Rafe shrugged, then winked at me. “Whatever you say, Captain. Don’t worry, Maisie.” He put a hand on my sleeve, and I tried not to startle at the contact, to wait the appropriate amount of time before pulling away. “A few hours won’t make much difference. I’ve got a quick call to make. Be back soon.”
I watched him walk off with his mobile phone, tracking his movements by its unnatural light, and tried to parse the meaning of that wink while Matthew prepared a place for us to sleep. If Rafe said a few hours wouldn’t matter, then they wouldn’t. He knew more about my father’s journey than I did. And along with his interest in Peter and the forest, Rafe was apparently now interested in me. Unlike Matthew’s interest—cold and cautious, scientific—I felt a heat from Rafe’s attentions. I felt a strength in the curves of my hips and the heft of my breasts, a power budding every time Rafe looked at me.
When he returned, we spent the night as we would for most of our journey: myself sprawled across the back seat, Matthew and Rafe out on blankets in the grass, flanking each side of the car. It was like camping trips he’d taken as a kid, Matthew insisted. Rafe told me that he liked to see the stars.
WE RETURNED TO the center of the spiral the next morning to discover an abandoned, three-walled structure that had been hidden by the mist the night before. We were, I realized, at the westernmost edge of the forest that bordered Urizon, though it seemed hardly the same being, its trees slimmer and spread much farther apart, its floor level, the grass lush. Mother Farrow had told me that at one point this whole continent was forest, webs of wood from coast to coast. Like an emperor expanding his holdings, one original tree must have seeded and spread, until a migratory bird might look down to see green in all directions.
“I thought there was a lock we had to fasten. Or unfasten,” said Matthew, leaning against the far side of the building, watching us walk around the structure with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Not a literal one,” said Rafe. Again he put a hand on my sleeve, giving my clothed shoulder a squeeze of recognition, as if to suggest that I understood what Matthew did not. This time, I did not startle at his touch.
We could see the sky through the rifts in the roof. A gray morning light made a brief halo over Matthew’s hair, then was gone as wispy clouds sailed past to block it. A thin stream of sweat had gathered between my breasts, another at my temple.
On the side opposite from which Matthew had parked, we found what seemed to be a cellar—a dug-in pit, lined at the bottom with stone. A fossilized ladder led from the side of the barn down into the hole.
“Looks like an old jail cell,” said Matthew, behind me. “See the remains of the chains?”
THE NEXT LEG of our drive was spent debating the significance of the jail cell, and discussing the meaning of the spirals and their role in Rafe’s research. Matthew took the stance that we were wasting time, our efforts clearly amounting to nothing.
“What, you were expecting some rift in the sky? Some blaze of light? That isn’t how it works. Unrealistic.” Rafe shook his head, half smiling.
“Something, at least,” said Matthew, pulling onto the main highway.
“There is something,” Rafe countered. “A sort of electricity. You can feel it, Maisie, can’t you?”
I nodded, though the charge surging through my body seemed to have more to do with Rafe himself than our recent accomplishment. I noticed every time he shifted weight in front of me, aware of his slightest adjustment. Was he equally attuned to my movements? At times I thought I caught him looking at me, his expression one of thoughtful satisfaction. I wanted to unsettle him. When I leaned down to retie my shoelace, I deliberately repositioned my shirt so that the tops of my breasts were just visible, pressed together.
Once we had exhausted the topics of rituals and deities and doors, I found myself dallying with flirtatious repartee, at which I was not adept, but was aided by the loud bursts of sound that periodically exploded from the engine of the car and distracted from my worst faux pas.
“So you’ve never seen the city? You are in for quite a treat,” Rafe said.
“I know I am, especially seeing it with you. I’m sure there’s more that we can see . . . together.”
I caught the reflection of Matthew’s rolling eyes in the rearview mirror.
WE STOPPED AT a roadside oasis for something to eat after I’d spent twenty minutes remarking to no one in particular that we hadn’t done much the night before regarding dinner. Matthew went in to order us some sandwiches and coffee, leaving me alone, for the moment, with Rafe. We got out of the car to stretch our legs, the small dirt parking lot empty around us, despite Matthew’s worry that there’d be a crowd inside.
“Your hair looks pretty like that,” said Rafe. “Did you have it that way before?”
My body tingled with the compliment, urging me toward him. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but before I could embarrass myself I started coughing, my throat suddenly blocked.
“Maisie?”
My face was hot, my head felt buoyant. Rafe gave me a large thump on the back, which only increased my discomfort. “Are you choking?” he asked, and I shook my head, although I thought perhaps I was, and the panic that accompanied this thought made me gag harder.
Rafe wrung his hands, then pressed them against his own abdomen, as if practicing for how he might assist me. Luckily, we had no need for his experimentation. After a moment, the guilty parties showed themselves: three perfectly round red berries came up in a swirl of bile and landed on the grass. I cleared my throat, embarrassed and confused. I’d had a scone for breakfast, and a cheese sandwich the night before. There had been no berries. I had not eaten any berries.
“I’ll grab some water for you,” Rafe said, dashing over to the car.
“I must not have chewed them properly,” I mumbled. “Silly of me.” Had I imagined it? But, no, Rafe had seen them too. Were they some sort of warning? A reminder of the dangers that awaited if I listened to the urges I had recently discovered, if I gave myself to Rafe? A punishment for wanting.
I shook off the thought, “I’m fine.” A viscous wetness like an amniotic sac held the berries, clustered in the grass. “I’m fine,” I repeated. But I could not rid myself of the bitter taste the berries had left upon my tongue.
A Few Brief Years of Possibility
The black-eyed girl lies on her bier and blinks up at the silhouettes of branches, wisps of cloud. A bold bird hovers close above her, while others warble his praise from their perch on the outstretched finger of a nearby poplar. These wrens have teased the black-eyed girl for weeks, now. They’ve grown reckless, diving and cheeping, showing off for their brothers. Beautiful, dull targets, putting themselves within reach.
Look!
Closer comes this spotted wren, closer, closer. Here, he thinks, what fun. He has learned from the others, watched them experiment, rejoiced each time they returned to the tree branch, boasting of success.
The foolish wren emits a mating call, darts back, giving a sly, beady look to his intended paramour. He whistles. Down he comes. A wing brushes the black-eyed girl’s cheek.
Her hand shoots up, reflexes newly tight, a spring come suddenly uncoiled. The black-eyed girl grabs the wren. She feels his oily skin against her own, the straw blades of his feathers.
She squeezes.