An hour later, the cart bumped hard over something in the path, jolting Arthur from his seat. Cursing, he clung on and pulled Maurice to a stop.
At his side, Freya opened her eyes, annoyed at the disturbance. Arthur massaged his chest, breathing hard. He’d been daydreaming about Port Lorne, hardly paying attention to where they were going since they had not yet come to a fork or turn. Now he was paying for it with a strained back.
Maurice threw himself into the harness, but the cart didn’tmove. Dismounting with a grimace, Arthur patted the gelding’s neck.
“All right, old fellow, no need for that. Let me take a look. I’m sure our wheels have gotten stuck.”
He retrieved the shovel and knelt beside the front driver’s-side wheel with a groan. His knees ached in protest, but he gazed under the cart.
A human hand flopped out.
Arthur yelped. He scrambled away, wielding the shovel like a sword. His chest heaved.
The fingers curled in the dirt, pale and still. Trembling, Arthur stuck the shovel back in the cart and dug through his suitcase for a torch, trying not to imagine the fingers wrapping around his ankle while he wasn’t looking.
Kneeling back beside the hand, he turned on the torch and followed its thin beam of light along the fingers and wrist, beneath the cart, to the arm they were attached to. Freya settled at his side; it made him feel marginally better.
“Hello?”
A low groan. Christ. Had he killed someone? He’d certainly run them over.
Arthur rocketed to his feet and reached for Maurice’s bridle, so jittery the gelding tossed his head and snorted uneasily. Stroking his neck, Arthur focused on his own breathing,in for four, hold for four, out for four: a cycle Charlotte had taught him in her earliest days as a healer, to help him calm down when he panicked. Freya twisted around his legs, mewling.
“Watch out, Freya,” Arthur said. “All right, Maurice. Let’s—let’s see if we can get the cart off them, hmm?”
It took some maneuvering, but Maurice was a patient horse. Freya oversaw their efforts from the driver’s seat.
Arthur’s neck kept prickling as if someone other than the cat were watching. He would’ve been almost grateful, desperatefor help with a situation he hadn’t foreseen and felt unequal to, but no one was there. He had the uncomfortable feeling it might’ve been the trees.
When the cart was safely off to the side of the path, Arthur got a clear view of the hand’s owner.
It was a boy, seventeen or so, buried in the path up to his shoulders. His flaxen hair was brown with mud. His face and arms were scratched, his shirt more dirt than cloth. No wonder Arthur hadn’t seen him; so much moss blanketed him it might’ve grown there.
His face was white and waxen, veined in black—and unfortunately familiar. A village boy. Hamish, Arthur thought his name was.
Arthur let out a breath. The boy’s eyes opened, blue and filmy and threaded thinly with black veins. Arthur shrank back, but the boy gasped something that might’ve been a word.
Heart pounding, Arthur bent close. “What?”
Hamish reached for him. Hesitantly, Arthur took his hand. The boy coughed black ooze, his grip crushing Arthur’s fingers. Arthur resisted the urge to pull away, but his spine tingled.
“Brigid,” the boy croaked.
Arthur’s stomach clenched.Ma’sconvinced she’s eloped like Mary did, but we’re afraid she’s gone into the wood.Perhaps Brigid Tierney had done both, or tried to.
Before Arthur could decide what to say, Hamish’s cheek dropped to the leaf litter. His fingers went slack.
Arthur skittered away as if death were a contagion. He turned to Maurice and rested his forehead against the horse’s neck, breathing deeply,in for four, hold for four, out for four.
When he turned around, a stunted, twisted tree stood where Hamish had been.
Arthur’s mouth went dry. “Hamish?”
No response. Not even the rustle of leaves or the call of abird. Arthur reached for his shovel, holding it up like a bat, and approached the tree. Its roots bumped out of the earth, angled like Hamish’s arms had been.
“Hamish?”
Dirt shifted beneath Arthur’s feet. A tangle of root bent like fingers.
