Page 58 of Petrify

Bastien Arnaud Beauchene isn’t dead, but they are pretending he is. Henri believes his brother is dead. Everybody speaks as though Bastien—Arnie—truly died fifteen years ago, and I can’t understandwhy.

“I’ve heard…” I’m not sure how to bring this up without rousing her suspicion. “He drowned in the pond. That the nanny wasn’t watching him.”

“Yes.” Ms. Wilder raises a brow. “It was quite tragic.”

“Were you…”

“Are you accusing me of something, Miss Doyle?” Her eyes narrow.

“No! Of course not.” Just like Maxim, she’s worked for this family for quite some time. I can’t say the wrong thing. Their loyalty to this family is obvious, their patience for outsiders thin. That’s what I am—an outsider. Temporary, in their eyes.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. It happened so long ago.” She waves a hand.

“I don’t mean to imply anything.”

“There’s nothing else to know,” she says, and suddenly she’s staring at me down the bridge of her nose. “It was a tragic accident. The family grieved, but you’d be wise not to mention it in front of the Beauchenes if you want to keep your head.”

Somehow, I don’t think she’s exaggerating.

“I just wonder what he was like,” I say. “Henri—I think he misses him. Or, wants to miss him. I don’t know what to tell him.”

“There is nothing for you to tell.”

“Maybe he looks up to him.” I shrug.

She doesn’t say anything for a second, her gaze falling to the young boy in the window, and the sternness to her brow softens,just a little. “Arnie was training just as Henri is. In fact, his tutors had made significant progress with him before the accident.” All suspicion falls away as she reminisces. “He was on track to being a prodigy—already he was garnering attention for his skill. Invitations to prestigious schools once he was old enough.” She laughs. “Held back only by the size of his hands, really. But he learned to overcome that pretty quickly.”

Henri swings his leg absentmindedly. The book is the worn copy ofThrough the Looking Glassthey read for his English lesson.

“They want Henri to be at his level,” I say, watching the boy trace each line with a finger as he reads.

Ms. Wilder pauses. “They want him to be successful,” she says, carefully. “They want him to make something of himself and not rely solely on the family’s name.”

“They…” I frown. “They put a lot of pressure on him. He’s only eight.”

She sighs. “Better to start now.”

“Is it?”

We turn to each other again. I’ve learned nothing about Arnie’s death that I didn’t already know before, but I feel that she and I have come to some sort of understanding.

“They are gentler with him than they were with Arnie,” she says, and I can hear the displeasure in her voice. “Believe it or not. Leo—Mr. Beauchene made Arnie his ‘project.’ I think after…” She shakes her head. “He keeps his distance from Henri. They both do.”

If their expectations and treatment of him aregentlerthan they were with Arnie—withBastien?—

“Thank you, Ms. Wilder.” I give her a smile. “I just want to help him. He’s just a kid.”

That trace of sadness still pinches the corners of her eyes. “He likes you,” she says. “And thanks to you, he’s enjoying hislessons with me, as well. He’s improving overall.” She pats my arm, turning to leave. “He has his entire world on his shoulders. But such is the way of life around here. Families like the Beauchenes don’t persist through the generations without the heavy hand of legacy.”

The mid-winter air is sharp. Even when there are no fierce gusts to steal my breath, the bitterness tears at me, digging its fingers into my flesh, seeping into my bones.

I’m lost to my thoughts, though, hardly noticing the bite, as Henri leads the way along one of the paths. If the cold bothers him, he doesn’t show it; he refused to wear his knitted hat, the tips of his ears and nose turning pink, though I did manage to convince him to wear his gloves.

Only once we reach the pond, am I brought back to the present.

Henri’s led us to the east side of the grounds, where a frozen sheen sits atop the water. It’s a couple inches thick, but not strong enough to hold any weight. Even though I’ve been in this house now for a few weeks, I haven’t yet made my wayhere. The pond on the eastern side of the grounds. The pond where Arnie “died.”

I freeze in my steps when I realize where we are. Henri keeps going, trotting through the dead, gray grass. There’s a dusting of snow from last night, enough that each step is acrunch, his route recorded in the white powder.