“No, he talked about the poem. And he wants us, me and you, to help solve the riddle.”
Silence.
I’m just about to say that I want to go upstairs because it’s a bit cool this late and there’s the smell of moisture in the air.
Then he speaks, voice floating out of the dark: “Riddle?”
“There’s a reference in the poem to a well. Actually, in the poem it says springs, but Haneen thinks it might refer to a well in Darling Wood behind the house. The poem is from ‘Lucy’ by William Wordsworth. There’s a kind of link with the bride who died in the oak tree because the poem makes it clear Lucy also died…” I try to remember the actual lines. “No one knew where she lived…” No, not that; I pause to find the missing words, then pull out my phone and scroll to find the page Alex shared with us.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the Eye!
—Fair, as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her Grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
“It still gives me shivers. Alex wanted us to look into any possible—”
Osian throws up a hand as if to ward off a blow. Before I can even ask, he’s marched away down the path all the way to the far end of the wing and around the corner.
What happened? Did I say something to offend him? I cast my mind back; when he left the table had also been when the professor said there was a mystery we needed to solve.
He can’t have gone and left me here. Surely.
My common sense shouts at me to leave and go back upstairs. If he doesn’t even take a moment to say good night or tell me where he’s going, then the last thing I should do is run after him.
I follow down the path, at least walking not running.
He’s not gone far at all; he’s just around the corner at the end of the west wing, leaning slightly down, hands braced against the wall as if he’s about to be sick. When I get close, I hear him taking fast, harsh breaths, but it's only when I’m right up beside him that I see the tears running down his face.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It goes on for a while. And this time, I remember his advice about grief that hits you like a wave. I let him go through it and don’t ask stupid questions about if he’s okay or try to say helpful words. Because he’s right. Saying helpful things only forces the grieving person to think about you, to find polite things to say when all they want is to be allowed to cry.
So I just keep my hand on his shoulder and stand close, sharing my body warmth. I can feel his muscles clench and jerk. As if the harsh sobs are torn from him against his will. He cries like someone who doesn’t know how.
It starts to drizzle.
The house shields us from the rain, but it’s cold now. Gradually, Osian starts to calm down. His breathing still comes through him ragged and choppy.
Eventually, he straightens. “Sorry.”
