by V. E. Schwab
Wren is sitting on the table, swinging her legs and playing with one of her baked toys.
I lean against the door frame, holding the book close as my mother wanders like a ghost, setting an empty basket down, picking up an apron, all without a sound. Wren smiles at me and curls her fingers, beckoning me to the table, and when I’m there she reaches up with cupped hands to whisper, “Did you go to the sisters?”
I come close enough to kiss her hair and whisper back, “I did. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
She bounces happily.
“Wren.” My mother doesn’t look up, but her voice wafts through the room. “Can you go fetch me some basil from your garden?”
Wren hops down from the table and bounds out. The front door groans shuts. I wait for my mother to speak to me, to ask me where I’ve been, but she says nothing.
“I went to see the sisters,” I offer. “They hadn’t heard about Edgar.”
Her gaze floats up. Why won’t she speak?
“I saw the stranger, too. I spoke to him, and he’s not to blame, I don’t think. He has the oddest—”
“You shouldn’t have gone, Lexi.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“Your uncle—”
“Is not my father. Or my mother.”
She sets a towel down and circles the table. “Otto is only trying to protect you.”
“And you?” My fingers tighten on the book. “You could have stopped me.”
“You wouldn’t have listened,” she says.
“You could have tried…” I start, but my words fade as my mother’s fingers, ghostly white with flour, come to rest on my back. Her touch is light—not gentle, but thin, ethereal. For a moment I am reminded of the stranger. And then her fingers tighten and her eyes find mine, and something flickers in her, fierce and hot.
“I am trying, Lexi,” she whispers, “to help you.”
The glimpse of the woman my mother used to be catches me off guard. Just a moment, and then it’s fading, and her fingers are sliding weightlessly away. I want to speak, but when I open my mouth, another voice breaks through from somewhere outside. Then another joins. And another.
The moment is over. My mother is back at the counter, turning out dough from a proofing pan, looking a hundred miles away.
“I didn’t see him,” I offer quickly, the sounds of men drawing closer. “I never went.” I wait for her to look up and offer a knowing smile or a nod, but she doesn’t even seem to hear me.
I swallow, tuck the book under my arm, and slip down the hall. The voices are coming from the west, building on each other like thunder, from where the village sits, hidden by hills. I position myself in the doorway, shivering as the wind cuts through.
What did my mother mean?
I take several long deep breaths, trying to get air past the rocks in my throat.
The book falls open in my hands to Magda’s entry, as several members of the search party trudge into sight, looking like shadows cast by the sinking sun. Their faces are long and thin, their brows heavy, shoulders hunched. Their hopes of finding Edgar, at least of finding him alive, must be waning with the light. I watch them from my post, glancing up from the book and trying to give the look of a docile, patient girl. My thumb traces over the words, The wind is lonely.
The men pause at Otto’s house and exchange a few low words. Then the group breaks apart, scattering like seeds on a gust of wind.
I step aside as Otto stomps past and into our house, avoiding my gaze. And there, a few strides behind him, a tall boy marches over, his shock of dirty-blond hair glowing in the dusky light. Tyler Ward. His pace slows to a stroll as he sees me, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth, even now. He’s trying and failing to look appropriately sober, considering the situation. He slips into the doorway with me, weaving his fingers through mine.
“Pretty sunset,” he says, and his imitation of the brooding and forlorn is almost funny.
“No luck?” I ask, pulling my hand away.
He shakes his head, and I can’t believe it, but it’s almost dismissive. I bite my tongue and force a calm smile.
“Where did you look?”
“Why?” He shoots a blue-eyed glance at me from behind his hair.
“Come on, Tyler,” I say. “You’re always complaining of not having enough adventure. Regale me. What did you do today? Where did you go?”
“Otto said you’d ask, said you’d try to go off on your own. That would be unsafe, Lexi,” he says with a frown. “I’m afraid I cannot risk you getting hurt.” His eyes wander down my hands to a small nick, a splinter from chopping wood. He runs his fingertips over it. “I would have done that for you.”
“I didn’t want to wait,” I say, pulling my hand away. “And I’m more than able.” Tyler falls into a strange quiet, and I step closer and brush his jaw with my fingers, guiding his chin up. “The town square? The Drakes’ house? That field we used to play in, the one full of heather?”
He offers a slanted grin. “What will you give me for it?”
“This is serious,” I say. “It’s almost dark, and Edgar’s still missing.”
He looks away, leaning heavily back against the door frame with a frown. It looks wrong on his face, which is so used to smiling. “I know, Lexi. I’m sorry.”
“Have you been to see Helena? Is she all right?”
He interlaces his fingers behind his head and looks away.
I let out an exasperated sigh. The doorway is not big enough for both of us, and I step past him and out into the yard. Tyler trots after me.
“I’ll tell you if you answer a question for me.”
I stop walking away but don’t turn around. I wait for him to reach me, hugging the book to my chest. The wind picks up, the cold air prickling my skin. The world is turning a bruised shade as the light fades. Tyler stops just behind my back. I can almost feel his outstretched hand as he tries to decide whether to touch me or not.
“Why are you doing this to me?” comes his voice, just loud enough to cross the narrow space between us.
