Arthur had prepared for this, however, and plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of his nightshirt. “Then isn’t it lucky I have one of these?”
Jonas snorted.
“I thought you were sleeping,” Arthur said.
“Tryingto,” Jonas said, and fell silent.
Sasha wiped her mouth, looking disappointed that Arthur had thought this far ahead, but she handed the handkerchiefback without objection. Arthur waited for her to wiggle into place under her quilt with her old rag doll, which took longer than strictly necessary, and tucked her in.
Sitting beside her, he picked up the novel he’d left on the nightstand before putting on his nightshirt. The battered cover featured an image of a young woman fainting into the arms of a shirtless man with flowing hair.
Sasha eyed it dubiously. “Is this a kissing book?”
“Of course.” That was by far his favorite kind.
She groaned. “I want agoodstory, Uncle Arthur.”
He chuckled. “It is good. I promise.”
It was the first romance novel he’d ever read. His father had brought it back for his mother after a trip to Port Lorne. Eileen had read it once, enjoyed it, and set it aside forever. Arthur, ten, had stolen it from its spot on the side table and been utterly enamored from the first page. But he’d had a suspicion he was not supposed to be reading this book at this age, or possibly at all, a suspicion born of the cover’s shirtless, flowing-haired man. The sight of him made Arthur’s stomach clench pleasantly but guiltily.
The faint suspicion had grown into full-blown certainty when he’d reached a scene halfway through in which the hero and heroine started undressing each other, at which point young Arthur had flushed, slammed the book shut, and thrown it under his bed. It had lain there for several weeks until curiosity got the better of him and sent him crawling under the bed to find it.
He’d be skipping that bit when he read it to his niblings, of course.
“I don’twanta kissing book,” Sasha said.
Arthur set the novel aside. “What do you want, then?”
“I want Granddad’s story about the Lord of the Wood.”
Jonas jerked upright. With a hiss, the cat stalked to the foot of the bed to curl up afresh. Her disapproving golden gaze settled on Arthur. She closed her eyes and twisted tighter with a sigh, fluffy black tail curling over her nose.
Jonas spoke in a whisper. “He’s not supposed to tell that one. Mama said.”
“It’s been forever,” Sasha insisted. She held up her rag doll. “Besides, Molly wants to hear it, too.”
“Mamasaid.”
“Mama can’t tell Uncle Arthur what to do. He’s older.”
Jonas was outraged. “You tell me what to do all the time!”
Sasha ignored them. “Please?”
All Arthur’s best stories were about the wood. Charlotte had once loved them as much as he did. Though she’d never said so, Arthur thought the stories reminded her of their father as they did him. Her husband, John Prentice, had found them fascinating, too—especially since the villagers had warned him away from the wood without telling him why.
Then the sickness had come. One case, first. Another. More. Now Seacliff saw at least half a dozen such cases every year, despite the measures the villagers took to protect themselves from the forest. Salt in the pocket. A rowan cross in the lining of the clothes. Yellow flowers around the neck. Iron on wrists or ankles, prayers on lips, an elder leaf in the right shoe to ensure safe return. No matter their precautions, those who returned so often returned with the sickness.
Around nine months ago, four cases had hit all at once. Every person who’d fallen ill had died. Not long afterward, Charlotte and Arthur’s mother had died, too. They’d found her half frozen by the garden gate, like she’d been dragging herself toward the forest. They’d brought her in to warm her up, but it had been too late. She’d died delirious, calling for George.
The first time Charlotte heard Arthur telling stories of the wood after that, she suggested he might not. The second time, she asked him not to. And the third time—when Sasha hadbegged for the stories as she did now, and he’d given in despite his best intentions—she forbade him.
Arthur missed sharing the stories. They were a comfort. A reminder that the way things were wasn’t the way things had always been. Of the man he’d idolized as a father, who’d loved Arthur despite his many, many failings.
“It has been a while,” he said. “Perhaps just this once.”
Sasha whooped. He hushed her. If Charlotte heard them, he wouldn’t get to tell the story.
