Arthur slipped his father’s watch into his pocket. “Can I help with anything?”
“You’re a guest.”
“I don’t know about that.” Arthur followed him back around the bend toward the stump where he’d been chopping wood. “If I’m going to be here forever like you seem to think, surely I’m something other than a guest. I might as well help how I can—though I admit I’m likely to muck things up. That was my greatest source of help at home, mucking things up. I daresay I’m even better at it than the children.”
Ira let out a huff of laughter. That was something, Arthur thought. He’d made this grim man-beast-person laugh, however little.
He hoped he’d be able to make Charlotte laugh like that again someday. Soon. One way or another, he’d get home, no matter what the Lord of the Wood said.
“All right,” Ira said. “But first things first. Let’s get you out of those trousers.”
“What?” Arthur said.
xv. In which Charlotte tries to form a search party, to no avail
In the two days since Agnes Livingston’s horse had returned without her brother, Charlotte had tried to organize a search party. Her joints ached in the aftermath of the storm. She was fatigued, too, and could barely think straight, except for that single clear, terrible thought:Arthur is in trouble.
What kind of trouble, she didn’t know. But he certainly hadn’t sent the horse home alone. She didn’t like to think what might have separated them. Perhaps whatever had left the claw marks in Maurice’s flanks.
With each of the family’s losses, Charlotte had thought it was the worst thing they could face. Now, with her brother gone, she knew: This was the worst. All those times before, she and Arthur had lost—but they’d had each other.
Leaning on her cane, she went to house after house, and the few open shops, asking anyone she’d ever helped with an ailment or injury, however slight, to please,please, help find her brother.
No one would do it. Long suspicious of Shiftleaf, Seacliff was spooked worse than ever by the appearance of Brigid Tierney’s body. People who had, a week ago, risked the forest’s edgefor food or firewood, with prayers or rowan or yellow flowers for protection, would now not risk it at all. Even the reward Agnes set at Charlotte’s request was not enough to entice the villagers into the wood.
By Thursday afternoon, Charlotte was filled with a sense of dread. No one would help find her brother.
Numb, she stopped in at Agnes’s to check on Gracie. Her condition hadn’t changed, which was only a comfort because any change would be for the worse. Charlotte once more gave her tea and a tincture and sat in the drawing room with Agnes. She’d run herself ragged, going all over town, but she couldn’t bear to stay home. If she stopped moving for too long, she feared, the knowledge her brother was lost in the wood would overwhelm her.
Agnes was in her habitual spot on the davenport, thumbing through her old deck of cards. “Any change?”
“No.”
“Any word from Arthur?”
Charlotte rubbed her fingers. Her joints were stiff. “No.”
Agnes nodded, looking like she hadn’t heard. Charlotte had never seen her so distracted.
“I’ll be by again tomorrow,” Charlotte said, and stood.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. She swayed, gripping her cane.
Agnes glanced up for the first time, with a faint frown. “Charlotte dear? Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, of course. Good day, Mrs. Livingston.”
“Good day, Charlotte.”
Charlotte took it as a bad sign that Agnes hadn’t corrected her. Not that Charlotte planned to stop addressing her as such, but Agnes never failed to correct her. Gracie’s illness had her reeling.
Charlotte slipped briefly into the stable to examine Maurice’sclaw marks. Her nose wrinkled; the straw smelled as if it hadn’t been changed in days. The carriage horses and a single mule whinnied as she entered. She patted each of them, but her lips pressed into a line at the sight of their dry water buckets. With her servants run off, Agnes evidently wasn’t taking care of them.
Rubbing her forehead, deeply annoyed, Charlotte went searching for the spigot and feed. This wasn’t her job. Surely Agnes could pay someone enough to look after her stables, though no one would enter the manor. Charlotte didn’t feel up to mucking out stalls, but she could feed and water the horses. This time. She’d bring the issue up with Agnes when she stopped by tomorrow.
The feeding done, she lingered in Maurice’s stall. Maybe the claw marks could provide a clue to whatever had happened to Arthur—but no. Charlotte didn’t know what had made them, or whether it had separated Arthur from his horse or sunk its claws into the horse after he’d run off. At least they hadn’t shown any sign of wood sickness. Charlotte tried to tell herself that was something, but it was paltry comfort when claws could do quite enough damage.
She made her slow way through the village until she reached the McGills’. Young Dougal McGill’s stump was healing well after the incident in the cannery. His mother had changed the dressing for him frequently and prevented him from doing overmuch while he convalesced. Often, the villagers ignored Charlotte’s instructions to rest and let themselves heal after illness or injury, so she was grateful his mother had taken her orders seriously.