“I’m not doing anything, Tyler.” But I know it’s a lie. And so does he.
“Lexi,” he says, and the voice is strange, almost pleading, “you know what I want. Why won’t you even—”
“Why won’t I give you what you want, Tyler?” I ask, spinning on him. “Is that what you’re asking?”
“Lexi, be fair. Give me a chance.” He reaches out, brushes a coil of dark hair from my face. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. Tell me why I can be your friend your entire life, and yet you won’t entertain the thought of—”
“Because you’re my friend,” I interrupt. That’s not the whole truth. Because I loved the little boy you were, and now you’re growing up to be something else.
“I’ve always been your friend, Lexi. That will never change. Why can’t we be more?”
I take a deep breath. The wild grass rolls away from me toward Near.
“Do you remember,” I say over the growing wind, “when we were little, and we used to play those games, the spinning games?”
“Of course I remember. I always won.”
“You always let go. You let go when you thought it would be funny, and the circle broke apart, and everyone fell down except you.”
“It was just a game.”
“But everything’s a game to you, Tyler.” I sigh. “All of it. And it’s not about skinned knees anymore. You just want to win.”
“I want to be with you.”
“Then be with me as a friend,” I say. “And help me find Edgar.”
Tyler looks back at the house, the silhouette of my uncle in the window as he washes his hands. When Tyler turns back to me, he’s smiling again, a thinner version of his usual grin.
“No one will ever be good enough for you, Lexi Harris.”
I smile back. “Maybe one day—”
“When the moon shines—” he says.
“In the grass-green sky,” I finish. A li
ne my father used to say. Tyler walked around for days repeating it. And for a moment we’re just two kids again in a spinning game or a field of heather, grinning until our faces hurt.
Then the wind bristles. The last bit of light is bleeding away, replaced by a rich blue darkness. I fight off a shiver, and Tyler slides out of his coat, but I shake my head. He seems caught between actions, so he just lets the coat hang there in his hand, both of us suffering.
“Now it’s your turn to talk,” I say, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.
“I do love talking,” he says, “but Otto’s going to have my head for telling you this, Lexi.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
His smile fades as he slides his coat back on, squares his shoulders, and holds his head up in an almost perfect imitation of my uncle. “We went with Edgar’s father, Mr. Drake, to his house. Edgar’s bedroom was untouched. The window was open, but that was all. Like he just got up and left. Climbed through.” My mind flashes to Wren walking in her daze to the window, trying to slide it open.
“His mother said she tucked him in last night. She said she didn’t hear anything strange.”
“Edgar’s afraid of everything. He wouldn’t just leave.” Tyler shrugs. “All we know is there was no struggle, and the window was open. We headed west, into those fields by their house, all the way to the edge of the village.”
So they took my advice, after all.
“We looked everywhere, Lexi.”
Everywhere in Near, I think.
Tyler sighs, and I can’t help but think he’s almost handsome without the egotistical smile.
“Everywhere. There’s not a single trace of him. How does that happen?” He frowns, kicking at a stray pebble. “I mean, everyone leaves marks, right?” He shakes his head, straightening. “Otto thinks it’s that stranger. Makes sense, if you think about it.”
“Do you have any evidence?” I ask, careful to sound neutral. “Do you even know where he is?”
Tyler nods. “Got a good idea. Only so many places a person can hide in Near, Lexi. If he’s still here.”
I hope he is. The thought slips in, and I’m suddenly thankful for the thickening dark.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Lexi!” a heavy voice calls from the door. I turn to see Otto waiting, outlined against the light from inside. Tyler gestures toward the house, his hand coming to rest against my back, urging me toward the door. Otto fades back inside.
“Now,” Tyler says quietly, “we get the witches to give up the stranger.” His nose wrinkles when he says witches.
“Assuming he’s still here,” I say as we reach the door. “And assuming the sisters have him, and assuming Dreska doesn’t curse you for making that face. That’s assuming a lot, Tyler.”
He shrugs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You need a lot more than luck.”
He cocks his head to one side, sending blond hair into his eyes.
“How about a kiss, then,” he says, leaning over me with a smirk. “For good measure?”
I smile back, stretching onto my toes. And then I step back and shut the door on Tyler.
I swear I can hear him kiss the wood on the other side.
“Good night, cruel girl,” he calls through the door.
“Good night, silly boy,” I call back, standing at the door until his footsteps fade into nothing.
7
Wren is skipping up and down the hall in her nightgown, playing games with the wooden floorboards. Her bare feet land with light thuds like rain on stones. Wren knows a thousand games for times between. Between meals and bed. Between people paying attention to her. Games with words and rules, and games without. Thud, thud, thud on the wooden floor.
The floorboards in our house seem to have their own tunes, so Wren makes a kind of music by landing on the different planks. She’s even found a way to pound out the Witch’s Rhyme, a bit clumsily. She is hitting the final bits of the song when I hop into her path, and she just giggles and bounces around me without even missing a note.
I slip into our bedroom and put my father’s book back on its shelf beside the three candles. Beyond the window the darkness slides in heavy and tired and thick.
