Page 93 of Seasonal Fears

He keeps driving, no longer looking at the map or asking Jenny for directions—not that the other man could provide them. The GPS was set to take them to Alabama, but not anything more specific than that, and it hasn’t said a word since the Mississippi border. He’s following the call of the labyrinth, which is part beacon on the horizon and part siren song and entirely inescapable. It has him. He couldn’t escape at this point if he wanted to, and he no longer wants to.

Then he pulls onto a residential street, white-walled houses popping up around him like a prayer to suburbia, and the labyrinth disappears.

Harry hits the brakes immediately. The car screeches to a stop. Melanie makes a sound of protest before she sits up, opens her eyes, and blinks.

“Where did it go?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” says Harry. “I was following the trail, and then I turned on this street, and it wasn’t here anymore.”

“Pull over,” says Jack abruptly.

Harry looks up, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Do you know something?”

“I know I’m picking up on something I haven’t felt in a long time, and you need to pull over.”

Harry shrugs, and steers the car to the curb in front of a white house exactly like all the others around it, surrounded by a wide green lawn. There are two holiday inflatables anchored there, one of a large and friendly cartoon rabbit, one of a cartoon dog driving a car shaped like a carrot straight toward the rabbit. He turns off the engine and pockets the keys, twisting to face the attendants in the back.

Jenny has an expression on his face that almost mirrors the one on Jack’s. Confusion mixed with longing so powerful it could be used as a weapon. The door to the house opens, and a woman’s silhouette appears, backlit by the room behind her. She doesn’t come out of the house, but she raises a hand and beckons for them to go inside.

Jack is out of the car like a shot, not waiting for Melanie to tell her she can go, off and running across the lawn without paying any attention to where she’s going. She hooks her foot on one of the lines holding the inflatables in place and goes sprawling, facedown in the grass. Jenny, who’s running after her, helps her to her feet, and the two of them run on together while Harry and Mel are still getting out of the car.

The woman in the doorway has a laugh like smoky bourbon, smooth and peaty and rich and a bit intoxicating. She laughs as Jack reaches her, and laughs again at something the younger girl says, leaning down to gather her into a hug Harry can tell, even from a distance, will feel like home. Then she lets go of Jack and gathers Jenny into the same, motioning both attendants inside.

She hesitates before following them, looking over her shoulder. “Well, are y’all coming?” she asks. Her voice matches her laugh, flavored with a sweet Alabama accent. Melanie starts walking faster, and Harry hurries to catch up.

The woman is still in the doorway when they reach her, a smile on her painted lips and a faintly amused look in her eyes. Harry looks at her and thinks she’s lovely, in an “old enough to be my mother” sort of way: her short, dark brown hair is cut to cup her cheeks, her eyes match the whiskey depth of her laughter, and her face is finely constructed, beautifully symmetrical. She’s wearing a black V-neck sweater over yoga pants, completely comfortable, completely at ease with this sudden delivery of strangers to her doorstep.

The reason why comes clear when she catches sight of Melanie. She pulls away from Jack and Jenny and curtseys, as deep and low as a lady of the court greeting the queen.

“My lady,” she says, and when she straightens, her smile is even broader than it was before. She looks from Mel to Harry, seeming to take note of him for the first time. “Oh, my husband will be pleased to see that you’ve made it as well. A good omen, starting out with parallels. How entangled are you?”

“They dropped dead at the same time,” says Jack. “As soon as the coronation began.”

“You were monitoring her?” asks the woman, glancing back to Jack, who nods. “Well, that’s going to have contributed to them making it as far as us. They always do better when they have someone to watch over them, or so I hear. One of my dear ones is in England, and she helped with the last coronation, saw the new Summer Queen through her challenges and all the way to the throne.”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry. “Are you a Corn Jenny?”

“Oh, heavens, no,” says the woman, and smiles at him like a roaring fire in the middle of a July night, s’mores and hot dogs roasting over her flames. He would follow her to the ends of the world for that smile. He would follow her anywhere she asked.

He has the feeling he’s going to be following her to the labyrinth.

“I’m a Stingy Jack,” says the woman. “But y’all can call me Carolyn. Now let’s get inside before we give the neighbors a show, shall we?”

Harry takes Mel’s hand, holding her tightly, and holds onto her still as they follow the woman through the door, into the bright warmth of her hallway.

She hangs back, and closes the door behind them.

“Cliff’s at work right now,” she says, bustling around the living room as they perch on the couches and watch her with expressions ranging from the wary and weary to the worshipful. Carolyn doesn’t appear to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t appear to care; she’s busy getting coffee poured and dumping fresh scones and Oreos onto a platter, which she brings out and sets on the coffee table with all the ceremony of a priest presenting the crown jewels.

Melanie claims a scone and a cup of coffee, leaning back into the cushions and tracking Carolyn with her eyes as she continues to move around the room. “Are you going to sit and join us?” she asks.

“Are you asking it of me, my lady?” asks Carolyn, in return. When Melanie looks nonplussed, she sighs and says, “I’d love to, but you’ve tracked mud all over my floors, and if I don’t get it cleaned up soon, it’s going to stain. Can you wait until I’ve fulfilled basic hostess duties and not ruined my floors?”

“Um, sure,” says Melanie, expression shifting to embarrassment. She cups her mug between her hands, scone resting on her knee, and continues to track Carolyn as she retrieves a Swiffer mop from a closet near the kitchen and begins wiping mud off the floor.

It would seem a little rude at home in Oregon to prioritize mopping up mud over spending time with guests, even uninvited ones. But the mud here, where Mel can see it sticking to her shoes, is an alarming shade of rusty red, like dried blood. It would absolutely wreck a carpet. Cheeks flushing hot, she ducks her head and asks, “Should we take our shoes off?”

“Little late now, hon,” says Carolyn, smiling sweetly. “Mud’s already in the house. But it’s all right. My mama always said no one with any sense would have a floor that couldn’t be cleaned. And I needed to mop up anyway.”