Lenora felt her breakfast gathering in her throat and swallowed it back down. She looked at the garden, still overgrown but appearing, at least, to have some semblance of order now. She had done quite a bit of work. She thought of Charles, who would have loved running through a garden as spacious as this. She thought of John, who would know the scientific name of every plant the garden grew—even the weeds. She thought of Rory, who would have joined Mother in song. She thought of Father, who would have watched them all with a pleasure that painted a permanent smile in his eyes.
She rubbed her chest. Everywhere she looked, she could see them. It was so painful. They belonged here. They belonged with her.
“Please,” she said to the wind. “Please come home.”
And the wind whistled. She tilted her head, listening. Was it saying something? Did it have a message that she must hear? She held her breath, closed her eyes. But it was only wind without words. It cooled the sweat on her back. She drew in a deep breath, the rich smell of dirt and green clogging her nose in a way that was almost comforting. It smelled like home.
She stood there, breathing, listening, imagining, until Mrs. Jones’s voice called to her. Lenora turned. Mrs. Jones stood at the iron gate, her chin resting on the top. “Oh my,” she said. “You’ve done some work today, love.”
Lenora tried to smile at her, but her cheeks felt too tight. “The garden could be lovely,” she said, her voice flat and soft.
“It used to be,” Mrs. Jones said. “Bobby was the gardener around here. He . . .” She looked stricken, as though she had not intended to say what she’d said.
“Bobby tended the garden?” Was that why Uncle Richard had looked the way he did?
“I’ll fetch a bag to put all those weeds in,” Mrs. Jones said, hurrying away. She called over her shoulder. “Weeds are persistent things. They’ll grow right where you lay them.”
****
The two of them gathered all the weeds Lenora had pulled and stuffed them in a paper bag that Mrs. Jones carried behind the house, toward a circle of stones that formed a firepit. Lenora stared at the pit, black dust lining its bottom, and a surge of sadness barreled into her chest, her throat, her eyes. She choked. Mrs. Jones looked at her. “Are you all right, love?” And when Lenora could not answer, Mrs. Jones’s eyes widened. “Oh,” was all she said. Her voice came from a tunnel, and Lenora felt the woman’s arms around her.
She could smell it, hear it, taste it. The black dust on her hands. The sizzling of electrical lines. The sulfur on her tongue. The people. Mother, Father, Rory, John, Charles.
Her legs would not move. She fell right where she was standing, and when she woke again, she was in Uncle Richard’s arms, her head bobbing against his chest. He smelled of peppermint and a faint hint of copper.
The voices were a blur.
“Get her a sleeping tonic.”—Uncle Richard’s voice.
“Yes, sir.”—Mrs. Jones.
Someone stroking her hair. “There is nothing to be afraid of, darling. I’ll protect you.”—her uncle. Or was it her father?
“Here you go, love.”—Mrs. Jones.
The gaps between the voices were jagged and confusing.
“Sleep, Lenora. I am here.”—her uncle.
It was the loveliest dream.
He did not remain dead. He won in the end.
He had the woods.
And what wondrous woods they were.
April 20, 1947
It has been some time since I have spent a night away from my work. But it was necessary, as my niece has had a very harrowing experience—not with the woods, thankfully, but with my firepit. I imagine that when Texas City exploded, she saw many things a child should never see. Her face was very pale when Mrs. Jones summoned me last evening, an agony that felt much too familiar playing across her eyes and cheeks and mouth.
There is much I do not want her to know about the true magnitude of the disaster that took her family from her (from me, too?). I have carefully hidden the newspapers, sworn Mrs. Jones to secrecy, and avoided her when I could manage it.
Sorrow is a snare.
And yet she found her despair in a firepit. I can, I suppose, understand. I find my despair everywhere in this house. I find it in her room, where my daughter should be sleeping. I find it across the west wing hall, where my son should be sleeping. I find it in my own bedchambers, the mattress sagging on one side and perfectly rigid on the other, where my wife should be sleeping.
