Where The Heart Lives Read online

  Folks never lingered, though. They visited the graveyard, then left quick, hardly looking around, as though afraid of what they would see. Lucy wondered how they managed to make it through the forest unmolested, and said as much to Henry, whom she found one afternoon in a rare moment of responsiveness—sitting in the sun, reading a book by someone with a long, rather familiar, name. Shakes Spear, or something of the kind.

  She settled down beside him with a pile of mending in her lap. Barnabus was nearby, chopping wood. His shirt was off, draped over a low tree branch.

  “The forest has a mind of its own,” Henry replied, after some deep thought. He gazed at the tree line, and his eyes began to glaze over, lost. Lucy pricked him—accidentally, of course—with her needle. He flinched, frowning, but his expression cleared.

  “You were saying?” Lucy prodded.

  “A mind, a spirit. This the forest primeval,” murmured Henry, “darkened by shadows of earth.” He looked at her. “Longfellow. Do you know him?”

  “We never met,” she said, and then blushed when she realized that was not at all what he meant.

  Henry smiled kindly, though, idly tapping the book in his hands. Lucy, in part to hide her embarrassment—but mostly because she was suddenly quite motivated to educate herself—pointed and said, “What are you reading?”

  “The Bard.” Henry handed her the book. “Specifically, Romeo and Juliet. A great and tragic love story.”

  Lucy made a small sound, savoring the smooth feel of the slender red volume in her hands. “Seems like tragic is the only kind of love there is.”

  Henry tilted his head. “Broken heart?”

  She frowned. “Oh, no. Not me, sir. Never been in love. Just…I’ve seen things, that’s all.”

  “And I suppose you’ve heard of me,” he said with a hint of darkness in his voice. Lucy felt a moment’s panic, but then she looked at him and found his eyes thoughtful, distant—but not lost. Not angry.

  “I heard something from someone,” Lucy said slowly. “First time I saw you on the road, coming here.”

  “You saw me?” Henry looked surprised. “Ah. Well.”

  “You were…distracted,” Lucy told him, not wanting him to feel bad. “Staring at the forest.”

  A rueful smile touched his mouth. “That happens.”

  Lucy hesitated. “Because of the woman? Mary?”

  She knew it was a mistake the moment that name left her mouth. Too much said, too fast. Henry’s expression crumpled, then hardened; shadows gathered beneath his eyes, which seemed to change color, glittering like amber caught in sunlight. Lucy had to look away, and found Barnabus watching them with a frown. He put down his ax and began walking toward them.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said to Henry. “Please, I’m –”

  He cut her off, leaning close. “You saw her. In the forest. What did she look like?”

  Barnabus reached them. He sat beside Lucy, the corner of his knee brushing her thigh. He was big and warm and safe, and she was glad for his presence.

  “She was beautiful,” Lucy said simply, and then, softer: “She was your wife.”

  “My wife,” echoed Henry, staring at his hands. “She is still my wife.”

  Lucy stared. “I thought…I thought your wife was dead. What I saw…just a ghost.” The ghost of a woman lost in the forest; the walking, speaking, dead; an illusion of life. Nothing else made sense. Even the forest, a forest that had almost captured her—a terrible dream full of ghosts, spirits.

  Barnabus went still. Henry exhaled very slowly. Lucy felt a whisper of air against her neck, a chill that went down her spine. Miss Lindsay was behind her. She could feel the woman, even though she could not see or hear her. Lucy always knew when she was close.

  Miss Lindsay said, “Perhaps you’d like to walk with me,” and Lucy rose on unsteady legs, and joined the woman as she turned and strode away toward the cemetery.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said.

  Miss Lindsay raised a fine, dark brow. “Curiosity is no crime. And you have a right to know.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m just the house girl. You didn’t hire me for –”

  “Stop.” Miss Lindsay quit walking and gave her a hard look. “Close your eyes.”

  Her demand was unexpected, odd. Lucy almost refused, but after a moment, Miss Lindsay’s gaze softened and she said, “Come, I will not hurt you. Just do as I say. Close your eyes.”

