“You sure?”
“I like the scar. Looks like an old seam someone stitched shut.”
She tucks the toast into the crook of a branch. The ribbon slips loose at her wrist and flutters; she catches it, ties it higher with neat, strong fingers. The lanterns along the lane answer with a soft, collective flicker.
Bobby starts the old words. Folks repeat them in the easy cadence of people who’ve said them all their lives. When it comes time for the last lines, Isla tips her chin toward Elsie.
When we first arrived, Bobby told her she’d be reciting the final verse in her grandmother’s place. She blinked at him like he’d asked her to sing solo at a wedding. I thought she might bolt.
Now, she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a folded square of paper. Elspeth’s handwriting stares back as Elsie takes the microphone.
She reads:
“Wake, old roots, from your silver sleep,
Drink the warmth the hearthfires keep.
Bloom again when the robins sing,
And guard the hearts that guard this spring.”
Fucking Christ. I didn’t expect her voice to carry so steadily. Didn’t expect the words to sound like they belonged to her, but they do. Like she was always meant to be the one saying them.
The cheer goes up; the bowl starts its slow pass around the table. I gather empties, let the movement give my hands something to do. Elsie stays still a moment longer, the paper trembling between her fingers.
When she finally meets my eyes, there’s too much weight on her shoulders already, and I know better than to let anyone add more.
“Let’s walk,” I say. “Before someone hands you a second speech. Or worse, the clipboard.”
She exhales a quick laugh. “Good idea.”
We cut across the lane to the edge of the field, where the light thins. The music is a low hum behind us. There’s a bench madefrom a fallen limb set on two stumps. I brush the snow off with the side of my glove, and we sit.
“You did fine,” I say. “More than, actually.”
“I shook a little,” she says.
“We’ll call it enthusiasm.”
She huffs a laugh.
We watch the trees together, quiet. Words knot in my throat, so I wait her out.
“My mom didn’t like this sort of thing,” she says at last, still facing forward. “Any of it. The crowds. The small talk. The part where you’re expected to stand in the cold and be friendly to everyone.”
“Can’t blame her for the last part.”
“She hated the expectations that came with Blue Willow,” she goes on. “Yet she sent me here whenever she could. Outside of school, I was always at Elspeth’s. If there was a break to be had, I had it here.”
“And you loved it,” I remind her. “At the time, at least.”
“It was nice, being here. Being away from my mother.”
“You never got along?”
She rubs her thumb against her ribbon until the knot tightens. “When I was little, I cried at everything. Happy, sad, scraped knee, too-bright lights, a good song, the smell of peaches. It was all big. It still is—I just learned to hide it better.”
“Eight years,” I say, tipping my head like I’m thinking it through.