My work calls to me, and yet I cannot leave my niece’s side.
Sometime around midnight, I saw the shimmering streak—much thicker than it was last night—slithering right toward my niece’s window. But I had closed the window. I made sure of it, and when the silvery strand reached the pane, it did not penetrate it. It spread out into fingers, a palm, a hand belonging to someone or something unknown, from the bowels of the woods. The ghostly hand rested there, and when it finally peeled fingers from the glass, a message remained in its stead. A glittering message for Lenora. It said, Come to your family, child.
And now I believe the dark power in these woods is unlike any I have ever encountered in my studies—in my life. The stories I have found hidden in my library, the stories I could, myself, tell, the stories these townspeople know nothing about and would never believe, speak of the origins and the life of a man condemned and hung in these woods centuries ago. A man—dead and yet not quite—who remains.
There is no science that can explain this presence. There is no empirical formula that can distill it to its essence. There is no mathematical equation that can predict its makeup or its purpose or its strength. It is a dark and mysterious presence, preying on the sorrow in Stonewall Manor. And there is certainly enough sorrow to sustain it. There has always been enough sorrow.
Eliminating the sorrow of the hearts within these walls is not the answer.
My army is the answer. I itch to return to my work, to make the necessary adjustments, to see my vision fulfilled.
In the earliest light of the morning, I will return to my lab, to my life’s greatest scientific work, gleaming like a promise, I imagine, in the rays that will pierce the window looking out on the woods.
The spirit will not have us.
—excerpt from Richard Cole’s Journal of Scientific Progress
THE MADMAN WALKS
24
Lenora was alone when she woke. The room was stuffy, but not unbearably so. She knew, without looking, that her window was closed. The curtains were open, though, and sunlight splashed into the room. She blinked.
A knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Jones entered with a tray. She was smiling. “I thought you might like to eat breakfast in your room.”
“How did you know I was awake?” Lenora’s mouth felt thick. She was terribly thirsty.
“It’s after ten in the morning. I thought I’d at least try.” Mrs. Jones crossed the room and set the tray down on Lenora’s lap.
“Where is Uncle Richard?” Lenora hoped she hadn’t imagined him in her room last night; the loneliness was the most terrible thing about Stonewall Manor. She would never get used to it.
A shadow swept across Mrs. Jones’s face. “He’s in his laboratory,” she said. She fiddled with the curtains. “Already at work.”
“He didn’t even come to see me.”
Mrs. Jones turned, her eyebrows low. “He was here all night, love.”
The words bloomed in Lenora’s throat, and she looked down at her tray. It was blurry, but she could smell the muffin—blueberry, she thought. When her eyes cleared, she could see that she was right.
Mrs. Jones stared out the window. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said. “We were supposed to take a trip to town, but after yesterday . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her back bent, just a little.
“The firepit,” Lenora said. She had trouble squeezing out the words around the large lump in her throat. She swallowed. It remained.
“Yes.” Mrs. Jones turned from the window.
“I’m sorry, love. I wasn’t thinking—”
“I don’t know why I . . .” Lenora felt her words shake and crumble. Mrs. Jones was at her side in a moment.
“You’ve had a terrible ordeal,” she said, smoothing Lenora’s hair. Lenora nodded. “I should have known better than to take you there.”
“The ashes,” Lenora said. “The dust.”
Mrs. Jones kept smoothing her hair.
Lenora said, “It just surprised me.”
“You’ll never have to see it again,” Mrs. Jones said. “Your uncle is moving it off the grounds. Someone else will take care of burning waste from now on.”
Lenora shook her head. “That’s not necessary.” Getting rid of the firepit? For her?
Mrs. Jones waved a hand. “Your uncle was very distraught about your reaction.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
“It wasn’t your fault, love.” Mrs. Jones stroked her cheek, let her hand fall, pushed the tray forward. “I know you’re hungry. See if you can eat.” She moved toward the door.
