Strange Things Done by Elle Wild Page A

north and then there’s North.”
    Jo had to smile. She stood to look at his work. Animals in fight-or-flight mode. She felt his eyes following her as she moved and felt self-conscious. “They’re beautiful.” She meant it. The curve of each line was achingly perfect.
    “Thank you.” When she glanced at him, he had a curious expression on his face.
    She walked toward a rough tree stump in the corner, near the bed, where something had caught her eye. A sleek blackbird, wooden wings outstretched, the detail on the legs so fine that you could see every scale. The beak was open in midcry, chest thrust forward, and wings about to beat. His work expressed the power of the creature at a transformative moment. The fury of nature and the fragility. “I love this one. A raven?”
    “Yes. It’s a bit of a family reference. Byrne comes from the Irish name Ó Broin, from the first name Bran, which means ‘raven.’ Descendants of Bran related back to an ancient king of Leinster and his clan, whose motto in Latin was Certavi et vici . ‘I have fought and conquered.’ ”
    “Your work is really emotive.”
    “Thanks. It pays homage to Taggish mythology and the creatures of the North. But sometimes they don’t like me stealing their stories. Cultural appropriation, I believe they call it.”
    “Well, it’s lovely.” A man and a woman and a blackbird are one. The words of a forgotten poem surfaced, unbidden. She said, “ I know noble accents / And lucid, inescapable rhythms …”
    Byrne cocked his head. “Wallace Stevens?”
    Jo wasn’t listening. She was still struggling to remember. “Sorry?”
    “ ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.’ We talked about it last night …”
    “Did we? Look, I need to get going, but I’d really like a bit more detail about last night.” When she turned away from his art and back toward him, he was suddenly very close to her. “Everything that happened,” she said.
    He put his hand on her chin and lifted her face. “Everything?”
    “Yes,” she said, conscious of their proximity to the bed.
    “Okay,” he said.
    Jo decided not to tell him that she remembered seeing Marlo.
    “I love the lines of your face.” They stood there for a moment like that, him cupping her chin, the heat between their bodies a shared force. He was going to kiss her. Jo was sure of it now, and she wanted him to. Instead, he released her.
    “We should get together when you have more time. What do you say to a reenactment tomorrow night? I’d say tonight, but I’m working. How’s your head, by the way?”
    “Poor,” she said, truthfully, but her pulse was racing.
    “I’m sorry to hear it.” He walked her to the door.
    Jo found herself reluctant to leave. She paused at the threshold. “One more thing, why would Sally call you? Why would she tell you that I was on my way over?”
    “She’s an old friend of mine,” Byrne said, but he frowned.
    Jo thought about this all the way back to Dawson.

6
    Large photos flashed by on Doug’s desktop computer, full of the cheerful woollen colours and patterns of the townspeople at sunrise. The way that people folded their arms and leaned in to one another, Jo could almost feel the icy breeze off the river again. Another shot showed the yellow RCMP Zodiac patrolling the shoreline; the next, the troubled expressions of Mayor Wright and Johnny Cariboo at the town meeting. Jo found her gaze lingering on Johnny Cariboo longer than it should. He had striking features, and there was a dark intensity about him that Jo appreciated. Something a bit melancholy. Shame he’s a uniform.
    “Photos aren’t bad.” Doug glanced at her, as though guessing what she was thinking. He was seated at his metal desk, framed against the backdrop of a huge poster that read, “We drive into the future using only our rearview mirror.” The image pictured Marshall McLuhan, head on hand. “But, uh …”
    “But what ?” Jo said, instantly regretting the sharp tone of her