I cannot stop thinking about Tyler’s words. Everyone leaves marks.
I slide a soft blue apron from the drawer and tie it around my waist, making my way to the kitchen. Otto is sitting at the table, a thick yellow band on each of his arms, talking with my mother. His voice is at the level adults use when they think they’re being secretive, but that’s loud enough to catch any child’s ear. My mother is wiping crumbs and flour from the table, and nodding. I catch the word “sisters” before Otto sees me and changes his tone and his subject.
“You and Tyler have a good chat?” he asks, too interested.
“Good enough,” I say.
“And how was your day, Lexi?” I can feel his eyes on me, and there’s a challenge in his voice. I swallow and try to pick my lie when—
“She delivered bread with me,” offers my mother, almost absently. “A child might be missing, but folks still need to eat.” I bite the inside of my mouth to keep the shock from my face at my mother’s lie. The image of her and Wren returning home with the empty basket flits into my mind, her sudden stern look as she told me she was trying to help.
I nod, cutting up the last of a loaf and setting it on the table with some cheese. My uncle grunts but says no more. My mother wraps a few extra loaves of bread in cloth, and slides her apron from her dress. It is the last thing she discards each night, when she must put the baking aside.
“And you, Uncle?” I ask. “Any signs of Edgar?”
His eyebrows knit, and he takes a long sip from his mug.
“Not today, no,” he says into his cup. “We’ll go back out in the morning.”
“Perhaps tomorrow I could help.”
Otto hesitates, then says, “We’ll see.” Which almost certainly means no, but he’s too tired to argue. He pushes himself up, the chair grating against the floor as it slides back. “I’m on first patrol.”
“Patrol?” I ask.
“We’ve got men all over the village, just to be safe.” He taps the yellow bands. “To mark my men. Only a fool would be caught out tonight. I’ve given them all orders to shoot on sight.”
Wonderful.
My uncle excuses himself. I sag into the vacated chair and try to remember if I own any yellow. From the hall come creaks and thuds; Wren is still playing her game. My mother meets my eyes but doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if she knows what I plan to do. She yawns and kisses my forehead, her lips barely a breath against my skin, and then goes to tuck Wren in. The thud, thud, thud stops in the hall as my sister is led away to bed.
I sit there in the kitchen, waiting as the hearthstones grow cold. I think my mother bakes all day long, until her bones and muscles ache, so that when she collapses into bed each night there is no risk of lying awake, no risk of remembering. My father used to sit up with her, tell her stories until dawn, because he knew she loved the sound of his voice, thick as sleep around her.
I sit until the house is dark and still, until the quiet becomes heavy, as if everything is holding its breath. Then I push myself up and retreat to the bedroom.
The candles are already burning steadily on the shelf, casting pools of dancing light on the walls. I sit on top of the covers, fully clothed, and wait until Wren’s breaths are the low and steady ones of deep sleep. She seems so small in her nest of blankets. My chest tightens as I picture Edgar climbing through his window and vanishing onto the moor. I shiver and ball my hands into fists. And then I remember. My palm still smells faintly of wet stones and herbs and earth where Dreska placed the charm and curled my fingers over it. How could I have forgotten it? I search through my pockets and exhale when I feel my fingers brush against the earthy pouch. I pull it out and hold it, and it feels odd in my hands—at once too heavy and too light. A pouch of grass and
dirt and pebbles. How much power can it hold? I stifle a yawn and tie it around my sister’s wrist. She stirs beneath my fingertips, eyes floating open.
“What’s this?” mumbles Wren, looking down at the charm.
“It’s a present from the sisters,” I whisper.
“What does it do?” Wren asks, squirming into a seated position. She sniffs it. “Do you smell heather?” she asks, lifting it up to me. “And dirt? There shouldn’t be dirt inside there.”
“It’s just a charm,” I say, touching my fingertips to it. “I’m sorry I woke you. I forgot to give it to you earlier. Now,” I say, holding the covers for her, “go back to sleep.”
Wren falls back against the pillow with a nod. I tuck the blankets in around her, and she folds herself into a ball.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wait until Wren’s breathing grows even again. Soon enough she is wrapped in sleep, fingers clutching the charm.
It’s time to get to work.
I rummage through the low drawers and come up with a pale yellow scarf, a present from Helena two years back. I kiss it, say a silent thank-you to my friend and her love of knitting, and tie the scarf around my arm.
I take my father’s knife and my green cloak, and pry the window gently up, holding my breath as it squeaks. Wren does not move. I slip through and hop to the ground beyond, sliding the window shut behind me and latching the shutters.
The lamps are lit in Otto’s house, and he must be off patrol rotation, because through the window I can make out his form, leaning over a table. Bo sits near him, his hair hanging down between his eyebrows, and the two men grumble and drink, exchanging a word or two between sips. Uncle Otto has the kind of voice that goes through wood and glass and stone, and I slip near enough to hear him speak.
“As if he disappeared, out of his bed and into”—Otto waves his hand—“nothingness.”
That’s not possible, though. I’m sure there are marks, even if they’re faint. Would Otto know what to look for? Grown men can certainly act like little boys, but can they think like them?