EMELINE SANK INTO THEhot bathwater, her blood brimming with whatever spell lay dormant inside her, put there by Nettle’s enchanted drink. She intended to hide here, in her bath, until her skin turned wrinkled and white.
Until shesoakedthe spell out.
When the water finally grew tepid, Emeline lifted herself from the tub. As she toweled her hair dry, muffled laughter drifted through the walls between her rooms and Pa’s.
Odd.She tilted her head to listen. Who was visiting Pa at this hour?
The laughter came again. Wrapping herself in a silk robe that ended just above her knees, she padded barefoot across the floor, leaving puddles in her wake, and stood at the door leading to her grandfather’s rooms.
After silently turning the crystal knob, she opened the door to listen.
“Who are you again?” she heard Pa say.
A rough-soft voice replied. “I’m Hawthorne.”
Emeline froze.
Peering through the crack, she spotted both Pa and the tithe collector sitting in two armchairs facing the fire. They held steaming mugs in their hands.
It stunned her.
What was the tithe collector doing with her grandfather?
He’s visiting a friend,Aspen had told her.
“Well, Hawthorne. Have you ever stopped to wonder: What’s the point?”
Emeline winced. It was Pa’s most-asked question. He’d probably asked it three times already while she was in the bath. But if he had, Hawthorne was unbothered.
“I do wonder that,” he said, surprising her. Usually people checked out the second time Pa asked it. “All the time, in fact.”
“Have you come up with anything good?” Pa leaned in as if they were old friends sharing a secret.
Hawthorne smiled, too, mirroring Pa. He sipped his drink before answering, “There’s this book I’ve been rereading lately. More of a long poem, really. It’s calledBeowulf. Do you know it?”
Pa shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Well, there’s a phrase in Latin,ubi sunt,which describes the spirit of the poem. It translates to a question. Something like:Where have they gone?”
Emeline’s heart hammered in her chest as she listened. What, exactly, was happening here? Was the Wood King’s henchmanhanging outwith her grandfather? Discussing poetry with him?
“Where has who gone?” asked Pa.
“The ones who’ve come before us,” said Hawthorne. “InBeowulf,ubi suntmeans … or at least, I think it means … ‘What’s the point of courage? Of fighting off monsters? Of doing your best? What’s the point of any of it, if we’re all going to die in the end?’”
Pa sat back in his chair, pensive.
“It’s not an answer to your question,” Hawthorne said, raising his mug. “But it means you and I aren’t alone in our quest.”
Pa lifted his mug, clinking it against Hawthorne’s.
When he yawned a moment later, Hawthorne drained his drink. “It’s late. I should be going.”
Pa nodded as they both rose to their feet.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?How often did he visit?
