xix. In which Arthur sees his family, but not the way he expects
Arthur’s last attempt at escaping the vale had been yesterday morning.
Too nervous to reapproach the brambles, he’d tried to climb over the tree-house. He should’ve known he’d fail; Arthur had never been much of a tree climber. Sasha was much better.
He’d fallen, landed on his back with a yelp, and winded himself. Ira had found him sprawled in the snow. As when he’d discovered Arthur amidst the trees the day prior, he’d been pale and tight-jawed. But he hadn’t growled or snarled or lunged at Arthur and grabbed him. He’d merely asked, in a strained voice, what had happened, and made Arthur wiggle his fingers and toes and move his arms and legs to make sure he hadn’t been paralyzed in the fall.
(He had not.)
Despite Calyx’s objections, Ira had helped Arthur to his armchair (when had Arthur started thinking of it as his? he wasn’t sure), warmed the heating pad for him, and checked periodically to make sure he could still move his limbs. Eventually, Ira had regained his color and lost the tension in his jaw. AndArthur had realized, in astonishment, that he’d been frightened. Even though the forest, this time, could not be blamed for anything that might’ve happened. The fall had been entirely Arthur’s own fault, the climb his own ridiculous idea.
For the rest of the day, Arthur sat in his chair, nursing a strained back and reading a novel. By Saturday afternoon, between chair, heating pad, and a pain-killing ointment, Arthur’s back felt better except for the occasional twinge. His mood, however, had taken a sharp dive. He tried to read, but he couldn’t help thinking what a long life it would be, with only three books and one watch and no Sasha to run in and interrupt his reading.
Freya purred in his lap. That didn’t help, either. He kept wondering whether the children missed her.
For a while, he sank into the story, but at last—realizing he’d read the same paragraph several times without absorbing it—he closed his book with a sigh. To his surprise, he found Ira turned toward him at a sharper angle than usual, like he wanted to get the best look he could at Arthur with his one functional eye.
“What?” Arthur asked.
Ears pinkening, Ira turned hastily away. “Nothing.”
There was a stick of charcoal in his hand and a yellow block of paper in his lap. He often had something in his hands in the evening hours they whiled away by the stove, but usually it was work. Laundry to fold. Torn clothes to mend, or clothing he was altering for Arthur. Garlic to jar. Root vegetables he’d taken down from the ceiling to peel for tomorrow’s supper. A knife and a block of wood to make a new foot for the bedside table when it wobbled. Pruning shears, because Calyx needed periodic pruning like the cat needed brushing.
This didn’t seem like that.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked.
“Drawing.”
Arthur’s interest was piqued. “I didn’t know you could draw.”
“It’s been a long time. I haven’t... Being here, without even the seasons changing—I ran out of new things to draw ages ago.”
Arthur leaned over. “Can I see?”
Ira’s ears were pinker than ever. Biting his lip, he handed Arthur the yellowed paper.
It was covered in sketches of Arthur. Arthur reading in his chair, sitting one way, then another, because sitting properly in chairs was another on the long list of things he was bad at. Arthur frowning, or smiling, or with eyes close to the page as he got lost in a particularly tense scene. The sketches were quick and simple, lines layered over lines without erasure, but it gave them softness.
Arthur caught Ira’s gaze, not sure what to say. The sketches, the sharing of them, felt like a gift.
Ira cleared his throat.
“You’re very expressive.” He took the block back, set it aside. “I wanted to sketch you the other day—you made so many faces while you were repairing the watch—but it’s been so long, and there was the shirt to alter for you...”
“Are there more?” Arthur asked. “If you don’t mind showing me?”
Ira went to the chest of drawers by the bed, returning with a sheaf of yellowed papers. Calyx nosed at him; Ira leaned into its fronds and vines.
“I used to draw George a lot. I liked drawing people, but I saw so little of anyone but him. Think it got on his nerves sometimes.”
He handed the papers to Arthur and perched in his chair, drumming his fingers on his thighs.
Arthur’s eyes prickled, but he smiled. There was a portrait, George wearing a grin so like Charlotte’s.
“It looks just like him. You’re very good.”
“Thanks.”
