“I hate the house,” says Lucy, still staring. Imogen and Mary call her to follow them, but Lucy does not move. They must tug at her, summon all their strength to remove her from Emma’s remains.
“Where are the others?” asks Imogen. “We have to find them, warn them.”
“Who knows?” Mary sniffs. “They might be all like this.” She gestures toward the little girl, the twisted angle of her pelvis, the drained cheek, once that bright birthmark, now splotchy shades of gray and white. “We have to save ourselves.”
Just then they hear a branch breaking, a body approaching, the shrewd movements of a creature on the hunt. Imogen nods at Mary; each take one of Lucy’s hands.
“Impossible,” says Lucy. “We can’t leave now. She’d never hurt us. She’s my daughter.”
But the forest’s door is open, and the others insist. The three of them tumble into autumn, run with the far-grasping wood to Urizon to take refuge in the very place they long ago escaped.
26
Our journey home was somber. We set out before the sun rose—Matthew’s home the only on the block with porch lamps lit, Mrs. Hareven in the doorway, one arm lifted in farewell, the rest of the Harevens still sleeping upstairs.
I rode in the front seat of the car, wearing Matthew’s sister Elizabeth’s blue dress and a pair of her gloves, nervous I might brush Matthew’s fingers as they adjusted the temperature or shifted the clutch. I had never known myself to be so aware of his hands, the small golden hairs at the tops of his wrists, the notches of his knuckles, the steady competence of his square fingernails. He’d showered just before we left, and had a sliver of soap trapped by his right ear, stuck between his skull and the dip of his cartilage. The error was endearing.
On our trip into the city, the car’s speakers had been broken, but in the interim Matthew had repaired them. He set the radio dial to a crackly big-band station, and I watched the neighborhood around me shift to cold, industrial outskirts as a wailing trumpet ushered in the dawn.
Matthew kept glancing at his mirrors, as if afraid we were being followed. His anxiety was catching, but when I finally twisted around to view the highway behind us, a wide winding stretch of dirty gray, I found it empty. Our only fellow traveler was a large truck, just ahead, carrying livestock.
“Smells like horse dung,” I said, as Matthew sped to pass the trailer. The scent was overwhelming, stronger than the tar that filled the air, the smoke that coughed out of the factories around us.
“We’ll be past this stretch soon,” said Matthew, “back into the country.”
I nodded, and chewed my lip. There was so much that I wanted to say to Matthew, about my experience with Coulton, my feelings about Rafe, my immense and impossible gratitude, my poor behavior in the past and how eager I was to make amends, my concerns about my father. So much to say, and yet no way to say it, not with him sitting here, next to me, framed by the sunrise. I could hardly turn to look at him without losing my breath.
A stray thread had escaped from the seam of one of my dress sleeves, and I chose to stare at that instead of Matthew. Three times I brought it to my mouth, trying to catch the string and cut it with my teeth, but was prevented by the movement of the car and my own poor coordination. Giving up, I fiddled with the volume of the radio, making it first very quiet, then quite loud, in the hope that the music might drown out my thoughts. I folded my hands in my lap.
Elizabeth’s gloves were faux fleece things with grips across the palms, designed for making snowmen or shoveling out after a storm, far too warm for early autumn. When I looked at them, I felt that these gloved, gray hands were not my own. I wanted to place one atop Matthew’s hand, to lace our awkward fingers. Instead, I clutched them in my lap.
HOURS OF URBAN drabness left me longing for the moors, the green vitality of that otherworldly ritual by the river. But when we reached them, all the purple flowers were gone. The grasses had yellowed. The winds were strong and chilly. My teeth chattered.
Eager to be home, we had determined to stop only if absolutely necessary, but after hours in the car, I was uncomfortable, sore from this long period spent sitting and desperate to lie down. Still, I would be damned if I would be the one to suggest a break from driving. Lucky for me, Matthew eventually pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, parking the car before an old wooden outhouse, the weathered sign beside it proclaiming another fifty miles until we reached the next town.
Matthew let me use the outhouse first. Inside I tidied myself the best I could under the circumstances, longing for the hot bath that awaited me at home. I stuffed Elizabeth’s gloves into my pocket, flexing my fingers against the chilly outside air, and took in the view while Matthew had his turn.
I guessed we were about two hours from Urizon. Ours was the only vehicle in sight. The outhouse sat on the outskirts of a just-harvested farm, its shorn fields stubbled, the sky so low and damp and gray that though it was midafternoon it felt like evening. A light drizzle had begun, the spitting sort, and I fumbled with the car door, which Matthew had instinctively locked. I gave up after several fruitless seconds.
Hearing a rumble, I at first suspected thunder, then saw large, yellow headlights breaking through the fog, approaching on the main road, soon to pass us. I silently willed Matthew to move quickly, until I realized this was the same livestock transport we’d passed hours ago, its driver a woman of indeterminate age, chewing a toothpick, apparently indifferent to her vehicle’s smell. I waved, and she slowed her truck to raise a hand in greeting.
And then I saw another vehicle, an unmarked white van, pull up behind the trailer. The rain began in earnest. The van came closer, catching me in its lights where I stood at the side of the road. As it approached, it slowed to accommodate the dual hazards of the fluctuating weather and Matthew’s parked car, and I saw its lone occupant, knew his rheumy eyes, his blotched red skin, his thin-lipped mouth, the gray front tooth that glistened when he smiled. The pleasure on his face made it quite clear that he knew me. It was Coulton.
He rolled down the driver’s-side window, ignoring the rain, and called out to me in a voice that was all too familiar. “Looks like my riches have returned to me. Somebody out there’s been listening to my prayers!”
He wrenched the wheel of his van in an attempt to turn around, but the ground was slick with recent rain, and the van had not been built for such maneuvers. Instead of turning, Coulton’s vehicle sped forward, slamming into the horse transport, which slithered snakelike on the wet road for a moment, before overturning both truck and trailer with a sickening crunch.
My hands stretched in front of me of their own accord, although I knew that I was powerless to prevent the coming carnage. I felt time stop in the second that the horses vaulted through the air. The cab of the truck crackled into flame, the horses screaming, the air filled with blood and dung and gasoline—and I was still unable to react.
“Hurry!” yelled Matthew, already past the shoulder, though I hadn’t realized he’d left the outhouse. “We have to get the driver before the whole thing blows.”
His words did not move me, but his recklessness did.
“Wait!” I shouted, running after him. Gasoline had pooled at the side of the truck, it would catch soon, we couldn’t risk it. Matthew’s eyes widened as he realized, and together we crouched behind his car, awaiting the blast.
When it came, the explosion was smaller than expected. I’d thought we would be thrown back, that Matthew’s car would shake and shudder, but aside from a bit of horse manure flung onto the windshield, we were largely unaffected. I stood and felt no rush of heat, was struck by no loose bolts. My ears rang, the horses’ screams echoing, and it took me a moment to pull my focus from Matthew’s lips, the flash of his tongue against teeth, to take in what he was saying.