“Is he here, then?”
“He will be. Went to close out business. Looking for something, for someone, I think. He wouldn’t tell me much. Not that I haven’t gotten used to my boys keeping their business from their mother, but in this case, with your sickness and all . . .” She blinked at me, brow creasing, then cast off any visible sign of frustration and molded her face into a vacant and well-practiced smile.
I could not tell if Mrs. Hareven approved of her son’s trouble. I wondered what Matthew had told her. I could assume he had at the very least instructed his mother not to touch me. It would have been reckless to leave without such warning; Matthew was anything but reckless. Still, Mrs. Hareven did not seem afraid. Matthew had picked me up, had brought me to his family, to this warm, fluffy bed, to hot broth and bandages. And I knew, despite his caution, that I should not have expected any less.
“I’ll leave you to rest,” said Mrs. Hareven, shutting the door.
My eyes begged for me to close them, and I wanted nothing more than to sink back into sleep. But there was Peter to find, and several months of misdirection to make up for, and to regain my strength I knew I had to eat. An examination of the bowl Mrs. Hareven had brought found it to be simple broth, still too hot to stomach. A shuffling came from just outside the bedroom, a little girl’s giggle, a little boy’s cough.
“Is someone there?”
The door cracked open, and two ruddy faces appeared. The twins, Teddy and Avalee, ten-year-old miniature versions of Matthew and their mother. I would learn that there were two strains of Hareven: the stocky blonds who looked like Elodie, and the taller brunettes who took after their father, though when gathered together all were obviously siblings, a certain snub nose repeating across multiple faces, a similar flared nostril when frustrated, a shared shape of the ear. I envied such resemblance, as if it extended past the physical to the bond formed from the time they all had shared. My own childhood seemed even bleaker in comparison.
“Come in,” I told the twins, who did so eagerly, Teddy standing by the wardrobe and Avalee climbing up to join me on the bed.
“Be careful not to touch,” Teddy admonished. “Mattie says she’s very weak.”
Avalee looked at me, wide-eyed. “Are you really?”
“I suppose.” The conversation was surreal—to be here, wrapped in a cloud, talking with two kind and curious children. I could scarcely believe we existed.
“Can I feed you your soup? I’m good at taking care of sick things. Mattie thinks that I could be a doctor, just like him!” Avalee straightened her shoulders.
“I’m grateful for the offer,” I told her, “but I think it might be good for me to spoon it in myself. Stretch the muscles, you know.”
Avalee nodded, chattering to me while I ate. She regaled me with tales of her school friends, her family, a horse she had spotted at a stable two towns over that she’d set her sights on buying, once her doctoring money came through. Her brother mostly listened, occasionally piping in to correct some embellished detail. The domesticity, the ease—I knew I did not deserve these creature comforts, but I was grateful. As Avalee spoke, my time imprisoned, in the cargo van, Rafe’s death, seemed memories from another world.
I wondered where Peter must be at that very moment, whether he had someone looking after him, to bring him soup and gossip and to help him feel at ease. I hoped that he did.
MATTHEW RETURNED WHILE I was napping. When I next opened my eyes, he was settled into a chair in the corner of my room with a book and a hot cup of tea. I could hear the younger Harevens chasing one another around the rooms below us, the dull thumps of their bodies careening into furniture, Mrs. Hareven hushing them. Listening, I felt safe and serene, a pearl protected by iridescent shell. I watched Matthew from under half-closed eyes, awash in the midmorning sun.
He had cut his hair quite short during my capture. The severe style made him look older. He was thinner, quieter, more serious than I remembered him, as if his body had struggled to absorb his recent experience. I wondered how I must look, ragged and gaunt, bled, as I’d been, like a stuck pig. My bandaged arm throbbed, and I shifted to relieve some of the pain. Matthew heard me, and looked up.
He was unusually shy with me, pursing his mouth several times before speaking. A flush rose in his cheeks.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I said automatically. He raised a brow and I shrugged, irritating my arm even more.
Matthew marked his place in his book with a pen and set it down on the end table beside him. He stood, stretched, and moved closer.
“May I take a look?” he asked.
I nodded, and he retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his book bag, snapping them onto his wrists. I flinched unintentionally, a vision of Coulton doing the same flashing through my mind. I tried to pretend it away as an itch or a cough, scratching my ear awkwardly while clearing my throat. Matthew saw my reaction, understood. His eyes were serious and gentle. “It’s all right,” he said softly, “you’re all right now.”
I held out my arm. There was something sensual about the care with which he unwound the white bandage, the tenderness with which he touched my skin despite the barrier of the gloves. The wound was still raw, but the redness had softened, the angry inflammation somewhat calmed.
“You may want to look away,” Matthew said. “I mean, you don’t have to,” he stuttered. “Just . . . might want to.” But I was fascinated by the unknown inner parts of myself. I watched the whole way through, as he discarded the used bandage, spread salve across the wound, rewrapped my arm in soft, fresh gauze. “It’s healing well,” he told me.
I thanked him, also newly shy. I imagined what might happen were he to remove the gloves, tend to the rest of me with the same intense precision.
“If you want to go back to sleep,” he began. “If you want me to go to another . . . move into a different—”
“No.” I blushed at my own sureness. “I want you to stay.”
IN THE DAYS that followed, I thought myself recovering impressively, although I’d startle at the sound of a car outside the window, a loud crash from the living room below. Matthew assured me all was well, though I did once catch what I thought was a glimpse of anxiety in his eyes as he peered out my open window.
“What is it?” I asked him. “Who’s out there?”
Matthew pulled the curtains shut. “It’s nothing to worry about. Everything is just fine.”
“I wish I could believe that.” I forced myself to smile, hoping to show him I was on his side, that for once I appreciated his protectiveness.
“Focus on getting well,” Matthew said. “Try to think of happier things.”
“Talk to me, then,” I said. “Distract me. Tell me about . . . yourself.”
And so, over the next few days, he did. I learned about his sister’s marriage, of which his mother firmly disapproved, the little niece who was expected several months hence. He told me about university, his lifelong interest in medicine. He told me about his first visit to Urizon.
When Matthew was eight, the Harevens had come to Coeurs Crossing. Gerald, his father, was away on business, a six-month trip that would mean money for the family on the back end, but innumerable headaches for his wife on the front. Charlie, the oldest, was recovering from a terrible accident, a fall that had taken his leg below the knee.