“Not like this. According to my father’s records, the Jarngrens started dying off before that, but it got much worse. For a few years, a Jarngren would die every season. Reverend Douglas used to joke that every third Sunday should be reserved for a Jarngren funeral. The strange thing was that it wasn’t just the old or the young. Aunts, uncles, cousins, anyone and everyone died. The extended family tree was picked clean, but not all at once. It wasn’t as if typhus or yellow fever ripped through the family. No, it would just be one person. Fine oneday, dead the next. Eventually, the deaths slowed to one or two Jarngrens a year, but it was still a lot of deaths, even for a big family.”
When Mr. Allen fell silent and the last spiral of peel fell away, the knife shook in Felipe’s hand. He needed to keep moving. “Do you want me to cut these into cubes?”
“Please.” Mr. Allen threw chicken bones into the pot along with a handful of herbs before picking up a carrot. “Most people weren’t too concerned because the core family had been untouched. Lars Jarngren had been able to maintain stability, despite all the deaths, and the town was prospering as far as I know. When death came for him, no one was particularly surprised. He had been nearly eighty years old after all, but once he passed, it was the beginning of the end for the family. That’s when people started calling it a curse, when it hit the younger Jarngren brothers and the grandchildren.
“First, the brothers’ wives died. They were both distant Jarngren cousins, or as distant as you can be in this town. Then, Edmund died, followed by his younger son and Daphne’s daughter less than a year later. Francis and his three children died within a few seasons of each other. I thought maybe the curse had fizzled out until Silvia and Horace Ridder’s son died suddenly. Silvia died not long after, though many chalked that up to heartbreak rather than the curse. The only Jarngrens left that I know of are Daphne, Lucien, Oliver, and Willard, and I’m pretty sure the only reason Daphne has escaped the curse is because even the devil doesn’t want her.”
Felipe’s heart beat loudly in his ears as he jerked the knife away from his other hand and set it flat on the table out of reach. For a long moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were the crackle of the fire in the stove and the bubbling pot. Argos leaned heavily against Felipe’s legs, but he didn’t dare move. Mr. Allen shook his head as he stirred the pot.
“For that many people in one family to die in such a short space of time, there must be a reason. Depending on what you believe, the Jarngrens either angered god or the gods of the woods and had to pay with their lives.”
Felipe swallowed hard and fought to keep his voice flat. “What does that have to do with the iron or Oliver?”
“Every time the supply slows, a Jarngren dies.” Taking the knife and potatoes from Felipe, Mr. Allen added, “That’s why I wanted you all to leave. Because there aren’t many Jarngrens left for the woods to pick from, and now, the Lady of the Dysterwood knows Oliver is here.”
ChapterNineteen
Taking Risks
Felipe was making Oliver nervous. Ever since Felipe had spoken to Mr. Allen before lunch, the tether had hummed like a struck tuning fork. The tension set Oliver’s teeth on edge, but every time he tried to corner Felipe to ask him about it, he managed to turn the conversation back to how Oliver was feeling and the care they needed to take while meeting with Willard Jarngren. It was maddening how Felipe managed to deflect without Oliver realizing it until he was alone replaying the conversation, but Oliver didn’t push. The case left little time to decompress, and whether Felipe admitted it or not, he hadn’t beenoffsince they left the society. Even when they were alone in their room together, Oliver sensed Inspector Galvan always lurked right below the surface.
He couldn’t really blame him for being punchy. After all, they didn’t know Willard Jarngren, and after being pushed into the woods and finding out that his father tried to get as far away from Aldorhaven as possible, they had plenty of reasons to be concerned. Still, whenFelipe didn’t give him a hard time about wanting to meet Willard Jarngren, Oliver had been slightly taken aback. Then again, it was better to meet with him in a somewhat agreed upon manner rather than be caught off guard should they ignore the invitation and have Mr. Jarngren pursue them. Even if he had agreed, the humming in the tether felt like a tell.
