“Nori!”
I race up to her room, and find her fast asleep in her bed, her grotesque little mouth hanging open and the air saturated with her stale breath. I swallow and then go to shake her awake.
She rubs her eyes and squints up at me.
“Are you okay? When did you go back to bed?”
She frowns at me, and shakes her head.
“Nori, why didn’t you stay in the cupboard?”
She sits up, still rubbing her eyes. What cupboard?
“We ran downstairs, remember? The basement? Hiding?”
Did you have a bad dream? she asks, and I can see she has no idea what I’m talking about.
“You never got up last night?”
No. I went to bed when you said, after I fell asleep by the fire, remember?
I do.
I shake my head and force a laugh. “Must have had a bad dream. Come on, up. I’ll get some peanut paste and an apple, okay?”
She nods and watches me. I know that when I go, she’ll be back to sleep in under a minute flat. I turn away, ready to forget this (crazy) nightmare, when I spot something under her bed.
A tattered penguin doll with a red knitted scarf around its neck.
I open my mouth to ask Nori about it, but she has already fallen asleep.
The nib of my pen flashes in the moonlight. Silence reigns, expectant.
There are twenty-nine candles left.
Four boxes of matches. [BURN THE HOUSE DOWN.]
Two gas lamps. A single jar of kerosene. [TO THE GROUND.]
Four batteries. One flashlight. [WATCH IT BURN TO HELL.]
I focus on my whisper note, looking for a core truth to these feelings, trying to ignore the tooth I am close to losing.
I sat in the library for a long time today, thinking about you. About what you said. I remember every single thing you said to me. “You’re hiding in this dying place because you’re a coward.” The way your face fell—the way you gave up on me. “If you do nothing, you’ll die here.”
How could you say those things?
Why didn’t I listen?
You were right. I am afraid. Afraid to leave this house. Afraid to find out what I have left behind in that world out there. In London. In my past. I can’t even think about that. I can’t face it. I was fourteen when I came here, and I dragged Nori with me. I dragged her through the rain and the mud.
La Baume is cursed. Haunted, even, maybe. I have too many theories to list. Though that might just be me going mad, like my mother always said I would. Except… I’m not mad. I know it. But I wish I was. Because then, all of this… all of this would make a kind of sense. And I don’t think Cath is mad either. She stays in the attic because it’s the farthest she can get from the trees.
Anyway. All this is to say that you were right. All along. But I don’t want to be afraid, and I don’t want to be trapped here. A voice in the night tells me that if I leave—if I leave… he’ll—he’ll… but it’s just my own insecurities. My own fears that hold me hostage.
I miss my anger. Can’t handle this fear.
I know you’ll never come back. Who would? I’m going to burn this damn note anyway, so here it is:
I miss you.
I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know how I never saw myself falling off this platform I built for myself—a platform to keep me above the messy, noisy, painful world of emotions. I have a stone for a heart, but it is turning to clay. Softening. And you’re to blame.
God, I hate you.
I like you.
I love you.
I hate that. I hate you. I do. You’ve ruined and broken me and I hate you forever you stupid, selfish, ignorant, happy shithead! I hate you! I hate you for breaking my stone in half! I hate you for leaving and I hate that you’re never going to come back and I am never going to see you again.
I hate myself, too. For loving you. Love is a lie.
I will kill this heart, even if I die, too.
Silla.
I can’t burn it. I hold it near the candle flame for a long time, but I can’t make it ash and air. Instead, I leave the note in the garden, buried deep in the earth, and maybe it’ll turn into a rock. I push the earth over the hole, letter inside. Poisoned earth, soft as ash, under my fingernails. I’m already infected. I know it. The green mold growing on my dress proves it. The way I’m falling apart proves it.
This should worry me, but doesn’t. Nothing feels quite real anymore.
That’s probably a bad sign.
In the morning, I discover a small pile of green pages on the kitchen doorstep, held down by a green apple. A green letter.
He came in the night.
I missed him again.
THE GREEN LETTER
STANDING ON THE OUTSIDE IS HARD, SILLA. AND YOU DON’T MAKE IT EASY. YOU’RE DIFFICULT, ABRASIVE, RUDE—AND I LOVE YOU. BUT, YOU’RE DIFFERENT. COLD. HARD. I DON’T THINK I’M HELPING YOU.
I STAYED AWAY ONLY TO DO THAT.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE AN ORPHAN? NO ONE EXCEPT AN ORPHAN COULD EXPLAIN. THE WHOLE ABANDONMENT-ISSUE THING IS REAL. IT NEVER QUITE LEAVES YOU.