flailing blur, a streak of silver, a shock of white
hair.
Arms caught Lucy from behind. She
cried out as she was lifted into the air, screaming as the sky and trees spun
into a blur, so sickening she closed her eyes. She heard the woman sobbing, a
man crying a name— Mary, Mary —and
then nothing except a heartbeat beneath her ear, sure and steady as a hammer
falling.
Her heart hurt. Lucy opened her
eyes and found the world changed.
She was no longer caught on the
path in the woods. A meadow surrounded her, small and green and lush with grass
and wild daisies, scattered with heavy oaks; somewhere near, a creek burbled
and goats bleated. Lucy saw a small white house behind a grove of lilac trees,
and beyond that, the rising forest; only gentler, without the dense shadows
that seemed to live and breathe. No women lost in the leaves.
There were arms around her
body, and movement on her left. Lucy struggled, managing to pull away until she
could dance backward, staring.
Two men stood before her, one
young, the other older. The elder man was Henry Lindsay. Lucy remembered his
face. Up close, however, he did not look quite so aged. His body was straight
and hard and lean; he had few wrinkles and his eyes were bright, startling, the
color of gold. His white hair was the only symptom of age, but that seemed a
trivial thing compared with the fire in his gaze, which was so alive, she
thought she must have imagined the man who had stood at the side of the road,
with a face as slack and dead as a corpse.
The young man with him had
quieter eyes, but just as bold. He wore a soft blue cotton shirt that had been
patched with bits and pieces of rags, the stitches neat, made with thick red
thread, a complement to his color: blue eyes, skin brown from the sun, hair
dark and wild like a scarecrow. He glanced at Henry, just before the older man
lurched toward Lucy: a half step, the edge of a full run, stopping before he
reached her as though pulled back by strings. His hands clenched into fists. The
silver mirror jutted from his coat pocket.
“She spoke to you,” said Henry,
his voice deceptively controlled: quiet, easy—frightening, because Lucy could
tell it was a lie. She said nothing, uncertain how to answer him. In her head
she could see the woman in the wood, her pale face and lost eyes: a mirror to
how this man had looked while standing on the road.
Henry said it again, louder: “She
spoke. Tell me what she said.”
Lucy stared, bewildered, and he
rocked toward her with a low cry, hand outstretched. She staggered back,
holding up her arms, but the young man stepped between them and caught Henry
before he could touch her, holding him back with his size and easy strength. Lucy
readied herself to run.
“Stop this,” said a new voice. “ Henry .”
Lucy turned. She had to steady
herself—all of this was too much—but she dug her nails into her palm and gazed
at the newcomer: a woman who stood a stone’s throw distant, her mature face a
reflection of Henry Lindsay, who quieted and stilled until the young man let
him go.
Black hair, threaded with
white; golden eyes and an unlined face; a small narrow body dressed in a simple
dark red dress, finely mended. The woman stood barefoot in the grass, hair loose
and wild; proud, confident, utterly at ease. Lucy felt drab as a titmouse
compared to her. In the trees, crows shrieked, raucous and loud.
“Miss Lindsay,” she whispered,
following her intuition. “Ma’am.”
The woman tilted her head. “I
don’t know you.”
“My father heard you were
looking for a girl,” she replied, hoarse.
Henry swayed. Lucy forced
herself to stay strong, to look him in the eye as her father had always said to
do, that eyes were important when dealing with strangers, especially men.
He said, “She spoke to Mary. She
spoke to Mary in the woods.”
“Did she now?” said Miss
Lindsay slowly, her gaze sharpening. She moved close, hips swaying gracefully. “Did
you speak to someone in
hair.
Arms caught Lucy from behind. She
cried out as she was lifted into the air, screaming as the sky and trees spun
into a blur, so sickening she closed her eyes. She heard the woman sobbing, a
man crying a name— Mary, Mary —and
then nothing except a heartbeat beneath her ear, sure and steady as a hammer
falling.
Her heart hurt. Lucy opened her
eyes and found the world changed.
She was no longer caught on the
path in the woods. A meadow surrounded her, small and green and lush with grass
and wild daisies, scattered with heavy oaks; somewhere near, a creek burbled
and goats bleated. Lucy saw a small white house behind a grove of lilac trees,
and beyond that, the rising forest; only gentler, without the dense shadows
that seemed to live and breathe. No women lost in the leaves.
There were arms around her
body, and movement on her left. Lucy struggled, managing to pull away until she
could dance backward, staring.
Two men stood before her, one
young, the other older. The elder man was Henry Lindsay. Lucy remembered his
face. Up close, however, he did not look quite so aged. His body was straight
and hard and lean; he had few wrinkles and his eyes were bright, startling, the
color of gold. His white hair was the only symptom of age, but that seemed a
trivial thing compared with the fire in his gaze, which was so alive, she
thought she must have imagined the man who had stood at the side of the road,
with a face as slack and dead as a corpse.
The young man with him had
quieter eyes, but just as bold. He wore a soft blue cotton shirt that had been
patched with bits and pieces of rags, the stitches neat, made with thick red
thread, a complement to his color: blue eyes, skin brown from the sun, hair
dark and wild like a scarecrow. He glanced at Henry, just before the older man
lurched toward Lucy: a half step, the edge of a full run, stopping before he
reached her as though pulled back by strings. His hands clenched into fists. The
silver mirror jutted from his coat pocket.
“She spoke to you,” said Henry,
his voice deceptively controlled: quiet, easy—frightening, because Lucy could
tell it was a lie. She said nothing, uncertain how to answer him. In her head
she could see the woman in the wood, her pale face and lost eyes: a mirror to
how this man had looked while standing on the road.
Henry said it again, louder: “She
spoke. Tell me what she said.”
Lucy stared, bewildered, and he
rocked toward her with a low cry, hand outstretched. She staggered back,
holding up her arms, but the young man stepped between them and caught Henry
before he could touch her, holding him back with his size and easy strength. Lucy
readied herself to run.
“Stop this,” said a new voice. “ Henry .”
Lucy turned. She had to steady
herself—all of this was too much—but she dug her nails into her palm and gazed
at the newcomer: a woman who stood a stone’s throw distant, her mature face a
reflection of Henry Lindsay, who quieted and stilled until the young man let
him go.
Black hair, threaded with
white; golden eyes and an unlined face; a small narrow body dressed in a simple
dark red dress, finely mended. The woman stood barefoot in the grass, hair loose
and wild; proud, confident, utterly at ease. Lucy felt drab as a titmouse
compared to her. In the trees, crows shrieked, raucous and loud.
“Miss Lindsay,” she whispered,
following her intuition. “Ma’am.”
The woman tilted her head. “I
don’t know you.”
“My father heard you were
looking for a girl,” she replied, hoarse.
Henry swayed. Lucy forced
herself to stay strong, to look him in the eye as her father had always said to
do, that eyes were important when dealing with strangers, especially men.
He said, “She spoke to Mary. She
spoke to Mary in the woods.”
“Did she now?” said Miss
Lindsay slowly, her gaze sharpening. She moved close, hips swaying gracefully. “Did
you speak to someone in
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