My eyes go to the fire, my mind wandering, tracing the lines of her story again in my head as I picture it, as real as if I can see it, too. As real as if I’d lived it. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows across the walls, to every corner of the room.
My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for my gran to go on, to tell me more, but she doesn’t. The story is over, and it’s time for me to join my sister in bed.
Still, my body is buzzing with something curious. A strange thought flutters in my head—a butterfly on the wind in the meadow, plucked petals tossed into the air.
“Gran?”
“Yes, Mary?”
“Is that story about Foxglove?” My voice trembles with a feeling I can’t name. “Was the woman in the story… Did she live here? Was she real? Are you…her?”
At that, my gran lets out a soft laugh that shakes her belly. Her fingers stop working. “Oh, my dear. The only magic in my life is getting to be your gran.” Despite her words, her eyes search mine as if they’re looking for something. An answer I don’t have.
“I just thought?—”
“But,” she interrupts me, her voice barely above a whisper, “the only thing that matters is what we choose to believe. One day you’ll be the one telling stories to your children. Your grandchildren.”
I make a face, and she laughs.
“You will. Some stories are meant to be remembered and shared, told to your daughters and theirs. And some stories are better left alone. Meant to be forgotten.”
I don’t understand what she means, but when I look her in the face, searching for answers, she doesn’t meet my gaze.
“You’ll understand in time.” She leans back in her chair. “The earth has a way of keeping her own secrets. She shares with you what she wants you to know.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You talk about the earth as if it’s real. Alive, I mean.”
“As real and as living as any one of us,” she says with a firm nod. “She has secrets and stories too, you know? Better than any of mine.” She pats her knee. “Come on, then. Give me a kiss good night. You’d better run off to bed before your mom has my hide.”
I stand, easing onto her lap and kissing her cheek.
Before I go, she takes my hand and looks me in the eyes. “The question is never whether the story is true, Mary. That doesn’t matter. Not really. The question is only whether you’re ready to hear it.” She presses a thumb to my cheek, running it over my skin like she’s memorizing the pattern of my bones. “Whether you believe it.”
With that, she nudges me off her lap, her hands returning to work, moving quickly. Her face is solemn, tired. She makes no move to acknowledge what happened, what she has shared with me, but I feel it.
She opened a door. The weight of the secret is in the room with us; the smell of the dust she brushed off the mystery lingersas real as the smoke from the fire. One day I’ll understand. One day I’ll know the truth.
I glance back at Gran just once from the hall, and she sits, eyes closed, a small smile on her lips. It’s the smile of someone with answers—answers I vow one day to have myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CORINNE WILDE - PRESENT DAY
I burst through the door, moving as fast as my legs will carry me. Taylor and Greta are no longer in the kitchen. I follow the sound of her scream down the short hallway and reach her bedroom. Inside, Taylor and Greta are standing facing her bed.
They’re alive.
Safe.
Breathing.
I scan the room. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Taylor turns back to me, a horrified scowl on her face that makes my stomach twist. Before she answers though, her eyes lock on something—someone—over my shoulder. I glance back to see that Conrad has followed me into the house. I was so panicked I hadn’t noticed.
He offers me a sheepish look. “Sorry if I overstepped. I heard the scream and followed without thinking. I can go?—”
I turn away from him and back to Taylor. “What’s going on? Why were you screaming?”
