“You’ve done well,” Beresford says. “The rest is work for another day.”
As if on cue, the last glow of sunset leaves the forest, and with a grinding sound, the crack in the hillside closes up tight. The brown grass looks seamless, as if the opening never existed.
“I guess there’s no going back,” says Henry, with a faint laugh. “And I can’t go home, either.”
“You may not be able to leave Wormsloe at all for a while,” Beresford says. “You should remain in the forest overnight, until your soul has had a chance to settle into its new home. After you acclimate, and after the rot is removed from the woods, you can try to leave.”
“He can stay in Grandmother Riquet’s cottage,” I suggest. “It’s probably a mess at the moment, but we can tidy things up.”
“We should all stay there tonight,” Mama puts in. “My feet are tired, and I don’t fancy the idea of walking back through the rot of Wormsloe in the dark.”
“Words of wisdom.” Beresford nods.
“There’s no food except a jar of jam there,” I say. “I’ll bring some of the offering food with us. We can roast the meat. Grandmother should have salt in her cottage, and we can have honey and jam with the bread.”
Anne helps me pack up the meat, bread, and berries, and by the light of our remaining lantern, we head for the cottage.
The forest is bitterly cold, so cold that if the mushrooms and fungi weren’t magical, they’d be killed on the spot. When we reach the clearing where the cottage stands, Beresford places Henry’s body inside the shed near the path, where it will be safe overnight. None of us protest, because the alternative would be bringing the corpse into the house with us.
The shelters that Beresford built for the creatures are empty, and the cottage itself is buried in fungi, mold, and rotting vines, both inside and out. Henry uses a little more of his energy to unwind the rot and restore the place so that it’s safe enough to pass the night.
An hour later, we’re all sitting in the cozy front room, with the door shut and bolted against the cold and the rot outside. A fire blazes on the hearth and the roasting meat sizzles, filling the air with its savory aroma. I stand next to the fireplace, sprinkling on a little salt before I turn the spit again.
Anne is dressed in a clean tunic of Grandmother’s, and she found some blankets in a chest that weren’t terribly musty or filled with mouse droppings. She sits near Henry, eyeing his new shape with growing appreciation. He’s so tall and long-legged that he doesn’t fit well in Grandmother’s kitchen chairs, so he’s sitting on the floor, examining his sharp nails and talking about the new memories in his mind. Another man might work through the mental adjustment more quietly, but Henry is a conversational sort.
I don’t mind. If talking about it helps him process things, good for him.
My mother is doling out portions of bread and jam onto plates, giving Henry sympathetic nods and encouraging phrases whenever she can get a word in edgewise. Beresford’s huge frame is perched on one of the small kitchen chairs, and whenever I glance at him he’s watching me with love in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips.
He looks more peaceful than I’ve ever seen him, as well he should. The threat of his captor is gone. We are no longer in danger, and he is finally known and accepted for who he is, not only by me, but my family as well.
For my part, I am overjoyed that I will never again be startled by the unexpected appearance of a creature in my bed, my house, my garden, or anywhere. Nor does the cold and the darkness of winter hold the same terror for me. I’m loved, I’m wealthy, and I’m fucking free.
When I walk over to place the salt cellar back on the table, my husband catches my wrist in his big, warm hand. I smile andlean down to kiss him, thanking every god who might exist that I get to have this gorgeous man all to myself.
“It must be strange, being in the same room with the wight who tortured you,” I say in an undertone. “Even though it’s not really him, it looks like him. Does that bother you?”
“I thought it might, but your friend’s soul has changed his entire aspect.” Beresford’s gaze travels to Henry, and he chuckles. “Look at him.”
Henry is talking animatedly to my mother and sister, his thin legs casually crossed and his long fingers waving about to illustrate his words. Every sharp, cold, beautiful feature of the wight seems lit from within, glowing with interest and joy, softened by Henry’s pleasant nature. There’s a shadow of sadness in his voice when he mentions his father briefly, but I know the elder Mr. Partridge has been ailing a long time. Much as Henry will miss him, their separation was fast approaching, and it was expected.
“Without Henry’s soul, you can’t take his shape, can you?” I ask Beresford.
He shakes his head.
“It seems cruel to inflict Henry’s death on Mr. Partridge right before his own passing,” I murmur. “Let’s wait a bit. We’ll have Henry write a letter to his father that he went on a brief journey and that he’ll return soon. That will buy us some time. Maybe Mr. Partridge will pass quietly in his sleep before we have to tell him.”
“I could make that happen,” Beresford offers.
“Gods, no.” I slap his shoulder lightly. “Although… But no. Not unless Henry agrees to it.”
“A debate for another day,” he says. “You might want to turn the meat.”
“Oh shit.” I hurry back to the spit and rotate it in time to keep the lower side of the roast from overcooking.
When the meat is ready, we gather around the tiny table, and Mama pours a bit of currant wine into five of Grandmother’s teacups.
“A toast,” she says, lifting her cup. “Last winter, my daughters and I nearly perished. We had nothing to eat, and we were starving. I have never felt so alone or so helpless.” Her voice breaks, and she pauses to collect herself before continuing. “Tonight, we are not alone. We have added two more members to this family. Thanks to them, we are warm. We are safe. We have everything we need. It is the most cherished wish of every mother that her children would find worthy people to love them, and I am blessed to have two such beautiful souls loving my girls.”
