next day is dark, the wind and rain banging against the window. Claire stays burrowed under her covers, hiding from the dreary world. She clattered in at three in the morning, smelling of sweat and alcohol and earth. And something else, too, that I can’t quite name. I buried my head in my pillow as she stumbled onto her bed. She smelled dangerous.
I get dressed and tiptoe out of the room, as much as one can tiptoe in heavy combat boots.
The rain pelts my skin as I head outside, and the wind whistles harshly around me. I duck my head and run to Arthur’s cabin, pounding on the door until he opens it.
He stares at me a second, taking in my soaked hair and clothes. I jerk my chin up, trying my best not to look pathetic. “Let me in,” I demand. I’m tired of dancing around the truth with him. It’s time for answers.
He narrows his eyes at my tone but nods. “Come inside,” he says with a deep sigh. “I’ll make you some tea. We need to talk.”
I should ignore him. I should keep him out of my life completely. But I have too many questions.
His shed is small, and he stoops to fit in the space, but he’s made it his home. Sheets of paper marked with the long, easy scrawl of his handwriting clutter the table, and a cot rests in the corner. A healthy fire roars in the grate, keeping out the cold and the rain and the bleakness of the world outside. I reach my hands toward the flames.
“I forgot you wrote poetry,” I lie. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything about him.
“There’s a lot of inspiration here. On the moors. My verses have gone wilder.” I feel him look at me, but I keep my eyes on the fire. “Do you still draw? Or has your mother twisted that out of you yet?”
I ignore the barb in his words. “I draw all the time. I want to capture this world.”
“It’s impossible to capture,” he says, but he’s not mocking me.
“It’s impossible not to try.”
The crackling flickers of the fire fill the heavy silence of the room.
“I have questions,” he says before I can say the same thing.
I wait.
“My father . . .” He stops. But I know the rest of his question.
“He’s still with Mother. Still her spy. He goes away for longer periods of time, though.” I glance at him, but his face gives nothing away, his jaw set in a firm line.
He just nods. “There’s more going on now. He needs to make sure Collingsworth doesn’t know what your mother is planning.”
“And that takes weeks to find out?” I ask.
He shrugs. “He has other jobs, too. He works as a private investigator for wealthy clients from the city. Only the shady guys with shady connections know how to contact him.”
I didn’t know that, though I had always assumed it. I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to reveal how ignorant I am, how terrified I was of asking Mother any questions about the man who lived in the guesthouse.
He hands me a mug of tea, which I cradle in my hands. The mug is white and cracked and smells of cinnamon and what must be the scent of comfort. I take a sip, letting it warm me from the inside out.
I feel the heavy weight of his gaze, and I make sure my face is blank before I turn it to him.
He looks down at the sheets of paper on the table and shuffles through them, looking for something to do with his hands.
“Why didn’t your father ever give you a name?” It’s a question I’ve never had the courage to ask. No, that’s not quite true. It was only that I used to care about not hurting him. Now—I shouldn’t care. I know that much.
“I was never a son to him,” Arthur says, his eyes still examining the paper under his hands in order to avoid meeting my gaze. He learned years ago that his mother was an addict, which was why she abandoned four-year-old Arthur and his father. If she had named him, he never remembered it. Or he had blocked it from his memory. He never talked about her, and he hardly ever talked about his father. It was all too painful.
I always
I get dressed and tiptoe out of the room, as much as one can tiptoe in heavy combat boots.
The rain pelts my skin as I head outside, and the wind whistles harshly around me. I duck my head and run to Arthur’s cabin, pounding on the door until he opens it.
He stares at me a second, taking in my soaked hair and clothes. I jerk my chin up, trying my best not to look pathetic. “Let me in,” I demand. I’m tired of dancing around the truth with him. It’s time for answers.
He narrows his eyes at my tone but nods. “Come inside,” he says with a deep sigh. “I’ll make you some tea. We need to talk.”
I should ignore him. I should keep him out of my life completely. But I have too many questions.
His shed is small, and he stoops to fit in the space, but he’s made it his home. Sheets of paper marked with the long, easy scrawl of his handwriting clutter the table, and a cot rests in the corner. A healthy fire roars in the grate, keeping out the cold and the rain and the bleakness of the world outside. I reach my hands toward the flames.
“I forgot you wrote poetry,” I lie. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything about him.
“There’s a lot of inspiration here. On the moors. My verses have gone wilder.” I feel him look at me, but I keep my eyes on the fire. “Do you still draw? Or has your mother twisted that out of you yet?”
I ignore the barb in his words. “I draw all the time. I want to capture this world.”
“It’s impossible to capture,” he says, but he’s not mocking me.
“It’s impossible not to try.”
The crackling flickers of the fire fill the heavy silence of the room.
“I have questions,” he says before I can say the same thing.
I wait.
“My father . . .” He stops. But I know the rest of his question.
“He’s still with Mother. Still her spy. He goes away for longer periods of time, though.” I glance at him, but his face gives nothing away, his jaw set in a firm line.
He just nods. “There’s more going on now. He needs to make sure Collingsworth doesn’t know what your mother is planning.”
“And that takes weeks to find out?” I ask.
He shrugs. “He has other jobs, too. He works as a private investigator for wealthy clients from the city. Only the shady guys with shady connections know how to contact him.”
I didn’t know that, though I had always assumed it. I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to reveal how ignorant I am, how terrified I was of asking Mother any questions about the man who lived in the guesthouse.
He hands me a mug of tea, which I cradle in my hands. The mug is white and cracked and smells of cinnamon and what must be the scent of comfort. I take a sip, letting it warm me from the inside out.
I feel the heavy weight of his gaze, and I make sure my face is blank before I turn it to him.
He looks down at the sheets of paper on the table and shuffles through them, looking for something to do with his hands.
“Why didn’t your father ever give you a name?” It’s a question I’ve never had the courage to ask. No, that’s not quite true. It was only that I used to care about not hurting him. Now—I shouldn’t care. I know that much.
“I was never a son to him,” Arthur says, his eyes still examining the paper under his hands in order to avoid meeting my gaze. He learned years ago that his mother was an addict, which was why she abandoned four-year-old Arthur and his father. If she had named him, he never remembered it. Or he had blocked it from his memory. He never talked about her, and he hardly ever talked about his father. It was all too painful.
I always
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