She glanced upwards, to the painting over the fireplace. Fixing her gaze on the artist’s depiction of Daphne transforming into a laurel, Emeline remembered the conversation they had last fall.
At least she’s safe,Emeline had argued.As a tree, nothing can hurt her.
As a tree, her life is forfeit,he’d rebutted. She’ ll never be human again. She’ ll never laugh or sing, ponder or love, again.
If Hawthorne didn’t want this fate for Daphne, how could he want it for himself?
She thought of the note he’d written her, tucked between the pages of Pablo Neruda’s poems.
… if there were some way to atone, some price I could pay to begin to heal the harm I’ve caused, trust me: I would pay it.
She sucked in a breath. Wasthathis reasoning? Was he choosing this because, as a tree, he couldn’t ever hurt her again?
A sudden anger poured through her. Yes, Hawthorne had hurt her. Yes, he never should have stolen her memories, even if his intentions had been good. But he’d acknowledged the wrong he’d done and apologized for it. This refusal to come back to the world—to come back toher—wasn’t honorable. It was cowardly.
The thought made her rise from the rug. Angrily, she extinguished the lamplight and made for the door, stepping outside and nearly forgetting to shut it behind her.
Didn’t she get a say in this? She was the one who’d been hurt, after all.
Fetching Lament from the stables, Emeline mounted up. The ember mare’s hooves clattered over the mossy bridge as they left the stone house behind.
Lament took her to the edge of the woods, where her tree stood rooted on the border. Its gnarly, twisted bark flew upwards, breaking into branches. Sprouting dark leaves and red berries.
Emeline swung herself down from the ember mare. Her steps thundered as she approached.
“You’re afraid of hurting me again?” she said to the hawthorn. “I hate to break it to you, but that’s what humans do: We hurt eachother. We fight, and we fail, and we fall short of the standards we set. We’re a little bit broken—every one of us. If you can’t handle that, then maybe you don’t deserve to be human.”
The hawthorn stood silent and still. Unresponsive. Because, after all, it was just a tree. Not a man. Not her Hawthorne.
What did she expect? That a good scolding would change him back?
Tears burned in her eyes.
Enough of this. The king was right. The woods and everything in them might be saved, but the one she loved was gone.
It was time to move on.
The anger trickled out of her as she realized it, and something fragile and trembling rushed in to replace it. Slumping, Emeline pressed her hands to her tree and closed her eyes against the falling tears. When she stepped in close, her lips brushed the bark as, very softly, she started to sing. Just one last song.
A song for good-bye.
AFTER DINNER, PA’S HOUSEroared with laughter and conversation as the neighbors stayed late into the night. When she finished helping Maisie with the dishes, Emeline noticed three silhouettes sitting in chairs outside. Curious, she grabbed her notepad and pen, then pulled open the door and stepped out.
The air was strangely warm tonight. A heavy fog settled in the trees, giving the sky a misty glow.
Her mother and Tom sat close together on one side, sharing a blanket. Pa sat on the other. Emeline kissed Rose’s cheek, then signedhelloto Tom. Rose and Tom had been taking sign language classes ever since Emeline came out of the woods mute.They’d been teaching her, slowly, but Emeline was nowhere near adept yet.
That’s what the notepad was for.
She sat down beside Pa, who sipped the brandy in his hand, the ice cubesclinkingagainst the sides of his glass.
“Tell me: Who are you again?”
Emeline looked to find Pa regarding her. She was so used to this question by now, it no longer bothered her.
“She’s your granddaughter,” said Rose, studying Emeline like she was a small wonder. Emeline often caught her mother staring at her these days, as if trying to memorize the exact shade of her hair, every faint freckle on her nose, the precise curve of her cheekbones. Like an art student seeing van Gogh’sSunflowersup close for the first time.
“Ah,” Pa said, nodding to himself, leaning in towards Emeline. “I’m getting old, you know.” He tapped his temple lightly. “My brain doesn’t work like it used to.”
