help me up.

“Are you to Concord?” he asks.

“Just Harrowboro.” I perch on the bench, hands under my thighs.

The coach lurches forward. I have a sharp stab of doubt. Perhaps this Kitty will not appear.

The man who helped me to my seat now proffers an open candy tin. “Sugared ginger,” he says, and as I take a piece, he smiles as if it’s something we share in a secret. But he smiles just the same as he passes the tin to the other passengers and settles his gaze out the window for the rest of the trip.

The liveryman hands me down from the coach. “You sure it’s the Tradesman you want?”

“It is.”

His expression is leery as he hands me my return ticket, but he doesn’t stop me. If he did, I would ignore him anyway.