She always took off when they argued, as if it might kill her to stay another second with Cal when she was angry. She should have stayed, shouldn’t have been so gutless, so afraid to hear him out. He wanted to make things better, no matter what it took, and she couldn’t stand that.
The Land didn’t get as quiet as the wilderness did. Even in the middle of the night, Frida could hear two people talking nearby, and in another house, someone was humming. There was the occasional sleep-snort, too, and the creak of a bed as someone rolled over. There was so much life here.
Frida shielded the candle with a cupped hand and stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, as if walking on a balance beam.
Before she’d left the Bath, she had asked Cal to find out everything. He’d asked the same of her, but she’d nearly forgotten that part. It was her job, too, to discover the Land’s history. Cal said Micah didn’t care about the past, but that had to be false. Everyone cared about the past.
Frida had never been inside Micah’s house, but it had been pointed out to her a few times, even by her brother himself.
“If you ever need anything,” he’d said. “That’s where I sleep most nights.”
“‘Most nights’?” she’d asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Not like that,” he said. “I don’t have a girlfriend if that’s what you’re getting at.”
It was a one-story structure made of wood that had darkened and gone brittle over the years. Its roof sloped, and its two front picture windows were boarded up.
Across the doorway hung a curtain made of thick material and torn at the side. It was probably as cold in there as it was out here, Frida thought, and dark. As she stepped up to its entrance, she practiced what she would say: Tell me exactly what went on here. What have you done in the name of containment, and where does it stop? She would ask him what happened to the children. Anika shouldn’t have to be the one to retell such horrors.
“Hello?” she said as she reached the doorway. She pulled the curtain aside, prepared to walk into the house, when her hand hit something solid. Frida saw that behind the curtain was a wooden door, sturdy as the Hotel’s, sturdier than Anika’s, and a metal knob. Of course her brother had a door, it was just hidden.
Frida struck her knuckles against the wood, hard, and then once more. When there was no answer, she turned the knob. With a click, the door opened.
She found herself inside one large room. Two windows across from the door would let in the first of the morning’s light; they had not been boarded up, Frida realized, because their glass was intact.
A shelf ran along the length of the room, directly below the windows: it was smooth, and when Frida shined the candle she saw it was made of wood. Different candles lined this shelf, some of them burned almost to nothing, others long and tapered. None of them were lit, but Frida imagined that when they were, they transformed the room. It’d be like standing in an elegant little restaurant: spare, honey lit. All it lacked was a hostess stand, some skinny cute woman with a handful of menus, ready to show you to your table.
Against one wall was a single sleeping pallet, empty, and in the center of the room a stove huffed. It was warm in here. Micah must have left recently.
Frida was stunned by the anger she felt. Or maybe it was envy. The house’s exterior was nothing special, but it was welcoming inside, almost beautiful. Someone had renovated this carefully, but if you saw it from the outside, you’d never have any idea. Everyone knew Micah lived here, but how many were invited inside?
She stepped to the window and for a moment felt like she’d found herself in a charming country home. That didn’t seem like Micah, though: he’d want to wake up to see the Land’s dangerous and unique border. Maybe when the sun rose, it revealed a line of sharp Spikes in the distance.
Frida pushed away from the window, the glass solid and smooth against her hands, and rounded the stove. Behind it was a table, low to the ground, and beneath it, a pile of clothes, a few folded neatly, others flung carelessly aside. Frida picked up a blue T-shirt and held it to her face. There it was, her brother’s smell, as if he were still fourteen years old, showering every morning for three minutes, timed, like he was training for the military. Frida knew she was caught in a fantasy, but she didn’t care. She breathed in deeper.
On the table were a few odds and ends: a fingernail clipper, a brush for Micah’s long hair, and a bandage, the kind you’d roll onto a sprained ankle.
And then she saw the toy.