  So Lucy closed them, and waited. Miss Lindsay gave her no more instructions, which was curious enough in itself, though the girl did not break the silence between them. The darkness inside her mind was suddenly fraught with color, images dancing; not memories, but something new, unexpected. Like a daydream, only as real as the grass beneath her feet.

  She saw a thunderstorm, night; felt herself standing in a doorway, staring at the rain. A warm hand touched her waist.

  And then that touch disappeared and she stood in the forest, within the twilight of the trees, and the woman was once again in front of her—Mary—hands outstretched, weeping.

  Gone, again, gone. Other visions flashed—feathers and crows, golden glowing eyes—but it was too quick and odd to make sense. Except for one: Henry, younger, standing beneath a bough of flowers, holding hands with the woman from the wood.

  Mary. Smiling. Staring into his eyes like he was where her heart lived.

  Then, later: Henry and Mary, riding away in a buggy. Henry and Mary, kissing. Henry and Mary, in the dark, his hands shaking against the clasps of her wedding gown, the white of the cloth glowing beneath the dappled moon. On a blanket, in the forest.

  Lucy saw a shadow behind them, something separate and unnatural, creeping across the forest floor. She tried to shout a warning, but her throat swelled, breath rattling, and all she could do was watch in horror as that slither of night spread like poison through the moonlight, closer and closer—until it nudged Mary’s foot.

  And swallowed the rest of her. One moment in Henry’s arms—in the next, gone. Gone, screaming. Henry, screaming.

  Lucy, screaming. Snapping back into the world. Curled on her side in the thick grass. Arms around her. A large tanned hand clutched her own and Miss Lindsay crouched close, fingers pressed against Lucy’s forehead.

  “You’re safe,” said the woman, but that was not it at all. Henry and Mary were not safe. Henry and Mary had been torn apart and Lucy could not bear to think about it. Not for them, not for herself—not when she suddenly could remember so clearly the night her own mother had disappeared, swallowed up by the world. Her choice to go—but with the same pain left behind.

  “Ah,” breathed Miss Lindsay, and her fingers slid sideways to caress Lucy’s cheek. “Poor child.”

  Lucy took a deep breath and struggled to sit up. The world spun. The arms around her tightened—Barnabus—and she closed her eyes, slipping back into darkness.

  ***

  She woke in her bed. A candle burned. Outside, strong winds rattled the house; rain pattered against the roof and window. Miss Lindsay sat in a chair. Her hands were folded in her lap and she wore a man’s robe that smelled of cigar smoke.

  Lucy tried to speak, found her voice hoarse, hardly her own. “What happened?”

  A sad smile edged Miss Lindsay’s mouth. “Impatience. I pushed you too fast.”

  The girl hesitated. “Was it real, then? What I saw?”

  Only after she spoke did she realize the foolishness of that statement; Miss Lindsay could not possibly know what she had seen. But the older woman denied nothing, nor did she look at Lucy as though her mind was lost.

  “Real enough,” she replied softly, and then, even quieter: “Did you understand what you saw?”

  “Some of it. Except at the end…what took Mary…” Her voice dropped to a whisper as a chill swept deep. “That was not human.”

  “So little is,” murmured Miss Lindsay, but before Lucy could ask what that meant, she said, “The woman you saw in the forest the day you came here is my brother’
s wife, Mary. She did not die, as others have said, but was stolen away. Captured, with the woods as her cage. She cannot leave, and my brother…my brother cannot enter. He cannot see her. He cannot speak to her. But he knows she is there and so he stays and watches, for just one glimpse.” Miss Lindsay looked at her hands. “He loves her so.”

  Lucy curled deeper under the covers, staring. “I don’t understand how any of this could happen. It’s not…normal.”

  “Normal.” Bitterness touched Miss Lindsay’s smile. “Some would say the same of the moon and stars, or the wind, or a flight of birds, but all those things are natural and real. We accept them as such, without question.” She leaned close, candlelight warming her golden gaze. “You should know, Lucy, that I hired you on false pretenses. Not merely to cook and clean and stay silent in your room. You live here, my dear, because you are the first person in twenty years to see my brother’s wife. And that, if one wished to speak of such things, is not normal.”

