“Right. Yeah,” I tell him, snapping out of my trance. I hold out a hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry, you just…I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yeah, guess you wouldn’t expect to see a stranger lurking around, would ya?” he says with a laugh. “I was collecting hedge apples. Hope you don’t mind. Your property’s covered in ’em.”
He points to a pile of bumpy, green orbs on the ground. I recognize them immediately. I used to pretend they were goblins in disguise as a kid. That one touch would turn me to stone.
“Keeps the spiders away,” he explains. “You’ll notice I’ve been keeping ’em around your foundation for ya. You should keep doing that.”
“Thank you. I will. I?—”
Before I can finish my thought, everything stills. Across the meadow, I hear a sound that takes me only seconds to register. It’s the sound of my daughter’s voice.
And she’s screaming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARY WILDE - 1642
The fire crackles and pops across the room, its warmth spreading to every corner. Outside, the wind howls and rattles against our windows, like someone is trying to get in. But they’re not. The first storm of the season is upon us, and I think that might be worse.
I’ve hated storms for as long as I can remember, hated the way they make the air feel, the way they light up the sky too bright and make everyone—the animals and the people—act strangely.
The walls of Foxglove groan against the pressure of the wind, but inside, Mama keeps telling me we are safe. Gran sits in her rocking chair, rocking, rocking, and I listen to the slow and steady groan of the legs against the wood floor.
The fire fights against the darkness creeping in through the gaps of the house, giving me just enough light to see my doll.
As the first log crumbles, spitting a gust of smoke, Mama takes Anna off to bed. The storm wears on, and I scoot closer to Gran, nearer to the hearth. I pull my knees to my chest and watch the flames dance and twist.
My gran smiles at me from her chair, her fingers deftly working yarn into a pretty pattern in the firelight. She doesn’t even have to look at what she’s doing.
I’ve always loved watching her as she works. Mama has tried to teach me, but she doesn’t have Gran’s patience. Her quiet, steady concentration and the way her fingers seem to know just what to do without even pausing to think. She works as if she’s knitting more than a blanket, more than fabric. She moves with such beauty it’s as if she’s stitching history, tradition…magic. Something much older and wiser than I am.
“Isn’t it about time you went to bed, Mary?” she asks, watching me with wise eyes that always make me feel like she knows what I’m thinking. Maybe she does.
“I’m not sleepy yet.”
“Your mother will need your help in the morning. The storm brings extra work.”
I dance my doll along the hearth, not saying anything. I can’t sleep during storms, I just can’t.
Mama appears in the doorway to the parlor, hands on her hips. “You’re next, my darling,” she says.
“Can’t I just stay up a little while longer?”
“A little while longer?” she repeats, her voice soft. I can’t tell if she’s going to agree.
“Yes. For a story.”
Mama looks at Gran, who just nods her head. “’Tis okay, Sarah. I’ve got her.”
Mama takes a long moment to think, and for that moment I worry she’ll send me to bed anyway, but eventually, she brushes Gran’s shoulder with her hand before pointing to me. “Straight to bed after the story. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Once she’s gone, I wait for Gran. She doesn’t look up from her work straight away, but I can see a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, like she’s pleased with me.
Gran has always indulged me when I ask for stories or sweets, especially when the storms outside rage. She’s never said as much, but I suspect she knows what I’ve kept to myself all this time. The storms make me feel like the rest of the world has disappeared. Like it’s just us. Just Foxglove.
It’s not a very good feeling.
