Page 12 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
He frowns, seeming to move words around in his mouth, reshuffling them, before he answers. “I should have waited and spoken to you. I guess I haven’t seen anyone in a while. It’s quiet up at the cabin, and I liked Ivy last winter. She didn’t expect a lot, but she always loved having flowers in the house. Yarrow was her favorite. And anything yellow. Or pink. Like red campion, but I guess it’s past its time. I couldn’t find it the other day. Huh... I can’t believe I’m already talking about her in the past tense.” He smiles ruefully, his gaze slipping to his feet.
And I don’t know why—maybe because I’m relieved these flowers are left by this person, or because I’m worn-out and lonely, or because of the halting, genuine way he speaks—but I share a piece of myself. “I know. She—she used to collect it for me. She kept a bedroom here, my bedroom, it was always in a jug on the bedside table,” I add. “Anyway.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling like I’ve said too much.
But his eyes soften. “I’m Matthieu, by the way... I doubt she ever mentioned me.”
“We... we didn’t speak much. A few letters, but she didn’t like telephones.”
He nods, clearing his throat. His skin still has that alabaster pallor, cheeks and nose tinged a faint blush color from the cold. I swallow, trying not to stare, suddenly very aware of my untamed hair, my jacket faded to a shade of brown that could almost be green. He looks unkempt in an almost deliberate way, wearing a lumberjack-style shirt, jeans ripped on one knee. There’s a wildness to him. As though he’s brought a piece of the mountains down with him. There’s something about his eyes, the sculpted line of his jaw... I swallow, feeling heat rise up my throat as his eyes meet mine. “Well, if you need help with the cottage, I guess you’re here to fix it up? Sell it on?”
“I—I don’t know yet.” I open my mouth to say more, dropping my gaze to the ground. The image of Tom with that little girl swims before my eyes. “I’ve only just got back.”
He fishes in his jacket pocket, pulls out a battered black Biro, then an old receipt. He scribbles some numbers on the back and thrusts it into my hands. “Here’s my number. Like I said, there’s more that needs doing in this cottage than Ivy ever let me do.”
I hesitate, then take the receipt from him, pocketing it. The irritation nettles again. Another person seems to think that I’m not cut out for this. That I need help, that I can’t manage alone. Shouldn’t I be the one to make that decision?
“I’m fine. But thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
He shrugs. “Your call. If you need help, I’m here all winter.”
“All winter?” I ask.
His gaze locks with mine, the inky depths of them feeling almost familiar. As if I’ve seen the shape of this gaze before, though I can’t quite pin down where. “I’ve rented the cabin just up the trail—the Vickers one?—for the low season, same as last year. It’s booked up for spring and summer, but I’ll be here as long as the frost holds.”
I watch as he walks along the path, disappearing into the gloaming.
I dream of Tom that night. I’m back in that long, trailing gown, the bells chiming in my ears. They’re discordant. Distorted. Tom, his face ashy with fear, all pinched and wrong, is trying to say something. I look down at my hands, see the blood welling in them. Blood and petals, falling, forever falling. And when I look up, it’s not Tom standing before me. It’s Ivy, holding a bunch of yarrow. Asking me to fix her cottage. Pleading with me to stay.
Chapter 10
Carrie
The next morning I stand in the middle of the lounge of Ivy’s cottage. I hug my arms around my chest and try very hard not to cry. It dawned on me upon waking in the caravan, the desolate fields stretching on around me, that there’s so much work to do. I have no idea where to start. I’ve never renovated anything before, barely painted a wall or sanded down a surface. How did I think I could renovate a whole cottage? I can’t ask Cora to fix this for me, and I absolutely refuse to phone Dad and ask him to bail me out. Whether I succeed or fail this winter, it’s all on me. And the thought of failing, of not succeeding this winter, leaves me breathless with fear.
