Charlotte hesitated. Elspeth seemed all right now, but she’d been so cold all day. Even if she hadn’t been—after three days on a gig jolting through the forest, the incident with the mummified hands, and the one with the twisted trees—Charlotte thought they’d both be better off in a bed than in an armchair or (God forbid) on the floor.
Rising, she deposited the plant creature beside the stove. The humming broke off; the creature curled into a ball, and the humming resumed.
“We could share,” Charlotte said.
The corner of Elspeth’s mouth turned up. Charlotte regretted offering.
“Share, could we?” Elspeth said. “I don’t know. Sounds mighty improper.”
Charlotte was mortified.
“Fine,” she snapped. A tendril unspooled from the plantcreature, turned in her direction. “Sleep in an armchair and wake up with a crooked neck for all I care.”
“I didn’t say no.”
Scowling, Charlotte turned away. She stroked the tendril with one finger, hurried across the room, and quickly changed into her nightclothes and braided her hair. She curled up in bed, as close to the wall and as far from Elspeth as possible. Chuckling, Elspeth adjusted the fire. The plant creature clicked at her.
“None of that, now. I’m the one keeping the fire going, so you best be nice if you want to stay warm.”
The clicking subsided—almost. It didn’t stop but quieted, the way Sasha muttered when Charlotte caught her doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
Charlotte lay awake for a long time, listening to Elspeth putter about the room doing she knew not what. She nearly turned over to find out, but the thought of Elspeth catching her looking was enough to stop her. Irritated, she focused on breathing until her whirling thoughts slowed and her body relaxed.
She was almost asleep when she felt Elspeth slip in beside her. Not long afterward, Elspeth started snoring. Charlotte buried her face in her pillow. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was asleep in her bed back home, years ago, with John slipping in beside her after a Saturday night at the pub, snoring at her back.
xxxi. In which Arthur gets cozy in a cave
With the coming storm, Ira’s limp had been worsening for hours, but they’d kept going. Never mind the dropping temperature and gusting wind. But when it started raining, so hard they were soaked within minutes, Ira’s pace slowed. He stumbled; Arthur caught him.
He had to shout over the rain. “Can’t we get out of this wet?”
Jaw tight, Ira nodded. “There’s a cave not far from here.”
He leaned on Arthur the whole way. Fat raindrops pelted them. The cat mewled pitifully; fur matted with rain, she looked like a drowned rat. Hopefully Charlotte found shelter, too, Arthur thought. Storms always worsened her pain, but at least she’d be dry.
A handful of silver saplings grew at the mouth of the cave. Half of them were tarnished. Arthur bit his lip, but with the way Ira leaned on him he didn’t think they could make it any farther.
The cave was small and sandy, well ventilated with a large opening in the ceiling forming a chimney, but mostly dry. Ira collapsed against a stony wall, nostrils flaring. He ripped off hisknee brace and stretched his leg out, working his knee with his fingers, then dug through his bag for ointment.
Arthur shivered with cold and wet, but he scoured the cave for tinder. Naturally, there was none. He braved the pounding rain again, though the wet twigs and branches he gathered probably wouldn’t light. With rain-smeared glasses, he stumbled back toward the cave. His right foot sank into a puddle, soaking his shoe and sock.
When he returned, arms full of soggy wood, Ira said, “I could’ve just—”
He waved a hand. A shrub sprouted, its leaves blooming and changing color and falling off all at once, until it was bare and dry.
“Oh,” Arthur said in dismay.
Ira’s mouth twitched, and that was something. The acorn still kept fresh greenery from creeping across his face. That was something more.
Arthur abandoned the wood he’d collected and built a little tent near the cave’s chimney from the shrub’s branches. It took him a while to get it to light, but he managed. He sat back with a small sense of accomplishment he didn’t often feel unless he’d recently gotten a clock working. Freya rubbed against him in gratitude, settled by the fire to bathe until she was dry and fluffy, and curled up for a nap.
Now his damp clothes, which stuck to his skin in a deeply unpleasant way. Arthur dug dry clothes from his knapsack, wishing his journey hadn’t involved quite so many wet socks. He tucked himself into a corner to change, further wishing he had a towel. The idea of putting dry clothes on his wet skin so they could stick right back to him was nearly as bad as being in wet clothes in the first place.
He wrung water from his hair. Droplets spattered his glasses,not that it mattered since they were smeared from the rain outside. He wiped them off on the dry shirt from his knapsack, grimacing, and dressed.
When he turned around, Ira was wrestling with his own wet clothes. Arthur reddened, but Ira didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. His thick, furry fingers could no longer work the buttons and toggles.
“Would...” Possibly this was a terrible idea, but Arthur asked anyway. “Would you like some help?”
