spring.
“Tell Young William that I love him,” she said. Already she had forgotten that the Boy was dead.
Then she was gone.
And as soon as she left, the pain in my side flared up, the wound tore just a bit, shining bright silver in the unlit study.
This was the room where she had run, a hundred years ago, during a game of hide-and-seek with Young William. It was the same room where William’s father met with the members of the local lepidopterist club. Lily had panicked when a group of men unexpectedly sauntered in from the back parlor, smelling of brandy and cigars. Startled, her disguise of a nine-year-old girl had fallen off and without realizing it, she turned into a faery.
It was the disguise that Young William had always preferred. It was the skin she wore when visiting him in the grove—gossamer wings, her body small enough to sit upon his outstretched palm.
In the flash of an eye, William’s father had caught her in a tangled net; with rough fingers, he sealed her inside a killing jar. Then, when all life had fled her, the old man pinned her to a board, like she was just another giant blue swallowtail caught on an African safari. He speared a pin through her side. And her wound matched the one I wear to this day—the gaping hole just beneath my ribs that travels straight through to my back.
I paused before the window, opened the shutters and let the moonlight pour down upon me, burning my flesh. I didn’t blink, didn’t turn away when the silver light scorched my flesh.
The moon spoke a different language in this room, all her kindness gone, for this was the place where I had failed my beloved. This was where my curse had fallen, like stars from heaven, beyond my control. It bound me to this place, where I had tormented the Driscoll family for three generations.
And now I ripped my shirt open and let the moon scourge my skin, the pain of a thousand cat-o’-nine-tails blistering my flesh and forcing me to my knees.
Knowing all the while that I was a fallen creature and worthy of my torment.
Chapter 16
Sketchbook
Maddie:
Moonbeams fell through the kitchen window like a sheath of silver arrows. All the dinner dishes had been washed and put away, and it was now that quiet time in the evening when my imagination stirred and came to life. This was when stories used to leap onto my page from the crevices and shadows. Sometimes the characters themselves bloomed full and large from the corners of the room, sometimes outlined in white light, sometimes transparent as ghosts.
But that hadn’t happened in a long time. I hadn’t even been able to come up with a decent story idea since the divorce.
Until tonight.
The door to Tucker’s room hung open and a pool of light washed across the floor. I hesitated in his doorway, sketchbook in one hand. Part of me felt like a faceless silhouette, an outline of who I used to be, a pencil sketch waiting for someone to ink me in, make me real again.
Just then my son glanced up and his smile said something else. It erased all of my jagged edges.
“I had a feeling you weren’t asleep yet,” I said. “Whatcha reading?” I entered his room, walked past the dog curled on the floor.
Tucker yawned, looked down at the paperback folded on his lap, almost as if he had forgotten what book it was. But it was always the same book. For the past two years. Over and over.
The Hobbit . He lived in a hole in the ground. I wished I could find one.
“What’s Frodo doing now?” I asked, sitting beside him on the bed.
“Bilbo,” he corrected me. Another grin came out of hiding.
“Your favorite character, huh.”
He nodded. “And Samwise Gamgee.”
As soon as he heard his name, the dog stood up and pushed his way in between us, then laid his head on the bed. He stared up at Tucker. Waiting.
My son leaned down and kissed Samwise on the nose, then whispered, “Good boy.”
The dog’s tail thumped, beating the air. Tucker’s grin widened, revealing a space where one
“Tell Young William that I love him,” she said. Already she had forgotten that the Boy was dead.
Then she was gone.
And as soon as she left, the pain in my side flared up, the wound tore just a bit, shining bright silver in the unlit study.
This was the room where she had run, a hundred years ago, during a game of hide-and-seek with Young William. It was the same room where William’s father met with the members of the local lepidopterist club. Lily had panicked when a group of men unexpectedly sauntered in from the back parlor, smelling of brandy and cigars. Startled, her disguise of a nine-year-old girl had fallen off and without realizing it, she turned into a faery.
It was the disguise that Young William had always preferred. It was the skin she wore when visiting him in the grove—gossamer wings, her body small enough to sit upon his outstretched palm.
In the flash of an eye, William’s father had caught her in a tangled net; with rough fingers, he sealed her inside a killing jar. Then, when all life had fled her, the old man pinned her to a board, like she was just another giant blue swallowtail caught on an African safari. He speared a pin through her side. And her wound matched the one I wear to this day—the gaping hole just beneath my ribs that travels straight through to my back.
I paused before the window, opened the shutters and let the moonlight pour down upon me, burning my flesh. I didn’t blink, didn’t turn away when the silver light scorched my flesh.
The moon spoke a different language in this room, all her kindness gone, for this was the place where I had failed my beloved. This was where my curse had fallen, like stars from heaven, beyond my control. It bound me to this place, where I had tormented the Driscoll family for three generations.
And now I ripped my shirt open and let the moon scourge my skin, the pain of a thousand cat-o’-nine-tails blistering my flesh and forcing me to my knees.
Knowing all the while that I was a fallen creature and worthy of my torment.
Chapter 16
Sketchbook
Maddie:
Moonbeams fell through the kitchen window like a sheath of silver arrows. All the dinner dishes had been washed and put away, and it was now that quiet time in the evening when my imagination stirred and came to life. This was when stories used to leap onto my page from the crevices and shadows. Sometimes the characters themselves bloomed full and large from the corners of the room, sometimes outlined in white light, sometimes transparent as ghosts.
But that hadn’t happened in a long time. I hadn’t even been able to come up with a decent story idea since the divorce.
Until tonight.
The door to Tucker’s room hung open and a pool of light washed across the floor. I hesitated in his doorway, sketchbook in one hand. Part of me felt like a faceless silhouette, an outline of who I used to be, a pencil sketch waiting for someone to ink me in, make me real again.
Just then my son glanced up and his smile said something else. It erased all of my jagged edges.
“I had a feeling you weren’t asleep yet,” I said. “Whatcha reading?” I entered his room, walked past the dog curled on the floor.
Tucker yawned, looked down at the paperback folded on his lap, almost as if he had forgotten what book it was. But it was always the same book. For the past two years. Over and over.
The Hobbit . He lived in a hole in the ground. I wished I could find one.
“What’s Frodo doing now?” I asked, sitting beside him on the bed.
“Bilbo,” he corrected me. Another grin came out of hiding.
“Your favorite character, huh.”
He nodded. “And Samwise Gamgee.”
As soon as he heard his name, the dog stood up and pushed his way in between us, then laid his head on the bed. He stared up at Tucker. Waiting.
My son leaned down and kissed Samwise on the nose, then whispered, “Good boy.”
The dog’s tail thumped, beating the air. Tucker’s grin widened, revealing a space where one
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