“I— Mabel summoned Kerri and me to the house, but she wasn’t here. Monsters attacked us in the gardens, Nick. I think— I think Kerri’s dead,” she sobs.
“Was it the Reds?”
She shakes her head. “No. There was mist everywhere, and the monsters were definitely males.”
“Where are you now? Are you safe?”
I’m so jealous of this man. In a couple of sentences, he managed to level out her heartbeats and soothe her pain. I’d give anything to take his place, to be able to settle her with just my voice. Is he her lover?
The shiny diamond ring on her left hand twists my gut.
Fucking hells, he better not be her husband.
“Yes, I’m in the house,” she answers.
“Wait for Mabel there.”
Her heart-shaped mouth opens and closes, her pink tongue darting out to touch the swelling at the corner of her mouth. “I can’t stay here. I’ve got surgery this week.”
“Maxie, I love you, but you can’t go to the hospital. You shouldn’t leave the house until we know more. I’m in a bind, here. I can’t make it home until next week, but I need you to be careful. Smash the mirror, like when we were kids.”
“If I break the mirror, Mabel might not be able to come home,” Max squeaks.
“Mabs will find a way. You remember the rules, right?”
She nods. Her wide green eyes are glossy and unfocused, like she’s no longer fully here, but caught in a trance.
Nick continues his instructions, carefully walking her through each step. “Drink your tea three times a day, no mirrors, no going outside, and any blood spilled should be bleached off the floor and the rags purified with fire.” He sighs at that, then adds, “I’ll warn the others to be extra careful. Love you, sis.”
Sister. The itch between my shoulder blades eases, and I force my fists to relax. He’s her brother, not her husband or lover. I’m glad. But that ring… There must be someone in her life.
“Love you too, Nick.”
Max heads to the sink. A small piece of broken, blueish glass from my lantern is wedged in her palm, and she winces as she pries it out under the running water. With minimal fuss, she cleans the cut and wraps it up in gauze before taping it with tan-colored adhesive.
When it’s done, she grabs a hammer from the utensil drawer and marches over to the round mirror mounted on the living room wall, set a little back from the purple corduroy sofa facing the TV.
After the barest quiver of her lips, she covers her eyes with her lower arm and smashes the reflective glass to bits, using the hammer claw to dislodge the leftover shards until the whole thing lies in pieces on the floor.
She sets the hammer down on the kitchen table before sweeping up the glass, tidying the kitchen and scrubbing her coagulated blood off the hardwood with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth until the floorboards are clean and shiny. My mouth opens on a silent warning when she pauses to consider the trail of blood staining the limestone and porch, but she doesn’t step outside to clean the rest.
My shoulders sag in relief.
She builds a fire in the hearth and burns the bloody rags, her chin trembling as though she’s holding back tears with every scarred bit of her soul. After the last of the rags have crumbled to ash, she brushes her knees off and heads upstairs.
I can’t help but marvel at her courage.
Who is she? I’ve haunted these halls for decades and never imagined a beauty like her even existed, let alone that we would cross paths.
Without taking off her clothes, she crawls into bed. I hesitate at the threshold, because this is not the room I remember. I’ve only been back at Mabel’s for a few days and hadn’t yet found the strength to venture upstairs, but her knitting room has been completely transformed in my absence. What used to be a dull little space where spindles clicked and wool piled in baskets, where the air smelled of lanolin and dust, is now a piece of some enchanted meadow.
A painted forest rises from the walls, the brushstrokes so alive they almost move. Pines, rowan, and willow trees, along with Douglas firs, climb to the ceiling, their trunks and canopies detailed and lifelike. Periwinkle curtains hang from the posts of the baldaquin bed and shimmer in the faint draft. The mattress is piled high with embroidered purple and blue pillows and quilts, with built-in shelves tucked beneath it and crammed full of books. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling in wide arcs from corner to corner.
My little fox has made herself a nest.
I drift closer, curiosity getting the better of me. I want to know everything about her and the circumstances that brought her to this house.
By the time I realize I'm invading her privacy, I've already abandoned all pretense of decency. The top button of her shirt has come undone, revealing the hem of black lace underneath.Her red mane spills from her braid in loose curls, and I’m tempted to comb through the remnants of it to set them free.
