“We’ll see you on the morrow for the hunt,” Jude said as they left the inn.
Out in the snow, Tom pulled his collar close to block out the chill and gave his brother a wary look. “I hope you know I’ll do no such thing. I’m never going into those woods again.”
“You’re not fit to hunt a squirrel. You’ll stay home and rest. You were supposed to be resting now,” he said, but Tom kept on trudging through the snow, his stolid face graying and blank.
“It was no wolf,” Tom whispered.
“Then what was it?” Jude asked, growing impatient with his brother. “You must have seen it. You were twenty yards away. You said so yourself. And the moon was full that night. Surely you must have seen something.”
But again Tom shook his head. “There was nothing to see. It was as if it was there all around me, but I couldn’t see a thing. It was as if the forest itself came alive for just an instant, just long enough to destroy her, and then it disappeared back into itself, only trees and dirt, like it was never there.”
When he spoke, Tom dropped the ends of his words, as if he didn’t have the energy to finish his thoughts, and for the first time something awful occurred to Jude: Was it possible that Tom had done more than just bear witness to the girl’s death? Was that any less possible than his account of the forest coming to life and swallowing her up? Unconsciously, Jude found himself edging away from his brother, just a touch farther down the path, a hair out of arm’s reach, but then he caught himself and realized how ridiculous the thought of Tom harming anyone was. His brother was gentle. He was quiet and kind. He cared for the sick and for injured animals. He did good deeds every chance he got. There was no way he’d momentarily lost his mind and killed a girl with his bare hands. Still, Jude began to wonder if other people might start to find it suspicious that Tom had been the one to find her body, to report it back to the village elders. He’d withheld the fact that he’d been with her at the time of her death from all except his immediate family.
It had been at their father’s insistence that Tom declined to tell that part of the story. The elders were already looking for malice beneath their roof. Connecting Tom any more closely with Fiona Eira’s death would certainly feed their alarm, and so his father had begged him to twist the truth that he might not cast further suspicion on their family. Tom, who was never given to deceit, had had a difficult time with it, but had eventually come round to his father’s point of view. And then there had been their mother’s subtle push.
“Think of Fiona Eira,” she’d said. “Think of what people would say if they knew she’d lured a boy into the woods like an enchantress. Dead or not, think of her reputation.”
When the glassblower’s cottage came into view, they were shocked to see a solitary creature standing outside.
“Is that Rowan?” Jude asked, wonder in his voice.
Tom nodded. “She’s going to be difficult.”
“Of course she’s going to be difficult,” Jude laughed. “She’s Rowan.”
As they reached the glassblower’s cottage, Rowan held out a hand to stop them. And because Tom was given to doing what she said, a simple hand signal went a long way. The boys stopped in their tracks.
“Tom Parstle,” she said. “You are not setting foot on this property.”
“Step aside, Ro,” he said, but she planted her palm firm against his chest.
“I’ve just spoken with Natty Whitt. He tells me Goi Flint’s gone crazy. They say the man’s gone mad—that he’s dangerous. There’s nothing we can do but hope he has a change of heart.”
“If there’s nothing we can do, then what are you doing here?” he asked.
Rowan furrowed her brow. “I don’t know exactly. I just can’t bring myself to leave.”
“I need to talk to him,” Tom said, distracted. “I need to convince him of the gravity of his decision.”
“But, Tom,” she said. “Natty told me that you were the one who found her, and that Goi Flint already thinks you ran off together. It sounds like he’s this close to accusing you of her murder.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Jude, alarmed that someone else had considered the possibility.
Tom scowled. “They think I did this? I could never …”
“I know, Tom, but I’m begging you to go home. That man is dangerous—that house is dangerous.”
“Rowan has a point,” Jude said.
“But all of this … it’s just insanity,” Tom said, gripping his head.
“Exactly, Tom,” she answered. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s gone mad. Onsie said he’s been in his studio working all day, and when he does emerge, he babbles, says insane things. And his wife, she hasn’t set foot outside all day. Some think she left—fled into the woods to hide from her beastly husband.”
Tom’s gaze shifted to the cottage. He stared, undeterred, and Jude placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder as if to steady him. “Give the man until nightfall, and we’ll see what he does.”
“I won’t abide it,” Tom said, striding into the yard with such force that Jude and Rowan knew better than to stand in his way.
With a storm raging in Tom’s head, and only emptiness where his heart should have been, he stalked through the snow toward the old oak door. For a moment, he had the oddest memory eclipse his thoughts—his grandmother serving him hot juniper tea and cinnamon cookies. She sat opposite him, smiling at him, and he remembered the scent of her skin, how sweet it was, how welcoming. She had died when he was only five, and he had no idea how he could have retained such a clear memory of her, much less why it was surfacing now as he walked up to Goi Flint’s door.
He couldn’t help but pause a moment and smile, standing there in the snow like a fool. And he realized he was fighting back tears.
“Tom?” he heard Rowan call. “Are you okay?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Jude said.
But Tom was a million miles away, and he knew with a hardened certainty that he did need to do this. It was his duty.
Tom stomped up the steps and pounded on the front door. There was a moment before anything happened, but as soon as the door opened, the man flew at him with all his bulk, and together they toppled over and collapsed into the snow. In an instant the man was astride him, the cold steel of a blade pressed flush against Tom’s neck.
Tom gasped for air, and suddenly he started laughing, hysterical. Rowan and Jude moved in to help him, but Goi Flint shouted that they’d best back away if they didn’t want him to slit Tom’s throat.
It must have looked a horrific scene, and Tom knew that, but from where he lay in the cold snow, this monster threatening to kill him, he suddenly felt that the entire situation was completely and utterly absurd.
“I don’t want to kill you, boy,” the man growled, but Tom continued to laugh, unable to stop himself.
“Stop laughing, Tom!” Rowan cried. “You’ll only make him angrier.”
“Leave us alone, you hear me, boy?” Seamus Flint demanded.
But Tom couldn’t stop laughing even as his mind’s eye was beset by horrific images—the moon in the night wood, Fiona Eira laid out in the snow, bathed in her own blood.
“For the love of all that is holy, will you shut up!” he heard his brother yell.
Goi Flint pressed the knife harder against his neck, and then Tom saw Jude above, holding a large plank of wood. Then he saw him bring it down hard on Goi Flint’s head. The beast of a man flinched and sprang off Tom, turning all of his aggression on Jude, who took off running, disappearing into the darkness.
Tom, free now, scrambled to his feet, and Rowan grabbed his hand. The two of them ran off, following Jude. The glassblower stood in his yard, the snow tumbling down around him, and long after the three had reached the safety of the tavern, he still stood there, holding his knife aloft, wailing into the night.