Page 63 of Kings of Sherwood

“Exactly,” he says. “Which is why a shifter being more at all is basically...a fluke. Chance. Almost all of the time. So with Guy...” He waves a hand in the air. “Who knows, honestly. But I figured anything belonging to his mom is probably worth checking out.”

“Probably,” I agree.

It’s a sunny day. Calm, quiet. We’re in the nice part of town—the part that looks all old-timey and tourist-friendly. Not that we really get many. The sign at the Historical Society reads:Dancing Through the Past: Socials and Society in Nottingham History.

“Oh boy,” I groan. “This is gonna be some dumb bullshit. I mean, no offense,” I say to Tuck.

“None taken,” he says. “Social history isn’t really my favorite. Especially when it’s being remembered by people who are still mostly around. Hard to be objective, you know? More nostalgia than history.” He grimaces. “But I guess they’re the ones donating to the Historical Society. So if they want to visit yesteryear...”

“Then we’ll show up and paw through their stuff?” I ask.

He laughs. “Apparently.”

Inside, the Historical Society is like a particularly prim grandmother’s house. The first floor opens on a staircase with a small table covered in doilies and a guest book, with signs directing us to two gallery rooms off the main hallway.

A docent—a woman with Coke-bottle glasses in a brown skirt suit, despite the fact that it’s late summer, warm, and this place has no air conditioning—nods at us a little too eagerly as we step in.

“Welcome, welcome! Can I help you find anything?”

I glance at the signs, which plainly indicate that there are only two galleries and exactly where they are.

“No,” I say politely. “I think we’re good.”

She clearly doesn’t get a lot of foot traffic, because she hovers for a moment, then nods, withdrawing. “All right, you two. Enjoy.”

“We will,” Tuck says, and gently steers me by the small of my back into the left gallery.

“Exhibit” is a strong word for what’s in here. A few glass cases with paper artifacts—programs, posters, tickets, books, diaries—and a few things hung on the walls with information and quotes.

The most attention-getting part is the mannequins in the corner. Dress forms clothed in a series of white gowns from various eras and styles. A hippie-esque ’70s number with a highlace collar. A ’50s-era boat neck with a nipped waist and a full skirt. One that must be late ’80s, judging by the polyester and deflated balloon sleeves. An unseen speaker plays a piped-in Virginia reel.Nice touch,I think.

“Wow,” I say. “Educational.”

I glance at Tuck. He chews his lip.

“This might be a dead end,” he concedes. But he steps forward anyway.

I skate a glance over some of the placards, talking all about the storied tradition of debutante balls and cotillions and all the various coming-of-age rituals that rich white people in Nottingham have done since time immemorial. Photos feature happy couples parading two by two—women in long white gloves, men (boys, really) in their finest suits—decade after decade. The only difference between any of them is the hairstyles and the hemlines; other than that, very little has changed.

And I suppose that’s the way they want it.

I feel a strange twinge in my stomach. If my parents hadn’t died—if my life had gone on as normal—that could’ve been me. It’s probably the kind of life Guy was envisioning when he was trying to trap me with him in various ways.

And I guess it was the life he lived. Certainly the one his mother lived.

“Maren,” Tuck says from the corner display case, jerking his head. “C’mere. Check this out.”

I cross the room, doing a little box step to the reel just for kicks, and look at what he’s showing me.

“It’s her stuff,” he says. “Cecily’s.”

I look down at the display case. Sure enough, it’s a whole bunch of paraphernalia that must’ve been hers. Dance programs. Actual dance cards. Menus. Even some trinkets—a powder compact, a lipstick tube—both engraved with her initials.

Tuck nods. “Look.” He points to a photo.

A serious-looking young man—looks like he’s nineteen going on forty-five—with dark hair and a sharp jaw that’s very familiar—Guy’s father, presumably—gently holding the hand of a white-gloved woman who I recognize immediately as Cecily. The same woman I met in the greenhouse, but with no gray in her hair, and a slightly smoother, rounder face.

Younger.

---