What was the point, he wondered, unpinning a pair of trousers, of trying to change one’s life in a place like Seacliff? The slate-gray rooftops and narrow cobbled streets half a mile downhill from the Throckmorton-Prentices’ cottage were exactly the same as they had been in Arthur’s childhood, as were the villagers. All merely shabbier. The cannery that had opened two decades ago spewed smog over everything and always smelled of fish guts. The commercial fishing venture that had opened five years before that had long since cleared Seacliff’s fishing grounds and moved on to richer waters.
Lights twinkled down in the village as darkness fell, so much fewer than they used to be. Half the shops in Seacliff had closed in the last decade. Most of the young people left, going to Port Lorne or Glenwhistle to seek their fortunes.
Arthur finished taking down the laundry and put a hand to his lower back, massaging the twinge that had flared up. Beyond the garden and laundry line, the trees rustled. Arthur bit his lip, feeling as if they were gazing back at him.
He remembered his father’s many stories about the forest. The enchantment. The trees going about their business, uprooting themselves to walk about like men. The Lord of the Wood. Despite the dangers the forest held, Arthur couldn’t let the stories go.
Not for the first time, he imagined a magnificent stag appearing at the wood’s edge, its pelt burnished gold. It would gaze at him with large, liquid eyes. Then, suddenly, it would transform into a man. The man would smile, and beckon Arthur close, and say... and say...
I’ve been waiting for you, maybe. Like they were old friends,though of course the Lord of the Wood would not know who Arthur was just because Arthur knew who he was. Or,You’renot like anyone I’ve ever met, but it would be a compliment. Whatever was said—whatever Arthur decided he would most like to hear—the Lord of the Wood would smile and welcome him, and they’d have a splendid time of things.
With a soft sigh, Arthur hauled the laundry basket into the cottage, ignoring the goat bleating at him as he went.
Inside, Charlotte’s children sat at the kitchen table. Jonas was having Sasha read a book aloud to them for practice before school began in another couple of weeks. Sasha was a mirror image of her father, with cool, dark brown skin and dark brown eyes ever twinkling with curiosity and excitement. Jonas favored Charlotte, but their curls were brown instead of black and their eyes green instead of brown.
The laundry basket tipped over as Arthur set it down. He narrowly stopped clean clothes from falling all over the floor and sent the children to get ready for bed. It wasn’t quite their bedtime (Sasha informed him promptly), but bedtime was an eternal struggle. Best to get an early start.
As usual, Jonas went without fuss. Sasha, however, was in and out of bed several times in the next twenty minutes. At ten past nine, she was finally in her nightgown only because Arthur had put on his nightshirt.
Back in the kitchen, he found Charlotte at the sink, in her shirtwaist, skirt, and boots, with her black hair in its chignon, washing the supper things.
“I could’ve done that after the children were asleep,” Arthur said. “You didn’t need to get up.”
She grimaced.
“Yes, I did.” Glancing at him, she sighed. “Heaven’s sakes. Why are you in your nightshirt? It’s notyourbedtime.”
Arthur grabbed a glass from the cupboard beside the sink.Sasha had requested milk and a story and sworn to him she would, at last, go to bed if he’d provide them.
“Sasha made an excellent point about the unfairness of her and Jonas having to be in their nighties while you and I are in our day clothes.”
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose. “She’s eight.”
“She’s very persuasive.”
Charlotte sighed again but didn’t argue.
Someone knocked at the front door. Charlotte dried her hands, but Arthur said, “I’ll get it.”
“In your nightshirt?”
“They ought to expect it, if they’re going to call so late.”
Arthur did, however, tug on his dressing gown before answering, since he didn’t want to scandalize anyone.
At the door, a fisherman twisted his cap in his hands. Weatherbeaten and gruff, he looked near ten years older than Arthur, but they were both in their forties. They’d been schoolmates until the fisherman, name of Cormac Young, had left school at age ten to join the men at work. Arthur had joined them briefly at twelve, having left school when his father vanished, but the fishermen had scared him off after he’d lost a net, sprung a leak in a boat, and cried over the one fish he’d caught. He’d let it go, pretending it had escaped, because the men would forgive a boy’s clumsy hands, if begrudgingly, before his tears.
Cormac’s eyes swooped down to Arthur’s bare feet and back up. Arthur curled his toes against the floorboards. He wished he’d thought to grab his slippers.
“Good evening,” he squeaked.
He hadn’t meant to squeak, but Cormac had very blue eyes, which had, for unclear reasons, made Arthur desperate to be friends with him back in school. Cormac hadn’t been one ofhis bullies, but he’d ignored Arthur except occasionally for paltry things like holding doors open rather than letting them slam in Arthur’s face.
“Evening.” Cormac shifted from foot to foot, avoiding Arthur’s gaze. “Mrs. Prentice about? Rosie’s coughing something fierce.”
Arthur nodded, turning to get his sister, but she was already making her way to the door, leaning on her cane. “Good evening, Mr. Young. Rosie?”
The fisherman nodded. “Fever’s down, but the coughing... She can’t get to sleep. If you’ve anything might help—”
