After Alice Fell(62)

He stands there, hands raised, and looks down the hall. His mouth moves; he’s talking to someone, but I can’t hear it.

Lionel strides in the room. He puts his hands to my shoulders, maneuvers me to a chair, and pushes me down. “Stop yelling.”

“Get him out, Lionel.”

Lionel kneels, hands curled over the chair arms, and gives a nod of dismissal to Amos.

“I found her like this,” Amos says. “I just came in to see what the matter was.”

“Go mind the fire.”

My mouth hangs open. I try to breathe, to pull in a lungful of air, but it’s caught in the back of my throat. Lionel puts his hand to the back of my neck and tips me forward, head between my legs. His hand rubs the skin in time with my breathing, until my lungs no longer burn.

“Who is he?”

“Shh. It’s all right now.”

We stare at each other. He moves away, running his hand through his hair. Then he stops and stares down at the fillet knife on the side table. “What’s this for?”

“I think Saoirse left it. Such an odd thing to leave in the parlor.”

“You didn’t bring it?”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. I don’t . . .”

“I might have needed it.”

“He didn’t—”

“No.”

“Good. That’s fine.” He picks the knife up by the handle, letting the blade swing as he walks out of the room. “Let’s get to the bonfire. I’ll have a word with Saoirse later.”





Chapter Twenty-Four


Toby dances from foot to foot, hand gripped to the bow he won’t let go of, eyes glued to the first flames to lick the bonfire. Elias has a hand to his shoulder, keeping him far back. Safe from sparks. Amos tosses an old chair on the boards. He ignores me. Stays to the far side of the fire. The frays of fabric smoke and catch, the flames climbing to the seat and flaring bright as they eat into horsehair and straw. The smoke lifts, smudging the arch of sky.

Cathy stands on the porch next to me, her hand to her forehead like a captain looking at the sea. She smiles like a satisfied cat. “Saoirse swears she didn’t leave a knife in the parlor.”

“Oh?”

“Not that it matters.” She shrugs. “What’s more worrisome is you.”

“I didn’t do anything untoward. That man—”

“I know what you say.”

“What I say?” I can’t abide this. I reach for the stair railing and take the steps to the yard.

The fire is like a wall of heat. The flames twist like sinews, blue and golden orange.

Lionel holds a plank. A cheroot hangs from his lips. “It’ll be a grand view soon,” he says, then tosses the board to the pyre.

“Did you tell him to leave?”

“I can’t let him go. Not yet.” He says this under his breath, his back turned to the fire.

Amos catches my eye and grins. He shoves a pole into the flames and steps around the fire, tamping and coaxing. His hair is flat with wax and bits of ash that have stirred in the air and settled on his head. He swipes at an ember and returns to his task.

Toby lifts up his bow and spins, letting out a yell. Then he turns toward us. “No more boathouse.” His lips pull back in a grimace. He pumps his arm and yells once more. Then his shoe catches a root, and he stumbles.

I rush forward, but Amos blocks the way. He wraps an arm around Toby’s chest, pulling him upright and back. Then he keeps a hand to Toby’s shoulder, leaning down to nod at something Toby’s said.

I stride around, stepping over the wood and boards not yet added, and grab up Toby’s hand. “You’ll stay with me.”

“He’s all right here,” Amos says. “He won’t come to harm.”

“It’s too close to the fire.”

“You should be more careful.” Amos steps close, his eyes on me. Then he scoops up Toby’s bow and holds it out to the boy.

Toby’s hand is hot and dry in mine. I pull him to me and move away from this man whose eyes flicker with the fire.

“I want to stay with Amos,” Toby says.

“You were too close. You could get burnt.”

I move toward Lionel, who stands with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I almost fell,” Toby tells him.

Lionel glances at him. “But you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.”

My eyes catch on something at the bottom of the bonfire. I can just make out the charred corners and spines of Alice’s journals.

“You’re burning them.” I look at Lionel. “You took them from Brawders House and now you’re burning them. I wanted them.”

He squints at me, then blinks when the smoke and heat twist our way. “You should have asked sooner.”

I drop down close by the flames. Lionel’s used the journals as kindling. The paper burns and curls, each page blackening to ash.

The stench of smoke lingers in my hair. The air is oily and tastes of soot.

Cathy wanted a view; but now there’s scars in the ground where the boathouse and glass house once stood, and the wide-open space makes the pond seem too big, as if it’s been given the freedom to creep closer. The water is black as ink and slips between the bulrushes. The katydids scratch out a song that crescendos and then dips to a silence that is broken only by the lap of the water.