“He nursed your granddad back to health,” he continued,“and when Granddad was well, the Lord of the Wood turned back into a stag and led him safely out of the wood, giving him a silver acorn to remember him by—the one that’s hanging in my workshop to this day. Granddad never saw the Lord of the Wood again, but he never forgot him. And when he returned to Seacliff years later, he didn’t get lost once.”
“Wow.” Sasha turned onto her side, dark eyes sparkling. “Do you think I’ll ever meet the Lord of the Wood? Do you think he’d like me?”
With a pang, Arthur remembered asking his father that so many years ago. He swallowed the memory and smiled.
“Certainly he’d like you, duck.” He leaned over her, trying to look menacing. “But to meet him, you know... you’d have to enter the forest.”
Sasha popped upright, narrowly avoiding beaning him in the nose with her forehead. “I’m not afraid!”
“You should be,” Arthur said solemnly, “because in the forest there are...tickle monsters,” and he grabbed her and tickled her until they were both breathless with laughter.
“Arthur.”
They sat up guiltily, the laughter dying on their faces. Charlotte stood in the doorway, eyes bruised with exhaustion.
“Bed. Now.”
“But Mama—”
“Now.”
Even Sasha knew better than to argue with that tone, so she wriggled farther into her quilt silently (if grumpily), frowning when her uncle and mother kissed her forehead. When both children had been attended to and the light turned out, Charlotte and Arthur retreated to the hall, closing the door behind them.
ii. In which Arthur makes a promise
The moment the door had shut, Charlotte rounded on her brother.
“I’ve told you not to tell my children that story anymore.”
Arthur flinched. He knew he’d messed up worse than usual whenever she called themmychildren rather thanthechildren.Theleft Arthur with some semblance of parenthood.Myput him back in his rightful place as uncle.
“Lottie—”
“I know what Dad’s stories mean to you.” Charlotte’s voice quivered; she hardly ever mentioned their father. “But you take them too seriously. You think the forest is this beautiful place full of adventure and enchantment, but it’sdangerous, Arthur.”
“Dad used to say the forest—”
“Dad vanished in that forest. Or have you wrapped yourself up in so many stories that you’ve forgotten?”
Charlotte didn’t sound angry, merely tired. She slumped against the wall but snapped upright as the bedroom door opened, revealing a sliver of Sasha’s face. Freya, the cat, slipped out past her.
“I like hearing about Granddad,” Sasha said. “And I like hearing about Shiftleaf.”
“Don’t speak its name,” Charlotte snapped. “Go to bed.”
Sasha looked ready to argue, but Jonas dragged her away and closed the door. Ferocious whispers drifted through the wall, unintelligible, and died away. The squeak of bedsprings suggested Jonas had convinced Sasha to get back into bed.
Charlotte sagged. Arthur tucked his book under one arm and offered her the other. Taking it, she leaned against him as he helped her to her room. She sank onto the bed.
“I know it makes you feel close to Dad, telling his stories. But you never mention the sickness.”
Arthur’s stomach turned. He’d seen someone with wood sickness once. If he never saw it again, it would be too soon.
“Or the disappearances,” Charlotte continued. “You don’t even tell the children aboutDad’sdisappearance. And I worry... Sasha’s too curious for her own good.” The cat hopped into her lap. She petted her absently. “If you had your own children, you’d understand.”
People had been saying that to him his whole life. Most of the time, his niblings were quite as good as his own children, except when Charlotte reminded him they weren’t.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t want a family, but at forty-three he was unmarried. He’d grown from a soft, slender, pinkish boy into a soft, paunchy, blond adult, aggressively average in height, build, and features; the village girls never spared him a second glance. Nor did he have fortune to recommend him, nor his father’s education, nor the other village men’s brawn. And every year, marriageable girls were fewer and fewer and younger and younger.