“Will you stay with me?” Lenora said. “It is very lonely up here.”
Mrs. Jones turned and looked at Lenora, her mouth slightly open. She glanced around the room, at the bed, at Lenora. She nodded. “Yes, of course.”
She sat in the wing chair Lenora thought her uncle had sat in last night.
Lenora ate mostly in silence, with Mrs. Jones commenting every now and again about the weather (“It’s been a very sunny spring this year.”) and the heat (“Sometimes it can feel like you’re in an oven out here in Nacogdoches.”) and what Lenora planned to do today (“Perhaps you’d like to rest up in the library. A good book does wonders for the mind and body.”).
What she really wanted to do was visit her uncle’s laboratory. But she dared not ask.
The blueberry muffin was sweet and moist. She was glad there were two on her tray.
Maybe, while she was here, she should learn how to cook. But that didn’t appeal to her at all; she’d never liked cooking, even when Mother made her stand in the kitchen and watch. This year—her twelfth year—would have been the year Lenora had to plan a whole supper and execute it herself. She had been dreading it.
She would give anything for the responsibility now, if it meant she could be home, with her family.
But what good did wishing do?
25
Mrs. Jones carried the breakfast tray downstairs, and Lenora followed her on silent feet. The library was dark when they entered, and Mrs. Jones moved toward the windows to let in some light.
“The lamps don’t work,” Lenora said.
“Yes, I know,” Mrs. Jones said. Her voice held a touch of annoyance. “Your uncle has used all the light bulbs this house could spare.” She pressed her hand against her mouth, as though she was willing it to stop speaking without her permission. Her eyes clouded. Under her breath, she added, “At least the ones he can reach.”
“Why does he need so many light bulbs?” Lenora said.
Mrs. Jones shrugged. “I don’t even ask anymore.” But Lenora could tell she was avoiding the question. She knew why Uncle Richard needed light bulbs. And now Lenora wanted to know.
She glanced toward the doorway. The library was close to the hallway that led down the east wing, at least the lower part, where she had seen Uncle Richard disappear. His laboratory must be behind the closed door she could see from the library entrance.
She’d go look. As soon as Mrs. Jones was gone.
She pretended interest in the books, so as not to raise any suspicion. She was a rule follower, yes, but when the rules didn’t make sense, what did you do? Follow them anyway?
No. That’s not what Lenora did. She challenged them.
Lenora ran her hands along the spines of books as she walked past the shelves, just as she had done yesterday.
“The children’s books are over here,” Mrs. Jones said, pointing to a corner near the window. Lenora hadn’t realized there was order to this library. It was like a real library, then.
“Bobby loved to read.” Mrs. Jones’s voice had grown soft. Lenora looked at her, observed her eyes full of memories, her lips curved down, her hands wiping something from her cheeks. Mrs. Jones must have loved Bobby.
The longing pulled at Lenora. Where were the people who loved her?
“What kinds of books did he read?” Lenora needed to say something, to dismiss the sob welling up in her.
“He loved Moby-Dick and Treasure Island and anything that had gardens or animals in it.” Mrs. Jones gazed up at the bookshelf and took down a few titles. “Here’s one you may enjoy, if you haven’t already read it.”
Lenora took the book from her. She traced the gold title: The Secret Garden. She had never read it, but it was Mother’s childhood favorite, so of course she would read it now. Why hadn’t she read it when Mother was alive?
Lenora caught herself. Mother was still alive. Mother was coming. She was likely on her way even now; it had only been four days.
“Does Uncle Richard ever use this library?” Lenora was curious about the kind of books Uncle Richard read; she would like to read those, too. You could tell a lot about a person by the books they read.
Mrs. Jones pulled her lips tight. “He has his own library in his lab,” she said. “For easier access, I suppose.” Her eyes roamed the expanse of books and she shook her head. “He never had much patience for fantastical stories, anyway. So he does not need this library.”
