Dreamwood by Heather Mackey Page B

about with Angus Murrain?” he said, striding into the room. There wasn’t much space for the two of them, and Lucy found herself backing up, almost knocking over the mangy remains of a stuffed otter. One benefit of leaving the Knightlys was the certainty that wherever she went would have less taxidermy.
    â€œNothing,” she said. It wasn’t that her deal with Angus was secret. She just felt it was private—just as her packing was private, too. And here was Pete stomping around and peering inquisitively at everything. She tried to block his view.
    â€œAnd what’s that you’re doing?” He gestured at her rucksack.
    â€œPacking.”
    To her surprise, he blew out a deep breath and flopped down on the bed. “I thought about what you said. About dreamwood still being on the Thumb.” He stared at the ceiling and Lucy looked around the room helplessly.
    â€œYou know, I
was
in the middle of something.” She tugged on the shawl he’d half sat on.
    Still looking at the ceiling, Pete announced, “I’m coming with you.”
    This was the last thing she’d expected. For a moment she was too shocked to respond.
    â€œYou don’t need to chew it over so much.” He sat up violently. “Now you’re making me feel low.”
    Lucy blinked. “Just hold on . . .” She paced about the small rectangle of floor. “Of course I have to think it over. It’s dangerous.”
    â€œSee, that’s why I
should
come.” He leaned back on his elbows and dug into his pocket. Out came the black protection stone he’d shown her in Pentland. “I know you don’t think it’s worth anything, but I do have
this.
”
    Her father always reminded her to be polite, even when she disagreed with other people’s ideas. But it was so hard. She tugged on her dress—that lump of rock just reminded her how different she was from Pete. She didn’t feel like having someone around who was going to insist his superstitions were just as valid as her science.
    â€œYou need more than some folk cure for haunts,” she said, looking down at him. “And going to the Thumb requires special supplies.”
    â€œLike these?” He’d taken the word
supplies
as an invitation to poke around her things. “So . . . what’s all this gimcrack?”
    Pete pulled a worn velvet bag out of her rucksack and squinted doubtfully at the tarnished metal tube it contained. “A hollow rod. Definitely need that in the woods.”
    â€œFor your information, that’s an archevisual spectrometer.” She bit her lip in irritation.
    He rummaged some more, producing her ghost sweeper. “A metal egg, that’s useful.” He examined it quizzically before tossing it onto the bed. “What’s this?” His slate-green eyes narrowed as he pulled out a small brass disc.
    â€œDon’t touch that!” Lucy rushed forward and grabbed his arm before he could damage her vitometer. “It’s for research,” she said, holding out her hand. With a shrug he gave the disc back to her.
    â€œResearch.” He rolled his eyes. “That’ll keep you warm and dry. Have you ever camped before?”
    Lucy busied herself with putting her things back. She pursed her lips.
    â€œJust as I thought,” Pete said, correctly interpreting her silence. “All right, let’s see your provisions.”
    Here at least Lucy felt prepared. She had bought buns and sweet bread at a bakery. To this she’d added some soft cheese, plums, and a few hard-boiled eggs. It was more than she’d taken from the Miss Bentley School kitchens when she’d run away—her train ride up to Saarthe being her only gauge of how much she needed to eat.
    â€œThere,” she said, indicating a bundle she’d laid out on the bed.
    Pete bent to investigate. “This?” He clucked his tongue. “This