Ira’s hand was warm against his temple. Arthur pinkened, thinking again of his romance novels and wondering why all of this felt so much like something out of one, except that they were both men.
He remembered driving through the village, how he’d felt with Cormac’s thigh pressed against his. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But if so, Mrs. Young’s angrily muttered words might, too. Arthur swallowed, trying to forget them.
Ira’s hand trailed from Arthur’s temple, down his cheek, to his jaw. His fingers curled in to keep his claws from Arthur’s skin.
“Arthur, I...”
The fluttering in Arthur’s chest pulsed like wings against his rib cage, more frantic than ever. He leaned closer, desperate to know what Ira might say. Afraid to know what he might say. Mrs. Young’s words whispered at the back of his mind.
In the distance, a mournful howl sounded. Ira wrenched away. He rose stiffly and raised his head, animal-like, listening. His jaw tightened; his clawed hands clenched.
Whatever had been fluttering in Arthur’s chest sank, weighing in his stomach. He sat up, drawing closer to the fire. Freya peered into the darkness with wide, golden eyes. Her tail lashed.
Another howl. Several. Ira swiped a hand through the air.
The earth rumbled. Trees burst from the ground. They bent toward each other, forming a protective ring around the fire. Freya growled at the disturbance but didn’t seem to mind it as much as the howling.
Arthur, on the other hand, minded very much. With the earth quaking underfoot, he nearly fell into the fire. Yelping, he scrambled close to Ira, in the hopes the sudden trees wouldn’t touch him, and sat trembling against his leg.
Ira touched the top of his head, but his eyes fixed on the trees. They grew together, trunk melting into trunk, branch weaving through branch, leaving a single opening overhead through which smoke could escape. When the howling sounded again, it was closer—but muted.
Arthur let out a breath.
Ira glanced at him, antlers gilded in the firelight. “Wasn’t sure that’d work.”
“I’m glad it did.” Despite the apparent safety of their new shelter, Arthur pressed closer and dragged the cat into his lap. She grumbled in protest. “Do I want to know what’s out there?”
Ira sat beside him. “They can’t get at us, now. Get some sleep.”
Arthur curled up uneasily with the cat in his arms. Did Charlotte have shelter for the night? Or was she out in the open, where any manner of eldritch creature might gobble her up?
Beyond the mass of trunks and boughs, the howling grew closer. Freya’s ears swiveled in its direction, intent, which did not make Arthur feel any better. With Ira at his side, staring into the fire, Arthur drifted into dreams in which shadowy beasts clawed at their shelter, trying to get in.
xxvi. In which Charlotte discusses grief, even though she’d rather not
It was after dark when Charlotte and Elspeth stopped for the night, but the cliffside was brighter than the wood. They hadn’t discussed their mutual desire to avoid the depths of the forest as long as possible, but Elspeth hadn’t turned the mule in toward the trees, and Charlotte hadn’t asked her to. It was colder out here, with the sea breezes blowing, but she had Elspeth’s cloak. The stars seemed close enough to touch.
They made camp in a spot where the trees were farther back from the ledge, leaving a comfortable amount of room for the mule, the gig, a fire, and themselves. Two silver saplings stood nearby, which had been the deciding factor; Elspeth thought a sapling of the same kind as the first tree might lend them some safety.
One of the trees wasn’t fruiting. In fact, it was tarnished, no different than the silver in Agnes Livingston’s manor when it went too long without polishing. The other, however, was thick with acorns. Charlotte harvested a handful, hoping their magic could cure the sickness.
Before supper, she gave Elspeth a once-over to be safe. The hands in the mud had left fingerprint bruises on Elspeth’s ankles and calves. Elspeth avoided the sight but told Charlotte not to bother about them; they didn’t hurt. Her shoulder was sore but hadn’t bruised or swollen. Her scar and stitches were still black, which made both women uneasy—though neither said anything about it—but the veins had spread no farther. So far, it seemed, Elspeth’s acorn was protecting her from worsening symptoms.
Charlotte dug the glass vials from her medical kit, plucked several blades of grass, and sat by the fire. Besides the vial of black ooze, she now had one of bark she’d scraped from an infected tree and another of sickly gray leaves she’d picked out of the leaf litter. An animal sample would’ve been useful, but she didn’t relish getting bitten or clawed by an infected beast, and she was unwilling to test anything on Elspeth until she’d tested it elsewhere.
Carefully, she uncorked the black ooze and dropped a blade of grass into it. She did the same to the vials of bark and leaves, then examined them all.
Black veins shot through the grass in the ooze. Did the ooze always infect things so quickly, or was the blade simply sucking it up like water? Charlotte wasn’t sure. Either way, the grass looked infected now.
In the other vials, nothing happened. She leaned forward, holding them closer to the fire to make sure she wasn’t missing anything. John’s wedding ring glinted in the firelight.
Beside her, removing her boots, Elspeth nodded at it. “That was your husband’s, then, aye?”
Charlotte reached for it automatically. With Elspeth watching, she tried not to rub the ring, but no sooner had she forced her hand away than it slipped right back.
“How long ago?” Elspeth asked.
Charlotte’s eyes stung. “Eight years. Sasha doesn’t remember him.”
