His eyes widen. “Why? Is Varo coming? Are you in danger?”
I wave off his alarm. “No, nothing like that. There’s this bonfire at my neighbor’s house tonight. All the kids from my school are going to be there, and it’s kind of a security risk. I need to be there to keep an eye on them, and I need to get you out of the house so Mom doesn’t find you while I’m gone. I know it’s awful of me to ask you to go to a party instead of spending the night doing more to find your parents, but—”
“Winter.” He cups my chin with his hand, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I knew when I came here that I would be impeding your life and your responsibilities. I did not lie when I told you I would do whatever was asked of me. If we need to go, we’ll go.”
I sigh. “Thank you.”
I glance down at what I’m wearing. The shirt is black and the jeans are mud-splattered. It doesn’t really scream school pride. I flip through my closet, looking for anything in the purple or gold family. The closest I get is a lavender T-shirt I haven’t worn since eighth grade stuffed in the back of my closet, which looks small enough now to show off my belly button and half my rib cage—no, thank you—or a dark-blue sweater that maybe, in the right lighting and if viewed by a partially blind person, could pass for purple.
I open the door, sweater and a fresh pair of jeans in hand, but Mom’s in her bedroom, changing into sweats, her door wide open. She’ll see me go into the bathroom to change, and then she’ll definitely know something’s up.
I close the door and slump against it. “Crap.”
When I open my eyes, Henry’s standing right in front of me. I jump. “Jeez, make noise when you walk, will you?”
He frowns. “I thought you wanted me to be quiet when your mother is home.”
Okay, he has me there. “You’re right, sorry. I’m just a little stressed. I wasn’t exactly planning on taking you out into modern society while you’re here, let alone sneaking you past my mom to do it.”
He shrugs. “You were able to sneak me in. It cannot be much different.”
“Yeah, well, my mom wasn’t four feet down the hall last time.”
I press my ear against the door. I can still hear Mom moving around her bedroom. That’s the good and bad thing about living in a two-hundred-plus-year-old house: I can hear exactly where she is, but she can hear exactly where I am, too.
I sigh and spin my finger. “Turn around.”
He stares at me.
I hold up the sweater. “I need to change.”
He blushes and turns around, pressing himself into the far corner of the room. He mumbles an apology and cracks his knuckles, his head ducked low as I slip out of my shirt.
It’s a weird feeling, standing in the same room as a boy with your bra exposed and the cold air seeping through the cracks around the window sprouting goose bumps on your flesh. I’m extra-aware of my skin, my too-loud heart. I fling the black top into my hamper and tug the sweater over my head. My hair crackles with static, and I’m pretty sure I smeared deodorant on the fabric, but at least it’s on.
Next come the jeans, skinny ones that get caught around my ankles when I try to pull them off. I hop on one leg, trying to get them off, and tumble into the side of my bed.
“Are you well?” Henry asks, his voice muffled by the wall.
“Yep. Fine. Just keep staring at the wall, Brightonshire.”
He laughs, a low sound that reminds me of a purr. And even though I’m completely mortified, it makes me smile, knowing I can make him laugh like that even when his world is crashing down around him.
I pull on the ankle without mercy until it finally gives, then wiggle into the fresh pair of jeans, thankfully not of the skinny variety. “Okay. Ready.”
Henry turns, but he still won’t look at me.
“No, really,” I say. “Fully clothed now.”
His eyes inch up to meet mine and the air crackles between us. His irises are darker than before, laser-focused. My skin prickles. Something pulls in my stomach, the same something that leads me into the wood during the day and back to the house when the sun sets. An instinct too strong to be ignored.
He looks away and the feeling fades. “Will I be—Am I dressed appropriately?”
Good point. Sure, I’m used to his clothes—I’ve practically taken a graduate-level course in fashion history in my time in the wood—but everyone else will be staring at him, which means attention. Which means gossip. Which means not good.
“I’ll grab some of my dad’s old clothes after dinner. I’m going to need you to stay up here for another hour or so. Will you be all right?”
“Of course,” he replies, returning to the desk and picking up his book. “I must discover what happens to these horrible children.”
I smirk. “I’ll sneak you up some food when I get the chance.”
He waves me out the door, his face disappearing behind the old, yellowed pages. My heart tugs at the sight. I know he’s just putting on a brave face—I can’t imagine how much more worried he is about his parents now that he knows a psychopath is on the loose—but it reminds me of my dad, of the lessons he instilled in me. There’s a quiet strength in a person who can go on and do what needs to be done even when all hope seems lost. And yeah, maybe I still don’t know enough about Henry to totally trust him, but now that I’m learning the kind of person he is, it’s getting harder to keep my guard up.
*
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I sit down at the dinner table.
Mer: U coming 2nite?
Me (while doing my best to hide my frustration from Mom): Yep.
Mer:!!!!!!!
Mom sets a bowl of chicken soup and a basket of fresh-baked bread in front of me. My phone buzzes again.
Mer: I know u have a ridiculous aversion to makeup, but please wear some tonight. I’m getting u a date to the dance if it kills me.
I roll my eyes and stuff my phone back in my pocket. Finding a date to the dance is the least of my worries. I can’t be too annoyed with her, though. It wouldn’t be fair. She doesn’t know what my life entails. She doesn’t know the last thing I need is a boyfriend. Or a makeup lesson.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to going out tonight?” Mom asks as she dips her spoon into her soup bowl.
I nod. “I don’t really have a choice, but since it’s next door, I can come right home if I start to feel sick again.”
“All right,” Mom says. “Just don’t overdo it.”
I take a few sips of my soup, then place my spoon back on the table. “Mom?”
She glances at me as she rips off a piece of bread. “Yes?”
Deep breaths. “Did Dad ever keep a journal?”
“Why do you ask?”
Okay, not the reaction I was expecting. “Well, I was just thinking—”
“Seems you did a lot of that today.”
“Yeah, well, when you have nothing else to do…” I clear my throat. “So, anyway, I was thinking about all the journals in Dad’s office. They go back hundreds of years, and they’re obviously important since we’ve taken such good care of them. So … why didn’t Dad have one?”