  Lucy shook her head against the pillow. “The driver, Mr. Wiseman, told me about ghosts. That’s all I thought she was.”

  “Ghosts.” Miss Lindsay’s fingers flexed. “To tease a child about ghosts is simple because of the cemetery I control. Because of the dead that people bring. Not because of Mary. Those in town think she’s buried here. And she is, in a way. But the woman you saw is flesh and blood.”

  “How?” Lucy breathed, thinking of Mary—Mary in the forest, so lost—Mary in the forest twenty years past, so in love. “Why?”

  Miss Lindsay closed her eyes. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will tell you that story.”

  “No,” Lucy protested, but the older woman stood.

  “Tomorrow,” she said again, and blew out the candle. Lucy reached out and caught her hand. Miss Lindsay gently disengaged herself, swept her fingers over the girl’s brow, and walked from the room. She closed the door behind her.

  Lucy rested in the darkness for a long time, listening to the old house, the rumbling storm. It occurred to her, briefly, that she could leave this place and go back to her father and brothers, but the idea made her heart hurt and she realized with some surprise that this place, despite its mystery, felt like home. A better home than what she had left behind. What she had been forced from by her father.

  Mother was forced to leave, in a different way, whispered a tiny voice inside her mind, but that was too much, and Lucy pushed back her blankets to rise from bed. She still wore her clothes from that afternoon, but did not bother with her shoes.

  The house was quiet. Lucy walked silently through the kitchen. She wanted water, but as she reached for the pump above the sink she noticed a warm glow against the wall in the parlor, and heard the sound of pages turning. She peered into the room.

  Henry and Barnabus sat before the small fire, reading. Her heart jumped a little at finding them; she was not quite certain she was ready to face the older man, not after what she had seen inside her head. And Barnabus…

  The young man looked up from his book. He had not been long from the rain; his hair was damp, as was his shirt, which strained against his shoulders. She tried to imagine him as a child, wild in the forest—still wild, maybe—and it was easy, as simple as looking into his eyes. She felt shy, looking at him. He was handsome, breathtakingly so.

  Barnabus stood and gestured for her to take his seat. When she did not move, he held out his hand to her, and she let him take it and guide her. His skin was warm. His touch, gentle. Her heart beat a little faster.

  Henry closed his book. “Are you better?”

  “Yes,” she said, hardly able to look at him. But she did, and though she found terrible sadness in his eyes, there was also compassion. Barnabus very quietly settled himself on the floor beside her chair, the edge of his hand brushing her foot.

  Lucy fidgeted, staring at the fire. Henry said, “You want to ask me something.”

  She hesitated. Henry frowned, laying his book on the floor. “I’m sorry for earlier. I scared you this afternoon. I didn’t mean to.”

  Barnabus sighed. Lucy glanced down at him. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “So? Ask me what you want.” He smiled gently. “I am here, Lucy.”

  You are with your wife, she thought, and summoned up her courage. “Please…why was Mary taken?”

  Henry paled. Barnabus’s hand shifted against her foot. A warning, perhaps. Lucy ignored him, refusing to take her gaze from the older man’s face. She watched his struggle—battled one of her own, resisting the urge to take back her question—and thought instead of Mary. Mary in her wedding gown. Mary in the forest, begging for help.

  Lucy thought of Miss Lindsay, too. She was defying the woman; she doubted that would end well. But she needed to know.

  Henry looked at the fire; for a moment his eyes seemed to glow. “Mary did nothing. It was me. I was…foolish. I had a temper, and there was a woman who had too much interest in me. I rejected her, badly. And because she could not hurt me…”

  He stopped. Lucy forced herself to breathe. “Does this woman live in the forest?”

  Henry closed his eyes; a bitter smile touched his mouth. “She is the forest. She is a witch and its queen.”

