contagious thing.
Honeymoon ,
she thought, tasting the word and finding it pretty, even though she did not
fully appreciate its meaning. And then another word entered her mind, familiar,
and she murmured, “Lindsay.”
Lindsay. The same name as the
woman she was going to see. Lucy looked inquiringly at Mr. Wiseman.
“His sister,” he replied
shortly, and smiled. “His very pretty sister, even if she’s getting on in
years.” He stopped the wagon and pointed at a narrow dirt path that curled into
the woods. “There. Follow that to her house.”
Lucy hesitated. “Are you
certain?”
“There isn’t a man, woman, or
child in this area who doesn’t know where Miss Lindsay lives.” He reached
behind him, and pulled out a bulging cloth sack. “Here, give this to her. Say
it was from Wilbur.”
Lucy clutched the sack to her
stomach. It felt like turnips. She slid off the wagon, feeling lost, but before
she could say anything, Mr. Wiseman gave her that same sly smile and said,
“Stay on the path, Miss Lucy. Watch for ghosts.”
“Ghosts,” she echoed, alarmed,
but he shook the reins, tipped his hat, and his wagon rattled into motion. No
good-byes. Lucy watched him go, almost ready to shout his name, to ask that he
wait for her. She stayed silent, though, and looked back the way they had come.
Home, to her father and brothers.
Then she turned and stared down
the narrow track leading into the woods. It was afternoon, but with the clouds
and misting drizzle it could have been twilight before her, a forest of night. Birdsong
rattled; again, Lucy thought she heard whispers. Voices airy as the wind.
Ghosts .
Or nothing. Just her imagination. Lucy swallowed hard, and walked into shadow,
the wet gloom: dense and thick and wild.
She thought of her mother as
she walked. Wondered if she had been this frightened of leaving home, or if it
had been too much a relief to unburden herself of husband and children. Then
Lucy thought of the old man, Henry Lindsay, and his lost eyes and lost wife and
lost wedding night, and wondered if it was the same, except worse—worse,
because her mother had chosen to go, worse because her father did not have eyes
like that man, or that sorrow. Just anger. So much bitter anger.
The path curled. Lucy walked
fast, stepping light over rocks and vines. In the undergrowth, she heard
movement: a blue bird broke loose from the canopy, streaking toward the narrow
trail of gray sky; to see it felt like she was watching some desperate escape,
as though the leaves on either side of the track were walls, strong as stone
and insurmountable. She half expected a hand to reach from the trees and snatch
the bird back.
A chill settled between her
shoulders. Lucy heard a whisper, wordless but human. A hush, heart-stopping. She
paused in mid-step and turned. There was no one behind her.
Lucy heard it again, and terror
squeezed her. Ghostly, yes; a voice like the wind, high and cool. She caught
movement out the corner of her eye—cried out, turning—and saw a face peering
from the shadows of the underbrush.
A woman. A woman in the wood,
pale and fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers. Lucy stared, trying to make
sense of it—unable to speak or move as she met that terrible gaze, which was
lost and so utterly lonely, Lucy felt her heart squeeze again, but softer, with
a pang.
“Help me,” whispered the woman.
“Please, help me.”
Lucy tried to speak, and
choked. Around her, other voices seemed to seep free of the wood; whispers and
hoarse cries and birds screaming into the cool wet air, a rising wind that
blasted Lucy with a bone-chill to her heart, swelling like her insides were
growing on the hum of the wood, engorged on sound.
She heard a shout—a man—but she
could not turn to see. Her voice felt far away, lost, and the woman cried, “ She’s coming.”
Something broke inside Lucy: she
could move again. She tried to run—heard another shout, desperate, and turned
in time to see a brown
Honeymoon ,
she thought, tasting the word and finding it pretty, even though she did not
fully appreciate its meaning. And then another word entered her mind, familiar,
and she murmured, “Lindsay.”
Lindsay. The same name as the
woman she was going to see. Lucy looked inquiringly at Mr. Wiseman.
“His sister,” he replied
shortly, and smiled. “His very pretty sister, even if she’s getting on in
years.” He stopped the wagon and pointed at a narrow dirt path that curled into
the woods. “There. Follow that to her house.”
Lucy hesitated. “Are you
certain?”
“There isn’t a man, woman, or
child in this area who doesn’t know where Miss Lindsay lives.” He reached
behind him, and pulled out a bulging cloth sack. “Here, give this to her. Say
it was from Wilbur.”
Lucy clutched the sack to her
stomach. It felt like turnips. She slid off the wagon, feeling lost, but before
she could say anything, Mr. Wiseman gave her that same sly smile and said,
“Stay on the path, Miss Lucy. Watch for ghosts.”
“Ghosts,” she echoed, alarmed,
but he shook the reins, tipped his hat, and his wagon rattled into motion. No
good-byes. Lucy watched him go, almost ready to shout his name, to ask that he
wait for her. She stayed silent, though, and looked back the way they had come.
Home, to her father and brothers.
Then she turned and stared down
the narrow track leading into the woods. It was afternoon, but with the clouds
and misting drizzle it could have been twilight before her, a forest of night. Birdsong
rattled; again, Lucy thought she heard whispers. Voices airy as the wind.
Ghosts .
Or nothing. Just her imagination. Lucy swallowed hard, and walked into shadow,
the wet gloom: dense and thick and wild.
She thought of her mother as
she walked. Wondered if she had been this frightened of leaving home, or if it
had been too much a relief to unburden herself of husband and children. Then
Lucy thought of the old man, Henry Lindsay, and his lost eyes and lost wife and
lost wedding night, and wondered if it was the same, except worse—worse,
because her mother had chosen to go, worse because her father did not have eyes
like that man, or that sorrow. Just anger. So much bitter anger.
The path curled. Lucy walked
fast, stepping light over rocks and vines. In the undergrowth, she heard
movement: a blue bird broke loose from the canopy, streaking toward the narrow
trail of gray sky; to see it felt like she was watching some desperate escape,
as though the leaves on either side of the track were walls, strong as stone
and insurmountable. She half expected a hand to reach from the trees and snatch
the bird back.
A chill settled between her
shoulders. Lucy heard a whisper, wordless but human. A hush, heart-stopping. She
paused in mid-step and turned. There was no one behind her.
Lucy heard it again, and terror
squeezed her. Ghostly, yes; a voice like the wind, high and cool. She caught
movement out the corner of her eye—cried out, turning—and saw a face peering
from the shadows of the underbrush.
A woman. A woman in the wood,
pale and fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers. Lucy stared, trying to make
sense of it—unable to speak or move as she met that terrible gaze, which was
lost and so utterly lonely, Lucy felt her heart squeeze again, but softer, with
a pang.
“Help me,” whispered the woman.
“Please, help me.”
Lucy tried to speak, and
choked. Around her, other voices seemed to seep free of the wood; whispers and
hoarse cries and birds screaming into the cool wet air, a rising wind that
blasted Lucy with a bone-chill to her heart, swelling like her insides were
growing on the hum of the wood, engorged on sound.
She heard a shout—a man—but she
could not turn to see. Her voice felt far away, lost, and the woman cried, “ She’s coming.”
Something broke inside Lucy: she
could move again. She tried to run—heard another shout, desperate, and turned
in time to see a brown
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