“To find a window to fling myself out of,” she says, without turning back.
“Oh,” says Poppy. “Okay. Be careful.”
Two sets of eyes follow her out. She finds a bedroom at the very top of the stairs, small and sparse and neat. A crib occupies the farthest corner, its wooden slats splintered. Over the top of the crib hangs a handcrafted mobile of felted stars, all of them red. A book sits on the wooden rocking chair beside it, pages deckled. She picks it up and flips through. It’s a collection of old poems, none of them familiar.
It feels invasive, snooping through the room’s battered contents—like she’s a grave robber rifling through a tomb. She sets the book back down, careful not to knock the pages loose. When she straightens, her flashlight sweeps over the wall. Her eyes catch on the black gloss of marker, handwriting small and cramped. There’s writing over the crib. A lot of it. She leans in close for a better look, her blood running cold.
From the fount of the forest comes the age of the beast.
It isn’t written just the one time, or by just the one hand. It’s been inscribed over and over, from floor to ceiling. Sometimes neat. Sometimes scribbled. Sometimes etched deep into the paneling, as if by a knife.
From the fount of the forest comes the age of the beast.
From the fount of the forest comes the age of the beast.
From the fount of the forest comes the age of the beast.
A soft scrape draws her upright. She whirls, her heart flying into her throat, and finds Lys standing by the crib, lit silver in the beam of her light.
“You scared me,” she says. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He looks as serious as she’s ever seen him. “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh.” She lowers the flashlight to their feet. “Okay.”
He pokes a finger at a red felt star. They all go wobbling, cast out of orbit by his touch. He waits for them to still before saying, “Not in here.”
“What’s wrong with this room?”
His gaze drifts meaningfully to the wall. To the dozens of inscriptions, repeated like a prayer over the empty crib.
“It feels like a crypt,” he says, mirroring her thoughts. “Let’s go across the hall.”
She lets him lead her out of the nursery and into the adjacent bedroom, flashlight glancing off every oblique shape in the dark. This room is sparse and undecorated, save a modest bed and an empty dresser. A set of doors leads out onto a balcony, panels shattered and mullions snapped. He steps outside and she follows, glass crunching underfoot. The trees grow in close, red cedar pine engulfing the railing. A screech owl takes off at the sight of them, gliding into the woods with a ghostly tremolo.
“I think Thorley is hiding something,” says Lys the moment it’s quiet.
Shea bristles, wary. “Hiding what?”
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t look at her. His focus is honed on the railing as he pries up a splinter with his thumbnail. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Oh, well, obviously.” It comes out sharper than she meant it to. “And you’re basing this off what, exactly? Did he say something? Do something?”
“It’s just a feeling I have.”
She gapes at his profile, incredulous. “A feeling.”
“Yes.”
“Afeeling?”
His eyes lift to hers. “Are you going to keep saying it?”
She bites back a scream. “You’re unbelievable, do you know that?”
She turns her back on him, walking away before she says something she’ll regret. He tails after her, undeterred, glass ground to stardust beneath his boots. Her fury finds her there, in the middle of the room. She whirls, nearly crashing headlong into him in the dark.
“This is about last night, isn’t it? You’re upset.”
