“Is that with this? Your attempt at small talk so I don’t notice the way your hands tremble?” I ask. Her mouth opens and closes, forming no words, and the victory lands in my lap once more. I go in for the kill. “You brought me here, before sunrise, to the lake that nearly killed you. You’re asking about me and my brother, but that’s not the question you really want answered.”
“I don’thavea question.”
“I’ll let you believe that lie for now. You’ll choke on it soon enough, believe me, darling.”
There isn’t enough time for the response to hit her before I move; two strides through sucking marsh. And I reach for her, without a word. Just two fingers beneath her chin, I draw my embroidered white handkerchief from my coat and press it to her cheek like I’m cleaning blood from a blade.
I pause, waiting for her to jerk away.
All that leaves her mouth is, “You’ll ruin that.”
I almost tell her I don’t care. Ruining this piece of cloth will bring me great satisfaction because, like my signet ring, it only exists as symbolism, an extension of my father’s reign.
Instead, I tell her, “Please, indulge my neurosis.” The request is soft, and I feel her stiffen, but she concedes.
My hand then finds the underside of her jaw, thumb settling against the hollow just beneath her right ear. Her pulse knocks there wildly, drumming against my fingertips as her skin blooms red beneath the touch. I angle her face slightly, and the cloth meets her mouth next.
The edges ofE.P.H.A.brush against her lower lip, devouring stains as it moves. She swallows, and I feel the motion of it cradled in my palm. The linen is ruined, grotesque with mud, and Ishouldcare, but I don’t. She murmurs something that sounds like‘pointless’,yet her voice snags when I ghost the fabric beneath her eye.
Francesca lets me chase mud down the slope of her nose, and when the last speck relinquishes, I mutter, “There, duchess returned from the dead.” I crumple the ruined cloth and slip it into her pocket, right alongside the pin. “Carry it. Consider this my flag of surrender.”
She tries to smother her grin by pressing her lips together, and in spite of the effort, joy seeps through the cracks. “You’re not going to repeat yourself? No further interrogation?”
“You’ll learn, soon enough, I don’t often repeat myself. But no, I already know what you’ve found.” I pivot towards the woodland path, and she follows. “Permission.”
“Permission?”
“To stop doubting yourself.”
Though I don’t look back, I detect the rustling of her palms against her jeans, trying to rub away dirt. It’s a distraction, and I’m merciful enough to not call her out on it. She’s bled enough today. The irony of it all arises as a shriek hidden in the wind,for how is one already injured and the sun is still nowhere to be found?
Grief and trauma, it seems, don’t respect the hour.
So I choose to and let her follow alongside me wordlessly.
Moonlight filters through where the canopy breaks, illuminating the path slightly. There’s no sound but our footsteps and the effort Francesca makes to quiet her breathing. Roots bend beneath our shoes, and part of the ground is softer due to decades of people trodding this exact path. I imagine it must’ve seen hordes of families once upon a time, before the tragedy.
Doubt last decade’s teenagers are likely to bring their kids to the lake when they know what happened.
Differing paths veer out to the sides, and in the dim light I can make out signs. There are a few parks, a hiking trail and some camping grounds. This entire land carries the scent of something long dead. Sheffolk is possibly the worst place my father could’ve sent me.
We’re fifteen paces away from the clearing that leads to the parking bay; I’m certain of it because I counted on the way in. However, facing this direction feels strange for some reason, which I dismiss as my imagination playing tricks. There’s no wind, and my vision blurs slightly as though I’m peering over flames. Tree trunks are vibrating. No, that’s not right. That can’t be right. I blink hard, yet the bark still looks like there’s a certain tremor to it. On each tree.
Francesca walks close to me, the air around her face is white from the little puffs she takes as she hops over roots. I wonder if she notices, or maybe I’m just fucking sleep-deprived. The trunks continue to shudder, and neither of us says anything. We’re almost at the car anyway. I’ve never had a problem with quiet before, yet this one sharpens into a needle that pressesbeneath my fingernails. She moves closer, arm brushing against mine, but still doesn’t say anything.
Then, impossibly, the hush ruptures. Rather than shattering or cracking, it folds into itself before exploding with sound.
You can ask the flowers, I sit for hours…
The lyrics twirl around bark, as if the entire wood swallowed a jukebox. Francesca stops so abruptly that she nearly dives headfirst over a thick root but manages to catch herself at the last moment. The song continues to drift through the air from between the trees. I open my mouth, but the woods eats my question.
Tellin’ all the bluebirds, the bill and coo birds
My pulse slams against the wall of my throat as the song plays out. There’s no speaker, no lights, nothing except Connie’s voice leaking from the bark. I whisper Francesca’s name, but she doesn’t look at me. She’s turned to face the dark, peering through hundreds of trees like she can see the artist herself standing there and singing directly to her.
Logic leaps to the mundane; I think of those boys from the articles. Those idiots with too much free time on their hands. Maybe even that anti-Sheffolk hobby group who won’t stop yelling about demons. I know there’s a hidden camera somewhere, a Bluetooth speaker positioned perfectly behind one of the trees.
Either that, or Cousin Edmund has something to do with this shit. After all, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even be out here right now.