  “A witch,” Lucy murmured, thinking of fairy tales and crones, women in black hats with cats in their laps, cooking children for supper. “How do you stop a witch?”

  “You don’t,” Henry said heavily, and picked up his book, tapping his fingers along its spine. “None of us are powerful enough.”

  “She couldn’t hurt you,” Lucy pointed out, and Barnabus once again touched her foot—yet another warning.

  Henry’s jaw tightened; his eyes were quite bright. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “Just one,” Lucy said softly, thinking of her mother. “What is it like to be married?”

  Barnabus went very still. Henry glanced at him and said, “It is a sacred art. A union of souls. To be together is the grandest adventure.”

  Lucy shook her head, trying to picture Henry and Mary as her father and mother, to imagine what that would be like, to have parents who loved. It was difficult to do, and disheartening. “It seems like a lot of work.”

  Henry studied her. “And?”

  “And, nothing,” she said, but hesitated, still chewing on her memories. “I heard a word once, talking about such things. Honeymoon, someone called it. I liked the word, but I still don’t know what it means.”

  “It doesn’t mean much by itself,” Henry replied slowly, with a distant look in his eyes. “It’s a symbol, I suppose. You’re married, so the both of you run away where no one knows you, no one can find you, and you make a world that is just your own. For a short time, your own.” He smiled gently. “A month, the span of the moon. Sweet as honey. And if you’re lucky, perhaps you turn that honeyed moon into something longer, a lifetime.”

  “But I still don’t see how it makes a difference,” Lucy said, feeling stubborn. “If you’re married, you’re together anyhow. Happy or not. You don’t need to be all…sticky about it.”

  Barnabus shifted slightly, but not before she saw his small smile. Heat flooded her face; she felt deeply embarrassed to have said so much in front of him. She had forgotten herself—was far too comfortable in his presence—far too at ease with all these people who were supposed to be her employers. Not her family.

  As if you were ever made so welcome by your own flesh and blood.

  Lucy stood. Barnabus caught her ankle in a loose grip. The contact seared her skin.

  “The heart loves,” Henry said softly, so gentle, it made her chest ache. “Listen to your heart, Lucy. Don’t be afraid of it.”

  “I’m not,” she whispered, feeling captured, trapped; Barnabus’s hand felt too good. She nudged her foot and he released her.

  “Good night,” she said, not looking at either man, and fled the parlor for the kitchen. She almost went straight to her room, but she needed air and flung open the kitchen door that led into the garden. Wind blasted her, as did rain. She worr
ied about others feeling the draft and began to close the door behind her. It caught on something. Barnabus.

  Thunder blasted. Barnabus touched her waist, drawing her back until heat raced down her spine, and her shoulders rubbed against his hard chest. His hand closed over hers and they held the door together, blasted by white lightning and tremors of sound.

  Barnabus shut the door when the rain began coming in. Cut off from the storm, the air inside the house felt closed, uncomfortably warm. No lightning, no candle, no way to see except by touch and memory.

  Barnabus still held her hand. He guided her across the kitchen until she touched the door of her room, and there he eased away. Lucy listened to his soft retreat, the creak of the floorboards, the rustle and whisper of his clothing, the faint hiss of the wind as he left the house for his bed in the work shed. Her hand tingled with the memory of his fingers. Her waist still felt the pressure of his palm.

  Lucy lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. She dreamed of a world that was her own, and a sweet moon made of honey in the sky.

  ***

  Lucy rose early the next morning. Barnabus was already awake; she could see him in the distance, in the cemetery, digging a grave. Lucy vaguely recalled Miss Lindsay mentioning a death in town. She watched him work, and then went about her business, feeding the chickens and milking the goats. Crows gathered along the eaves of the house, watching her.

  They made a ruckus only once, and Lucy looked up at the sky just long enough to see a streak of golden light in the shape of a bird fall behind the work shed. She did not know what to make of it—again her imagination, perhaps—until she heard a rustle of clothing and Miss Lindsay walked out from behind the small structure, buttoning the top of her dress.