Where The Heart Lives (3 page)

“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 worried 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.

She did not appear surprised to
see Lucy, but merely said, “Good morning,” and walked into the house. The girl
stared after her, perplexed. So much was odd about this place. Or perhaps Lucy
was just odd herself. That did not bother her as much as it should. As much as
it would have, not so long ago.

The funeral took place that
afternoon. Few people came, but one of them was Mr. Wiseman, hauling a coffin
in the back of his wagon. Lucy did not feel any great pleasure in seeing him. He
was a very real reminder of the world beyond the wood—a world that felt like a
distant place—and the sight of his face made her stomach twist with dread.

“I see the ghosts didn’t get
you,” he said loudly, with that same sly smile.

“Ghosts are for children,” said
Miss Lindsay, coming up behind his wagon. She stood beside Lucy, and rested her
hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t you have something better to do with your
time, Wilbur, than tease young girls?”

Mr. Wiseman tipped his hat. “Helena,
you’re still as handsome a woman as I’ve ever met. I don’t suppose your brother
would consent to me courting you?”

“I believe my brother would
have very little say in the matter,” replied Miss Lindsay dryly, “nor would
your wife be all that pleased with the arrangement.”

His smile was all teeth. He
tore his gaze from Miss Lindsay and looked at Lucy. “Got a message for you,
girl. Your father’s come down with some kind of sickness. He wants you to come
home straightaway to care for him.”

Lucy stared. “He was fine when
I left.”

“But he’s not now. You’re to
ride with me after I’m done here.”

“No,” she said without
thinking.

Mr. Wiseman’s smile slipped. “Maybe
you didn’t hear me.”

“I heard you.” Lucy drew in a
shaky breath, swept away by such hard emotions that she almost quivered with
tension. “No, I won’t go.”

“He’s your father.”

Desperation rode over guilt. “I’m
doing a job. He wouldn’t give up his place at the quarry for me. I know that. He
told me often enough.”

Mr. Wiseman’s jaw flexed. “You’ll
do as you’re told, girl.”

Miss Lindsay’s hand tightened
on Lucy’s shoulder. “Wilbur. You and I will discuss this later.”

“No time for that,” he snapped,
eyes narrowed. “You been twisting this girl’s mind, making her turn from her
family?”

“I like working here,” Lucy
told him, voice rising. “And my brothers are still at home. They don’t need me.
They don’t even
want
me.”

“Go on, now,” Miss Lindsay said
to Mr. Wiseman, drawing Lucy away. “There are people waiting on that body.”

He looked ready to argue, but
it was true—there were mourners dressed all in black standing at the little
cast-iron gate in front of the cemetery, and they were watching Mr. Wiseman
with a question in their eyes. The old man grunted, giving Lucy a baleful
glare.

“You be packed by the time I
get back,” he told her. “Or else I’ll take you as you are.”

Lucy flinched. She saw Barnabus
running toward them, and caught Mr. Wiseman staring at the young man.  Something
passed through his gaze, and he slammed the reins against his horses, jolting
them into motion.

“Coward,” Miss Lindsay
murmured, but Lucy hardly heard her. All she could do was stare at Barnabus. He
looked dangerous, furious—like he was ready to fight, something she had never
imagined of him. He touched the small of her back, his mouth set in a grim line
that only grew deeper, darker, as he gazed past her at the old man’s retreating
wagon.