“But Darwin is here,” Lenora said. She held up the book, and it almost slipped from her hands. It was a heavy one.
Mrs. Jones smiled. “That belonged to your uncle when he was a child. He was a great reader, but only of the scientific.” A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Your father and Richard used to fight about what I would read to them when they were boys.”
“You read to them?”
Mrs. Jones’s eyes fixed on Lenora. “I have not always been Stonewall Manor’s cook.”
Lenora had so many more questions. But the one that climbed from her lips was, “Will you read to me?”
She missed reading together the most. It was the time when she could put her head on Mother’s shoulder and feel the words vibrate through her.
Mrs. Jones stared at Lenora. It took her a very long time to nod. “Yes. I suppose I could.”
“Now?”
“Not now, love. Later, perhaps.”
Lenora wondered if later meant never. And then she remembered her plans: to find her uncle’s laboratory. It was okay for Mrs. Jones to leave; she would occupy herself with exploration.
“I would like to see the books in my uncle’s library,” Lenora said. It was a hint, but Mrs. Jones did not appear to take it as such.
“They are scientific tomes,” Mrs. Jones said. “Long and boring, I suspect.”
“That’s all he keeps?”
“And some spiritual ones, I suppose.”
“Spiritual?” Lenora tilted her head. “I thought my uncle was a man of science.” That was what Father and Uncle Richard had fought about, after all.
“Science and faith can coexist. And men can change.” Mrs. Jones put a few more titles on a table beside what looked like the most uncomfortable chair in the whole room.
The words flipped around inside Lenora’s head. Uncle Richard had changed. Had Father changed, too? Why had they never reconciled?
Lenora looked at the book in her hands when she asked her next question. “Did Uncle Richard and Father ever talk after Father left Stonewall Manor?”
Mrs. Jones traced the title of one of the books in her hand, her eyes downcast. “I am not aware of any communication between them,” she said. She lifted her eyes. They were blue lagoons of sadness.
“Why not?” None of it made sense to Lenora. “Father always said the most important thing we could ever do was forgive one another. What was so terrible that Father could not forgive?”
Mrs. Jones
shook her head. “Your father left Stonewall Manor because of a family tragedy. Tragedy often twists hearts in unrecognizable ways.”
“Enough to keep brothers apart?” Lenora felt anger tangling around her words. And what was the tragedy? Why would no one tell her?
Mrs. Jones said nothing.
“Is my uncle a criminal?” Something fluttered in Lenora’s chest, like a piece of paper whirling in the wind.
Mrs. Jones laughed. “No,” she said, and she laughed harder.
“Then what is it?” The words came out much louder than Lenora intended. They clanged against the walls and thudded to the floor.
Mrs. Jones dropped her eyes again.
“I would like to know,” Lenora said, in a much smaller voice now.
Mrs. Jones still did not look at her. “Yes, well,” she said. She took one more book off the shelf and placed it on top of the others. “One who goes digging for secrets does not always find good news.”
Lenora didn’t know what to say to that.
What was there to say to something that sounded so true?
26
Lenora was disturbed from her reading—or, more precisely, her dozing—by the voice of Mrs. Jones. She had not intended to fall asleep, but after Mrs. Jones left her, she’d collapsed into a chair, to think.
Now she’d wasted precious time, and there were voices outside the library.
Mrs. Jones stood just outside the door that Lenora thought led to Uncle Richard’s east wing laboratory. (Lenora supposed it might be good to make a map, so she could keep all these rooms straight, instead of letting them float around in her mind like random pieces of a puzzle.) She was talking to someone. It must be Uncle Richard; no one else lived here.
Lenora crossed the room as silently as she could manage. She peered into the shadows. Her eyes had trouble seeing the two figures at first. When they adjusted to the dimness, she could make out her uncle leaning against a doorway that opened, yes, into the east wing of Stonewall Manor. He was staring at Mrs. Jones, and his eyes shone like stars.
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