“Careful, duck,” he said, but the gelding stopped the cart itself to nose at the tiny human hugging its leg. Jonas hung back, clinging to Charlotte’s hand. The goat slung her legs over the garden fence with a lustymaaah.
Charlotte’s eyes were bruised as usual, but she smiled as Arthur looped the driving lines over the hook by his feet and clambered down.
“Did you teach yourself to drive a horse-cart?”
Arthur’s smile faltered as he thought of Cormac, but he said archly, “I’m a man of many talents,” even though he wasn’t. Charlotte’s eyes flickered over him. To his relief, she turned to the gelding and stroked his nose without further questions.
After tying the horse by the chicken coop, Arthur went inside and packed, nonsensically. He’d never been farther from Seacliff than some of the outlying farms, to which George had sometimes brought his children on house calls. Having filled a battered suitcase in the attic with clothes, food, tinctures, and toiletries, and a knapsack with a bottle of water, one more set of clothes, some herbs, his shaving kit, and no fewer than three books, Arthur was at a loss. What else might such a journey require?
He lugged the suitcase and knapsack through his workshop, slipping his old travel watch-repairing kit into his pocket for comfort. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed his father’s silver acorn from its peg, hung it around his neck, and tucked it into his shirt. It might not protect him on his way through, but it had come from the forest. His father had worn it constantly. That was a comfort, too.
Outside, Arthur stuck his suitcase in the back of the cart, set his knapsack on the driver’s seat, remembered Cormac’s words, and grabbed a shovel from the shed.
“What’s that for?” Charlotte asked.
“In case the cart gets stuck.”
Arthur blinked the sting from his eyes. He had a feeling Cormac wouldn’t be speaking to him again.
Sasha stroked the gelding’s nose, chattering to him about school starting next week, which lessons she was looking forward to, and which she found unbearably boring. She’d named him Maurice, since he didn’t have a name (or Agnes hadn’t told Arthur his name). Jonas reached out to touch Maurice’s neck, relaxed when the beast didn’t turn and trample them, and shifted closer. Freya wound around underfoot, threatening to trip everyone.
“Where are you going?” Jonas asked their uncle.
“Port Lorne,” Sasha announced, before Arthur could respond. “He’s going to buy a clock for Mrs. Livingston. Right, Uncle Arthur?”
Putting the shovel in the cart, Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat. “Right.”
It wasn’t for long. A week at most; Agnes was counting on him to return quickly. But now the time had come, he didn’t want to leave the children.
“I suppose I should be going,” he said reluctantly.
“Can I come with you?” Sasha asked.
I’ll take you when you’re older, Arthur heard his father saying. His fingers curled at his sides.
Predictably, however, before he could say anything, Charlotte said, “Absolutely not.”
“What if Uncle Arthur gets lonely?”
“I’ll be fine, duck.”
Sasha opened her mouth to argue, but at a look from her mother, she turned back to the horse and cat with a huff.
Charlotte caught her brother’s hand and drew him away from the children. Chickens scattered before them.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
Her hand tightened on his. “I mean it, Arthur.”
Arthur squeezed her hand.
“So do I,” he said, though he’d said it automatically, but she shook her head.
“We’ve lost too much. I can’t lose you, too. The forest is dangerous.Don’t forget that. Please.”
Her voice was tight. She blinked rapidly, like she was trying not to cry. Arthur gave a lopsided smile.
