“Don’t be silly.” I stretched my legs. “You should go home to see your parents. Don’t they live nearby?”
Matthew ignored me and turned off the engine. I shot Rafe an exasperated look. I did not have time for Matthew and his changing moods, nor the murkiness of my own feelings about what had transpired between us. Was he jealous of Rafe? Had that been the source of his advances? More likely he’d been trying to manipulate me, the gesture by the river meant to placate my frustration, to control me. I shook my head in an effort to forcibly remove all thought that those warnings about Rafe might be founded. Luckily, I would not have to deal with them much longer. Now that we’d reached Peter, Matthew and I would part. This could well be, I thought suddenly, the last time I would see him. The thought made me unexpectedly sad, and I brushed it away.
The air outside was pleasant, but immediately upon entering the hotel we were met with an oppressive warmth. We walked into a cramped entryway, wires crawling through a patch of unfinished ceiling, the stale smell of industrially washed curtains not quite overpowering a lingering odor of cat. A sloping desk sat unattended beside a row of keys dangling unevenly from hooks in the wall. They reminded me of specimens, each key a neatly labeled bit or bob: Room 7 a fox paw, Room 12 a pinned moth, Room 20 a tagged flower.
“It doesn’t look as if anyone has stayed here in some time,” muttered Matthew. As if in response, a large cat loped out of the shadows, looked at him disdainfully, and yawned. “Here’s hoping no guests are allergic.”
I scowled. Matthew had on his expression of derisive incredulity. It was clear he did not trust the path that led us here, which meant that he did not trust Peter. He obviously did not trust me. I widened my eyes to demonstrate my annoyance, and Matthew simply cocked an eyebrow, widening his eyes back at me.
Rafe leaned over the desk to find a small silver bell, and tapped at it impatiently until we heard a rustling behind a nearby door, from which emerged a heavyset man, bleary-eyed, unshaven, wearing an unbuttoned shirt with an embroidered red logo, like an external heart across his chest. He had a single dead tooth just to the right of his two front ones, bluish black in color. I tried not to stare.
“What do you want?” the man asked before he’d even looked at us.
“Poor customer service,” Matthew said under his breath.
“We are looking for Peter Cothay,” said Rafe slowly, louder, I thought, than was necessary in the small space. “We were told he’s staying here. Do you know which room he’s in?”
The man scratched the back of his neck. He smiled, rotted tooth on full display.
“Yes,” he said, “Mr. . . . Yes. Um . . . room sixteen. But he’s gone out. Yes, he’s gone out for the day.”
“He’ll be back soon?” I asked.
The man shot Rafe a look—was my question inappropriate?—then turned back to me and shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Why don’t we get a room as well?” suggested Rafe. “Clean up and have something to eat while we wait. I’m sure he won’t be too long. We’ve found him at last, Maisie!” He could barely contain his excitement.
“A good idea.” I turned to Matthew. “You can leave now. We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait, too, until you see him.” Matthew crossed his arms over his chest, planting himself in the fusty carpet beside me. I sighed. My back to Rafe and the hotel man, I spoke softly, close to his ear.
“Stop trying to protect me,” I said through my teeth. “It’s humiliating.” I could feel the heat of the others’ eyes on us. My insides simmered with exasperation. “Rafe will wait with me. Peter will be back soon. As I’ve told you, I can take care of myself. Please leave already. Just go.”
“You don’t think anything about this is shifty? You don’t have any feeling that maybe something isn’t right?” Matthew took no care to lower his voice.
“Stop it,” I hissed. “You’re embarrassing me!”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he said. “Come on, Maisie.” Matthew steered me by the shoulder, one hand carefully set atop my jacket, turning me toward the door. “We’re going now.” After two steps I jerked away, the force of my elbow throwing him off balance. He gave me a look of surprise, tinged with hurt. I moved back toward Rafe and pressed myself against the welcome desk.
“Please stop,” I said, tears swelling in my throat. “If you want to go so much, then just get going. I don’t want you here with me. I never did.”
Matthew opened his mouth to respond, but again I said, “Please.”
He looked at me for a long time. I felt a strange ache in my chest. Finally, he nodded.
“All right,” said Matthew. “All right, then.” He turned away from me, and toward the door. I could see where the bruise I’d made on his chin the day before had begun to yellow. My fingers twitched at my side, wanting, of their own accord, to touch it. I had prevailed; Matthew was leaving. So why did I still think I might cry?
I assumed that he would turn himself around to say goodbye. He didn’t. I watched him leave, heard the door slam behind him, and felt that tightness in my chest reach an intensity I thought must be its peak. I turned to Rafe.
“About that room.”
A Bedeviled Family Line
The black-eyed girl stretches, twisting her body one way, then the next. She rolls her neck.
“What can we bring you?” asks Lucy, worrying her fingers, taking a step forward and then falling back as it becomes clear that the black-eyed girl won’t answer. “What comes next? What do we have to do in order to escape?”
The black-eyed girl raises an eyebrow.
“You can speak,” Lucy says. “Can’t you?”
But the black-eyed girl chooses not to speak to Lucy. Instead she cocks an ear, listening to the world outside the forest. She brings a finger to her lips and sucks, lubricating the knuckle, using her teeth to remove the dirty emerald ring long pressed upon it, which she spits to the ground.
Lucy falls to her knees to retrieve the ring, then scrambles to gather the rest of the jewelry—the iron brooch, the plain gold band, the promise ring—that trails the black-eyed girl as she walks slowly from the clearing. The silver chain torn from the neck. The wire bracelet unwoven. The fallen Blakely crest, pressed facedown in dirt.
18
The hotel room was much like the entryway: stuffy and drab. It had two twin beds with copper frames, made up with stiff, flowered bedspreads. These looked even less comfortable than the carpeted floor, which boasted scars from recent vacuuming, uneven stripes like poorly harvested crops across its length. A gray plastic desk held a stack of brochures with suggestions for what to do while visiting the city. Atop the bureau sat a television, the first I’d seen in person, which displayed only a static snow once turned on.
At any other time, I would have been excited to explore these new surroundings, bland as they were, but my enthusiasm was tempered by the sour taste left by Matthew’s parting. I felt the anxiety of our lack of resolution, compounded by mounting anticipation of reunion with my father. Had I been unduly short with Matthew? Would Peter be angry with me for pushing him away, for failing to heed his directives of caution?
I thought of Mrs. Blott, Matthew’s blood relation, and had a sinking premonition that he would suffer a similar fate. Whatever fever I’d abated might return. His exhaustion might lead him to an accident. I wanted to race after him, bolt through the building to apologize, beg him to explain his motives in that moment by the water. I restrained myself.