“He kept on saying you’d be at Urizon,” Matthew went on. “I told him if you weren’t there, to call and let me know.”
Peter had nodded again, put on his coat, and set off with an unusual air of dreaminess about him (or so Matthew described it. I told him that Peter often had that air when he had found some pressing problem, as if his mind were miles away from us, his thoughts slow-drifting clouds).
Left alone to deal with Mrs. Blott’s body, Matthew had ventured up the stairs to examine the postmortem injury. The amputation, he told me, had been messy, its aftereffects foul.
“When I phoned the police, I pleaded ignorance. Said I thought it was an animal attack, that I’d found the front door open. They came . . . ,” he said, and here his voice finally cracked. Again he rubbed at his right eyebrow. “The undertaker came for the body soon after. She was cremated the next day. I buried her cat in the yard.”
“And Peter?” I asked.
“I never heard. I assumed you two were safely back at home.”
“And we’d made no effort to contact you? We just left Mrs. Blott to . . .” I was unsure of how to finish.
Matthew shrugged, though not unkindly. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked. “Something to eat?”
Any disturbance he felt at my current situation, my father’s disappearance, the malleability of time, Matthew hid under that expression of competent concern, much as he had when first confronted with my power. He filled a kettle, fought thrice to light the stove, and opened his aunt’s pantry to a wide array of treasures. Realization did not dawn until he’d spread four types of biscuits on a plate, at which point I was pleased to see his steady eyes reveal a hint of panic.
“Can you have . . . ,” he started. “Does . . . all that . . . happen when you eat? How do you . . .”
My diet was the same as any other, though I used my back molars more consistently than Peter or Mrs. Blott. Peter had always stressed the need for silverware, the import of small bites so that I could avoid my lips. I was adept at wriggling a variety of foods through straws, hinging my jaw to fit full cabbage leaves, and, of course, finding excuses when the meals that I was served weren’t to my taste. Mrs. Blott had always managed our cooking. We had more of these same biscuits in the freezer at Urizon. Each bite of her baked goods, I knew, would bring me further from her, as if once I’d eaten the last of her stores she would be gone from me completely. I tried not to dwell on the image of an empty pantry, echoing her empty cottage.
I’d been hungry on arrival, but found my appetite gone.
“If Peter isn’t here,” I said, ignoring Matthew’s half question, “then he must be out looking for me. Unless he’s already back home.” I stood. “He must be worried. I should go.”
“Why don’t we call your house?” said Matthew. “See if your father answers?”
I let the phone ring twenty times. We’d disconnected our machine. I remembered the message that I’d left for Mrs. Blott that very morning, so it seemed, letting her know that I’d be by. “I have to go,” I said.
“Let me drive you. Just give me five minutes to get ready.”
MATTHEW INSISTED ON accompanying me inside Urizon proper. He’d put on a sweatshirt adorned with his college’s mascot, a bear, and I followed its scowl through the house as we searched it for Peter. I found myself glad to have him with me to push open wooden doors, remove dust sheets from sculptures, crack dry jokes at portraits; I was amazed by Matthew’s ease with the unknown. I would not, until much later, understand the calculation of the comfort he provided, the care with which he examined each possible choice before he acted, the tone of each word before he spoke.
He could tell I was afraid, although I tried hard not to show it. Voice loud, hair curling down onto his collar, the Matthew I met that night was jovial, even funny, doing what he could to abate my fears. Our quest for my father proved more futile with each empty room’s alibi, the enormity of my isolation growing larger as the house around me tripled in size.
“You know,” Matthew said, an hour in, lifting the key lid of a dust-covered piano to pluck several sour notes, “I once visited the village, as a child. My aunt told me this whole estate was empty. It’s weird to be inside after imagining what it would be like for so many years.”
We’d unveiled the old music room: a plump, retired cello, a stringless harp, shelves stuffed with pencil-marked sheet music. I lingered in the doorway, watching him sound out the melody of an old children’s song.
“You didn’t know that we lived here? That Mrs. Blott helped us with the house?”
Matthew shook his head. “Not when I was younger. There were rumors, of course, but she always denied them. Said I was imagining things when I thought I’d seen a kid here. Back then she said that she cleaned houses around town.”
“And now?”
“When I came a few months ago, she admitted she was working for the Cothays. Painted your father as . . . unfriendly. Never even mentioned you.”
“Because of my curse.”
Matthew played three crashing, tuneless chords, then slammed the cover. His eyes met mine. “I don’t believe in curses.”
If I’d been too distracted by my father’s disappearance, my time in the wood, to reflect on the fact of being alone in my house with a boy, the bluntness of this comment and the directness of his gaze brought me immediately to my senses. The tops of my ears burned. I could not think of a response.
My embarrassment was heightened when Matthew opened the door to my bedroom, moving quickly ahead of me before I could inform him that we’d find nothing of value in my unmade bed, the clothes strewn on the carpet. He realized at once the room was mine, and stepped awkwardly to the side, his back hitting the picture frame that held Peter’s rules for me, sending it crashing to the dresser.
“I’m sorry.” Matthew winced. I shrugged, and tried to direct him away, but he lifted the frame by its edges and turned it over to investigate the damage.
“You don’t have to . . . ,” I started, then gave up when I saw that he had read the text immediately, his lips pursed in thought.
“They’re only guidelines,” I mumbled.
“So you aren’t allowed to touch anything.”
“It’s from when I was little.”
“You’ve lived your while life without holding hands, or hugging. Without picking flowers or pulling leaves off trees. Without petting a dog or—”
“I have a dog,” I interrupted. “I have Marlowe. I can pet him.”
“Still,” said Matthew. “I can’t even imagine what that must be like. To never be held. To always have to worry. You’ve got remarkable restraint. Mind-blowing control. It’s truly impressive.” He looked at me, but though his words expressed awe, his eyes held pity.
“Can we just leave it? We need to stay focused on Peter.” I knew that I’d been rude, but was not sure how to correct it. I swallowed. “Let’s just go back into the study. Maybe there’s something else there. He likely wouldn’t leave a note, but we might find some clue as to his whereabouts.” I sighed. “Or he could very well just pop up in the morning. He’s not the type to think of . . . details. Or of how I might worry. Not to say that I am.” The last I blustered through, aware that the force of my teeth had started my lip bleeding, that the fierce red taste of it likely now colored my gums.
“Hmm,” said Matthew. He yawned. It was very late, and I remembered that I’d woken him. I knew I should relieve him, thank him for his help, suggest he best be on his way back to the cottage, but could not bring myself to do so. Avoiding his gaze, I chewed a thumbnail, keratin clicking against my lower teeth.
“I could stay here for the night,” Matthew said carefully, not entirely successful in masking the white lie that followed: “It would be easier than having to drive all the way back. It’s very late. And we can do a better search of your father’s office in the morning, when we’re fresh. I can sleep in that purple bedroom upstairs.”