Oliver had tried to stay busy to keep from fixating on it. While Gwen went off to interview Mr. Allen about his time in the Union Army, Oliver brought their half-damp clothes outside to figure out if they were clean enough to bring home or if they had to take them to a laundress in town before they left. Oliver had been out hanging the clothes on the line when Felipe came outside and made a beeline for the trees. Panic rose in Oliver’s breast until he realized Felipe was heading for the clump of oaks that didn’t belong to the Dysterwood. From behind the wall of wash, Oliver watched Felipe throw one knife after another into the tree as easily as Oliver tossed paper into the wastebasket by his desk. Satisfied with his handiwork, he did it again but this time while running. The practiced ease with which he fought all at once aroused and intimidated Oliver. Felipe trusted the weapon and his senses so completely he seemed to fight without thinking. Oliver had admired his dancer’s grace in the training room, and his infinite patience. He had never done anything with such ease.
Seemingly satisfied with his target practice, Felipe pulled the last blade from the bark and headed inside. Oliver was about to join him when one of Gwen’s blouses came loose from the line. By the time he got back inside, Felipe had retreated to their room, but when Oliver reached their door, he stopped at the smell of gun cleaner. Even though Felipe was exceedingly careful, he didn’t want to be in the room with the revolver while he worked on it. Oliver wasn’t certain if all this preparation was because Felipe was anxious or because he thought they needed to prepare as if they were going into battle. If Willard Jarngren was anything like Lucien Stills, a flare of temper might be enough to send him scrambling. Oliver frowned as he sank onto the steps. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Lucien; he barely knew him. He just remindedOliver too much of himself during the stretches of time when he tried desperately to make his ex-lover, Ansley, happy. That placating tone set his teeth on edge, and Oliver couldn’t help but wonder how much of himself Lucien had sanded off to make himself more palatable to his parents. From the way Lucien talked about his—their—cousin, Willard sounded as if he at least had a spine of some sort.
“What are you thinking about?” Gwen asked when she found him sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands.
“What Willard Jarngren is like.”
“Well, so far, we have paranoid, a wildcard, and knows at least a little about decomposition. He sounds like your type of person.”
Oliver released a mirthless laugh. “I know I shouldn’t care what any of these people think, and I’ve already met Lucien, but this time it’s different because he knows we’re related. What if he hates me?”
“Then, you can leave and never see him again. The more important question is, what if he’s a murderer?”
“Then, he would get arrested, cousin or not. What if he’s not a murderer, but he doesn’t like you and Felipe? That would be worse.”
“That would be a dealbreaker. What if he hates coffee?”
“Or likes frogs?”
And from there, the what-ifs only got sillier, but it snuffed out the lingering fear of meeting his cousin. The feeling slowly crept back as the steamer cut through the shadows that fell over Aldorhaven at sunset. Crowded into the front bench between Felipe and Gwen, Oliver watched his lover as he drove out of the heart of town and down a treelined road toward the Jarngren’s home. His jaw was set as he held the steering wheel in an iron grip, and as they passed under the shadows of the next copse of trees, Felipe’s eyes glinted orange. While Felipe couldn’t smell magic the way Oliver could, he was certain he could feel how thin the veil between worlds was as they drew closer to the Jarngrens’ stronghold.
Oliver winced at the burn in his sinuses. The magic seemed to ooze from the trees closing in around them like sap. He had felt it faintly when he got close to the oaks that had appeared across the road,but this was far more intense. He imagined this was what a murder town felt like: the earth bathed in magic until it imbued everything that grew from it. Even in the dark, the pines lining the well-tended road looked wrong. They weren’t as uncanny and perfect as the ones in the Dysterwood, but Oliver knew they weren’t normal trees. They looked as if they had been plucked from somewhere far away and transplanted here, though their roots still remembered and clung to their homeland as tightly as they did the soil.
When the gap in the trees widened to reveal the looming façade of the house in the distance, Felipe pulled the steamer to the side of the road and parked it as near the forest as he dared. “I think it’ll be safer if we walk from here.”
“Won’t someone see the steamer?” Gwen asked.
“Only if they come through before dark.” Pulling out the hand-drawn map Mr. Allen had made for him, Felipe pointed to the road that ran parallel to the house on the other side of the trees. “I could have parked here, but if we need to make a hasty exit, we’ll have to cut through the woods.”
“Yeah, no thanks.”
“That’s what I thought. I’d rather take my chances leaving it here.” Felipe stuffed the paper back in his pocket before turning to Oliver and Gwen. “Remember what we discussed.”
“Stay behind you, don’t lose sight of each other, and if anything goes wrong, we go back to the steamer,” Oliver rattled off. “I would also like to add, stay away from the woods. The trees don’t feel right.”
