Harris,” says Dreska, appearing in the doorway. She motions at me with her cane, and I push myself to my feet and go to her. Taking my hand, she sets a small bundle in my palm. It’s a pouch on a string, and it smells like the moor grass and the rain and wet stones.
“Give this to your sister,” she says. “Tell her to wear it. For safety.”
“So you did hear about Edgar.”
Dreska gives a grim nod and folds my fingers over the charm. “We’ve made them for all the children.”
“I’ll give it to her.” I slide the pouch into my pocket and turn to go.
“Lexi,” says Magda. “I called you back for the same reason I invited you in yesterday. Because of him. I wondered whether you had heard talk of a stranger in Near.” She points a dirt-caked fingernail at the stranger on the moor. I cast a last glance at the boy, his back still to us. He slides to the ground, and suddenly he doesn’t look like a person, just a rock or a fallen tree jutting up from the tangled grass.
“Others will be looking for him, too,” says Dreska.
I understand her meaning. “I won’t tell. I am my father’s daughter.”
“We do hope you are.”
I head back down the path, but turn and add, “You really don’t know anything about him? Where he’s from?”
“He is safer here,” murmurs Magda, cupping dirt.
“He is keeping secrets,” I say.
“Aren’t we all,” says Dreska with a dry laugh. “You do not believe he took Edgar.” It is not a question. But she is right.
“No, I don’t think he did it,” I call, heading home. “But I mean to find out who did.”
I MAKE IT HOME BEFORE O TTO , and for that I am thankful. The high sun slides across the afternoon sky, and it’s too late now to risk going into town, too great a chance of running into the search party. There’s no sign of Wren or my mother, but the house is warm and smells of heated stones and bread. I realize how hungry I am. Half a loaf sits on the counter, along with some cold chicken, left out from lunch. I cut a couple pieces of each and devour them, relishing the freedom of solitude and being able to simply eat, rather than be delicate about it.
Feeling much better, I duck into my room, kicking off my boots and smoothing my hair. I pace the space at the foot of the bed and try to make sense of the day. My father taught me to listen to my gut, and my gut says that this strange, hollow boy did not take Edgar. But that doesn’t mean I trust him yet. I do not understand him yet. And I do not like the way my chest tightens when my eyes snag on him, as it does for wild things.
Something else tugs at me, and I remember Magda’s whispered words: The wind is lonely.
I know that line.
I cross to the small table by the window, the one with the leaning candles and the cluster of books, my fingers going straight to the one in the middle. The cover is green and pocked with indents, like the ones my father’s fingers made on the knife and the ax. But these are from my fingers, my marks of use as much as his.
The frayed pages of the book smell earthy and rich, as though there is a part of the moor between the covers instead of paper. Whenever my father told a story, I asked him to put it down in here. The book is strangely heavy, like a stone, and I slip onto the bed with it, tracing my fingers over the soft cover before cracking it open and skimming the pages with my thumb. Three years ago, my father’s handwriting vanished from this book, and mine took over.
There were so many blank pages left in his wake. I tried, now and then, to remember a snippet he might have forgotten to write down. Out walking, or delivering bread, or chopping wood, a sentence would sneak up on me in his rich voice, and I’d race to my room to write it down.
The wind is lonely.
I know that phrase.
I turn to an entry dated a few months after my hand replaced his:
Clouds seem like such sociable things in the moor sky. Father said they were the most spiritual things on
“Give this to your sister,” she says. “Tell her to wear it. For safety.”
“So you did hear about Edgar.”
Dreska gives a grim nod and folds my fingers over the charm. “We’ve made them for all the children.”
“I’ll give it to her.” I slide the pouch into my pocket and turn to go.
“Lexi,” says Magda. “I called you back for the same reason I invited you in yesterday. Because of him. I wondered whether you had heard talk of a stranger in Near.” She points a dirt-caked fingernail at the stranger on the moor. I cast a last glance at the boy, his back still to us. He slides to the ground, and suddenly he doesn’t look like a person, just a rock or a fallen tree jutting up from the tangled grass.
“Others will be looking for him, too,” says Dreska.
I understand her meaning. “I won’t tell. I am my father’s daughter.”
“We do hope you are.”
I head back down the path, but turn and add, “You really don’t know anything about him? Where he’s from?”
“He is safer here,” murmurs Magda, cupping dirt.
“He is keeping secrets,” I say.
“Aren’t we all,” says Dreska with a dry laugh. “You do not believe he took Edgar.” It is not a question. But she is right.
“No, I don’t think he did it,” I call, heading home. “But I mean to find out who did.”
I MAKE IT HOME BEFORE O TTO , and for that I am thankful. The high sun slides across the afternoon sky, and it’s too late now to risk going into town, too great a chance of running into the search party. There’s no sign of Wren or my mother, but the house is warm and smells of heated stones and bread. I realize how hungry I am. Half a loaf sits on the counter, along with some cold chicken, left out from lunch. I cut a couple pieces of each and devour them, relishing the freedom of solitude and being able to simply eat, rather than be delicate about it.
Feeling much better, I duck into my room, kicking off my boots and smoothing my hair. I pace the space at the foot of the bed and try to make sense of the day. My father taught me to listen to my gut, and my gut says that this strange, hollow boy did not take Edgar. But that doesn’t mean I trust him yet. I do not understand him yet. And I do not like the way my chest tightens when my eyes snag on him, as it does for wild things.
Something else tugs at me, and I remember Magda’s whispered words: The wind is lonely.
I know that line.
I cross to the small table by the window, the one with the leaning candles and the cluster of books, my fingers going straight to the one in the middle. The cover is green and pocked with indents, like the ones my father’s fingers made on the knife and the ax. But these are from my fingers, my marks of use as much as his.
The frayed pages of the book smell earthy and rich, as though there is a part of the moor between the covers instead of paper. Whenever my father told a story, I asked him to put it down in here. The book is strangely heavy, like a stone, and I slip onto the bed with it, tracing my fingers over the soft cover before cracking it open and skimming the pages with my thumb. Three years ago, my father’s handwriting vanished from this book, and mine took over.
There were so many blank pages left in his wake. I tried, now and then, to remember a snippet he might have forgotten to write down. Out walking, or delivering bread, or chopping wood, a sentence would sneak up on me in his rich voice, and I’d race to my room to write it down.
The wind is lonely.
I know that phrase.
I turn to an entry dated a few months after my hand replaced his:
Clouds seem like such sociable things in the moor sky. Father said they were the most spiritual things on
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