Arthur sifted through the drawings, drinking them in as if a rain of new images might deepen the pool of memory. The portrait was the most detailed, like George had sat for it, but the rest were sketches like those Ira had done of Arthur. Profiles in various moods. George reading or sorting plants. One of George looking over his shoulder, annoyed, as if Ira’s incessant drawing of him had indeed gotten on his nerves.
Arthur chuckled, but a lump swelled in his throat.
“Lottie certainly does look like him,” he said, tracing his father’s brow with a finger. He missed Charlotte telling him about the latest development in her favorite radio program. Sasha running to show him a bug she’d found. Jonas asking questions about their father.
He wanted to cry, but he handed the drawings back and sat blinking in his chair. Ira deposited Calyx in its spot by the stove and put the drawings, charcoal stick, and block of paper away.
Returning to his seat, he touched Arthur’s shoulder briefly. “Are you all right?”
Arthur swallowed. “It’s just, I promised them I’d come back.”
“Your family?”
Arthur nodded. “You seem to expect me to accept that this is my home now. But I can’t bear the thought I might never see them again.”
Ira hesitated. “There is a way. It isn’t... It won’t... You won’t be able to speak to them. I want you to know that. But you could see them.”
“How?”
Ira nodded him toward the table. Careful to avoid tanglinghis antlers in the items hanging from the ceiling, he took down the silver basin, filled it with water, and set it before Arthur.
“In my memories?” Arthur said in disappointment.
Ira shook his head. “It can do that, if you wish. But it can show them to you now, too. Wherever they are, whatever they’re doing. For memories, hair. For this...”
Taking Arthur’s hand, he produced a pocketknife. Arthur recoiled. Ira released him.
“Do you want to see them?”
Arthur’s hand tingled at the prospect of making contact with the blade, but he nodded.
Ira opened the knife and held it to Arthur’s fingertip. He paused.
“It may disorient you. It’s not like seeing the memories.”
Arthur let out a breath. The blade flashed, his finger stung, and a drop of blood fell into the basin.
He stood inside his cottage kitchen, gazing out at the heathery cliffside, the dark and turbulent sea beyond. His heart pounded at the change. The windows rattled in their panes.
“Ira?” Arthur said, but he could no longer see or hear the Lord of the Wood. He felt a pang, imagining Ira in the vale alone.
Until he turned and saw the children.
To his surprise, they sat at the table not with Charlotte but with Kitty Tierney. His worry softened: Charlotte had asked for help in his absence! He’d hoped she might but hadn’t actually expected her to.
The thought didn’t last long. Sasha slumped, her head on her arms. Jonas picked at their lower lip, a habit they’d mostly grown out of but sometimes fell into when stressed. Each of them had a plate of fresh biscuits, but neither had eaten any. Sasha’s plate was shoved off to the side.
“Children?”
They didn’t respond. Arthur moved toward them, feeling oddly like he was in a dream.
Kitty’s eyes flickered between the two children. She broke a biscuit into pieces and said, in a voice of forced cheer, “Well! Time yet before bed. What about that story, then, Sasha?”
Sasha sniffled. To Arthur’s astonishment, fat tears slid down her cheeks and dripped from her nose.
“Sasha,” he said weakly. “Duckling, don’t cry. Everything’s all right—”
Kitty touched Sasha’s elbow.
