When Arthur knew enough not to pose a danger to anyone, they turned back into the village to practice driving through the narrow cobbled streets. Cormac had relaxed at Arthur’s side. His thigh pressed closer than ever.
They stopped in the village square, chickens scattering around them. Though barely September, it was that brisk, sunny sort of morning that happens only in autumn. Fat white clouds hurled across the sky. Beyond them, the sky was blue; the sun shone strong one moment, weakly the next, as clouds raced one after the other. Damp from last night’s rain, the cobblestones glistened. While many of the surrounding shops were dark, the windows of the fishery supply and general store (the latter of which was also the post office and telegraph office) glinted cheerfully, as if to draw attention to their wares. The old pub on the corner looked distinguished rather than run-down. Chickens clucked peaceably, golden brown and fluffy.
Seacliff had never been so beautiful. Arthur wasn’t sure why it was beautiful now, but it made him loath to leave.
Cormac leaned back, linking his hands behind his head; his biceps swelled under his shirt. He glanced at Arthur. DearGod, his eyes were blue. Arthur looked away, wiping his palms on his trousers.
“Not bad,” Cormac said. Arthur warmed pathetically under the praise. “Mind, the wood’ll be different. You are going through the wood, I expect?”
Arthur nodded. “Mrs. Livingston wants the clock quickly.”
It seemed best not to mention why. Cormac was a sensible man, but so were most of the villagers, in most ways—yet they were a superstitious lot and never more so than when it came to the forest.
“It’s a good cart for it. Small piece but good and sturdy, nice big wheels, should get you through without too much trouble—leastways without any trouble the wood don’t make itself. Best take some rowan or yew, salt at least. I’d rub the cart with salt, too, and put some rue in the harness.”
“Of course,” Arthur said, though he hadn’t considered these measures. The villagers had always taken such precautions, but his father never had. George had thought their superstitions just that: superstitions. He’d discouraged them in his children. They’d never gone farther into the forest than the edges when they were children, anyway, playing in sight of the cottage. Now, neither of them had entered the wood in years. The last time Arthur had done so, his brother-in-law had asked him to come along to chop firewood. Arthur had been hopeless, of course, but John had liked the company and having someone to carry half the haul back. Arthur could dothateven if he’d grown winded and threatened to lop off his own limbs with each swing of the axe.
“Mind,” Cormac said, “even with these wheels, odds are you’ll have to dismount and unstick the thing now and again. The paths ain’t what they used to be, so few folks drive through anymore. If you tell the horse go and it tries but don’t get anywhere, could be you’re stuck on a log or rock. Now, not meaning any offense—”
Arthur was prepared to be unoffended. Cormac’s attention was worth that much.
“—but you’re not a brawny fellow, probably be hard for you to move a rock or log without some leverage, especially with the cart over top of it. You’ll want to have a shovel or suchlike on hand. If—”
He broke off. A knot of men had rounded a corner, seen them, and stopped. The men gawped, brows thunderous.
As an adult, Arthur was used to being ignored, but as a boy he’d been used to being gawped at, no matter how he’d shrunk himself down in a failed attempt to fit the villagers’ expectations. He straightened in his seat, made sure his hands were right on the lines, and nodded at the men as he drove onward. The men’s voices rumbled after them, too low to make out, but Cormac stiffened and slid away.
Arthur swallowed, aware something had changed between them in the last thirty seconds but not sure what. He ought to have known. The few hesitant attempts he’d made at forging friendships over the years had ended similarly, if they’d gotten anywhere in the first place.
He’d thought things were going well with Cormac. Why was it such a crime for another man to be seen being too friendly with Arthur?
“If?” he prompted, in a terrible attempt at sounding normal.
“What?”
Arthur cleared his throat. “You were going to say something, after you told me to bring a shovel.”
“Don’t recall.”
Cormac’s arms folded across his chest. When they approached his house, he snapped to attention. At the sight of them, his wife had frozen in the middle of sweeping the stoop, wearing the same expression the men had worn.
Cormac spoke without looking at Arthur. “I’ll get out here.”
Arthur stopped the horse.
“Thank you,” he said helplessly, but Cormac had already leaped down. Arthur nodded at Mrs. Young, but she reddened and grabbed Cormac’s arm the moment he was within reach. She muttered furiously at him. The only words Arthur caught, as he drove onward, werewith that sodomite.
His stomach clenched. He’d never understood this sense ofdifferencebetween him and the rest of Seacliff, but Mrs. Young’s angry whisper made him wonder whether the villagers did. Whether they knew something about him that he didn’t know about himself.
Clicking his tongue, Arthur urged the gelding faster. The cart bumped over cobbles now slimy instead of glistening. Fumes belched from the cannery and smudged the sky gray, smelling of fish guts. Arthur wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t believe he’d thought Seacliff beautiful. It had always been ugly and had only grown uglier since his father’s disappearance.
Thank God for Mrs. Livingston and her money. The first half was in his breast pocket.
Determined to put on a good face for his family, he sat ramrod straight in his seat and steered the gelding around the side of the hill, a less direct route to the cottage but less steep than the way the family always took. His driving practice hadn’t involved hills, but the gelding threw himself into the harness and plowed upward without issue. Arthur plastered a smile on his face and sang out as the cottage came into view.
They made it to the top without getting stuck or tipping over. Despite the incident with Cormac, Arthur’s smile stretched into the real thing. He’d done it. He’d driven a horse and cart for the first time, he hadn’t died or destroyed anything, and now his family was coming outside to see his triumph.
With a shout, Sasha raced over before he’d stopped the cart.
