George shook his head. “I think she’ll notice, unless you figure on staying in this room until that bruise heals.”
Arthur snuggled into his bedclothes, feeling better except that tomorrow was Wednesday. Lessons. Another opportunity for the boys to jeer at him.
And likely more maths.
He thought of Port Lorne, the great city at the northern tip of the forest abutting the Throckmortons’ garden. His father had told him about a clock shop in the city that sold not only clocks but parts and tools for their building and repair. George had brought Arthur a travel repair kit after last year’s trip; Arthur had been itching to see the shop ever since. Heimagined it walled in ticking timepieces, with tools and gears shining on the counters.
“Dad,” he said, “can I come with you to Port Lorne?”
George gave a small smile, and Arthur’s heart sank.
Sure enough, his father said, “I’m afraid not, duck. Not this time. I’ll take you when you’re older.”
He’d been saying that for years.
“That’s what you always say.”
George’s smile disappeared.
“Please?” Arthur said. “I’m practically grown now.”
George’s mouth twitched. “You’re twelve, son, and there are your lessons to think of.”
“Most of the other boys aren’t even in school anymore! They work with their dads. Why can’t I go with you?”
“Because I said so.”
“But—”
“No.”
Outside, a wind blew in off the sea to the west. The windowpanes rattled in their frames.
George pinched the bridge of his nose, took a breath, and gave a small smile. “I’ll have to fix those when I get back. I’ll teach you how.”
“Dad—”
His father’s voice was firm, final. “Good night, Arthur.”
George clasped his medical kit and left the room.
Something small and aching cracked open in Arthur’s chest. He always hated it when his father went to Port Lorne; he hated it all the more because George kept promising to take him but never did.
Arthur listened to the rattling of the windows. His father would teach him to fix them, and he would try to learn, but such masculine pursuits always seemed beyond him.
Behind the cottage garden, the forest’s silhouette was faintly visible, a black shape against a blue-black sky. In the morning, George would vanish into its depths as he did every year at this time.
He’d told Arthur so many stories about the forest. Its dangers and enchantments. Its lord, whom George had met once, long ago. He’d given George the silver acorn.
Do you think he’d like me?Arthur had asked once.The Lord of the Wood?
Of course, his father had said.
Unlikely Arthur would ever meet him, however, since his father wouldn’t take him to Port Lorne.
In the other room, his parents murmured together, their words a low rumble. Arthur slipped out of bed, pausing when a floorboard creaked to make sure Charlotte hadn’t awoken. She sighed and turned over.
Arthur cracked the door.
