Whichwood(13)

She had no interest in untrustworthy, manipulative liars, no matter their claims of reformation. No, there was no chance of her befriending this duplicitous boy or the daft, silly girl. So she flipped open her red cloak—for the first time, Oliver glimpsed the ancient, heavily brocaded silk gown she wore underneath—unhooked an old, nicked, elaborately carved silver crowbar from the tool belt she wore around her waist, and set to work. (On her belt she also carried an old brass mallet; her leather ghost whip; the silky, quilted pouch full of Quicks; a pair of rusty pliers; a copper box full of nails; a branding iron; and a little holder for her business cards.) Silently, she climbed atop the transport and began prying off the wooden lids.

Oliver scrambled up the side of the cart to join her.

From where they stood, Alice was now even more visible: the young Ferenwood girl was standing small and alone in the distance, and she cut a sad, half-slumped figure in the snow. But whatever you might think of Laylee, know this: Her conscience had not yet broken, and it tormented her now perhaps more than ever. Laylee secretly wished she were a normal child—the kind who could make friends and amends all in the same day—but Laylee was simply too wounded herself to know how to undo the hurt she inspired. Her heart, thudding around inside her, was already panicking at the very idea of apologizing to Alice. No, she was too raw, too terrified of rejection to say she was sorry—

Because what if her apologies weren’t accepted?

What if she made herself vulnerable only to have her faults thrown back in her face?

No, no, it was safer to stay angry, she’d concluded, where nothing could ever touch her.

Luckily, Oliver had no such scruples.

He cleared his throat and said, as carefully as possible, “Why, um—why is Alice standing all the way over there?”

Laylee had already pried the lids off several coffins by the time Oliver asked his question, so she was breathing hard and hauling open caskets onto the snow when she said, “I told her that if she didn’t like this line of work, she should leave.”

Oliver froze in place, stunned. “Why in heavens would you do that?”

Laylee shrugged. “She said her magic wasn’t suited to washing dead bodies.”

“But—Laylee—”

“And anyway she keeps demanding to know what’s wrong with me—as though I’m a nut to be cracked.” Laylee dragged down another casket, exhaling a sharp breath. “But there is nothing the matter with me.” She looked up to meet Oliver’s eyes as she said this, but once she stopped moving, her hands—visibly shaking—belied her words.

Laylee pretended not to notice and moved quickly to reach for another coffin, but Oliver had the good sense to stop her. “If there’s nothing the matter with you,” he said, “then what’s wrong with your hands?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, closing her trembling fingers into fists. “I’m tired, that’s all. We had a very long night.”

Oliver faltered—for he could not deny that this was true—and finally relented with a sad sigh. “All Alice wants is to help you,” he said.

“Then she should be over here helping,” said Laylee.

“But you just said you told her not to.”

“When someone really wants something,” Laylee said, dragging another coffin to the ground, “they’ll fight for it. She does not appear to be much of a fighter.”

Oliver laughed out loud and looked away, shaking his head in the direction of the sun. “Only someone who didn’t know Alice at all could say something like that.”

Laylee did not respond.

“Goodness,” Oliver said, now squinting across the field at Alice’s lonely figure. “I can only imagine how thoroughly you broke her heart.”

Now Laylee looked at him. Glared at him. Angrily, she said, “If what I said broke her heart, then her heart is too easily broken.”

Oliver cocked his head, smiled, and said, “Not everyone is as strong as you are, you know.”

At this, Laylee went numb.

“You misunderstand me entirely,” she said quietly. “I’m not strong at all.”

Oliver, who understood at once the depth of this confession, never had a chance to respond. He was still searching for the right thing to say when Laylee went abruptly rigid—her spine ramrod straight—and inhaled a short, sharp gasp as her crowbar fell, with a dull splash, into the slush. Laylee’s legs buckled beneath her and she staggered sideways, toppling into Oliver, who’d come running forward to help, and though he pulled the mordeshoor to her feet, fear and panic were colliding in his eyes, and he cried out for Alice as Laylee shook in her skin. And in the fraction of a second Laylee made the mistake of meeting his gaze, Oliver had looked too long—and learned too much.

Something was desperately wrong.




Alice was now charging toward them—her face fraught with terror as her long, pale hair tossed around in the wind—and Oliver sank to his knees as he searched Laylee’s face for signs of trauma.

For a girl so unaccustomed to company, it was a curious, terrifying sensation to be so intimately held—but this matter of physical closeness was a mere trifle on Laylee’s long list of concerns. The thing was, she didn’t trust these odd children, and she couldn’t help but feel that the timing of their arrival, their absurd demands to help her, and her sudden, unbidden frailty had coincided in a way that was more than a little suspicious. She was not, as you might have expected, particularly moved by their compassionate faces, and she would not allow herself to be romanced by any moment that demanded she be weak—not here and not now—and especially not while in the company of those whose hearts and minds she still doubted.