I pick up the drill, the useless, bloody drill. I need drill bits. A battery charger. And some clue as to what to do with it. My hand shakes as I set it back down on the floor, next to the pile of items I bought a few days ago. The paint, the paintbrushes. The pile of envelopes containing nails and screws.
“Not a bloody clue,” I mutter, wanting to kick it all across the room. I swipe at my nose, which is already running. That’s the thing, when I cry, my nose runs first. It’s the warning sign I need to bolt. I release a jagged sigh, crouch down on the floor, and eye the fireplace. All dust and dirt and absence. I swipe at my nose again, frowning at that fireplace. Then I realize I’ve still got Matthieu’s number on the receipt in my jacket pocket.
I stand abruptly, pacing the room. The receipt is slightlysmudged, but somehow, impossibly, it’s still legible. I should have written the number down, saved it in my phone. But my mind was on fire, picturing Tom, that little girl. Wondering if Jess knows that I’m here, what she’s doing, and where she works. I’ve spent so long trying to avoid even the thought of them that now I’m here my mind just burns and burns.
Should I call Matthieu?
I picture his inky blue eyes, the way he looked past me, toward the mountains, as though searching for something. I recognized that in him, that need to find something. Whatever it is, whatever has drawn him back for a second winter, I understand it. I reach for my mobile, tracing the bars of signal in the corner. I could call him. It’s either that or give up. I can’t leave, ignoring Ivy’s last request, written in her will in that commanding way. And I can’t ask Cora and let her take control, shaping this winter—mywinter—as she likes. This is meant to be my homecoming. On my terms, at my choosing, to find if I truly belong here.
But...
I thrust the receipt back into my pocket. Asking for help feels like giving in, like conceding defeat. I sniff, drawing myself back together, and swipe to the notes app on my phone. Blinking down at the list there, I delete the item about not buying wine. I’m buying two bottles later. A red and a white, along with a big bar of chocolate.
I add “wallpaper steam and strip” to the list, then head out to the car to pick up the box still sitting on the passenger seat. I lug it inside, up the stairs, and within twenty minutes it’s set up and ready to use. Carefully, I coax the wallpaper off the walls, letting it fall in limp swaths before I scrape it off.
“I can manage,” I mutter to myself, pushing my hair out of my face. It’s only wallpaper stripping.
But after a while, an ominous damp patch spreads across thewall. In fact, when I press a finger into it, expecting to feel the plaster beneath, the wall feels... spongy. I step back, place the steamer attachment on the floor, and quickly google. As the internet slowly ticks over and connects, I see the search returns, saying you shouldn’t steam a chipboard surface. I run my hand over the wall, feeling the rough quality of it. It could be chipboard.
That’s when I snap. I release a feral, strangled sort of scream, the kind that rises and rises inside you, building, then catching in your throat. My stomach churns, and I blink furiously, eyes heavy with tears I refuse to shed. I place a hand against the wall, leaning into it and close my eyes. Suddenly I’m exhausted. Tired of running from this place, tired of forever returning to it in my dreams. Tired more than anything of fighting. I turn and walk carefully down the stairs to the kitchen at the back of the house. I make a big mug of coffee, stirring in twice the number of sugars I usually allow myself, and try very hard not to scream again.
I can’t phone Cora and Howard. I can’t call anyone I know from before and admit I’m in way over my head. But... I also can’t walk away from this. A drawer I haven’t gone through yet is slightly ajar, and I jerk it open, my mind a muddle of tired exasperation. And here I find a scatter of old photographs. The kind that are overexposed, taken on a disposable camera, then carried to the local chemist to get developed. The kind you used to pick up a few days later, and thumb through quickly, hoping that at leastsomeof them weren’t fuzzy or just blank. I sift through the pile, seeing some of Ivy’s garden, one of her holding me on her knee when I was a toddler, face smeared with blackberry jam.
And then I find one of me, Tom, and Jess. My breath stutters as I pull it from the drawer. It’s the three of us standing in the field just outside, the mountains behind us. We’re all wearing backpacks and wide grins, arms slung around each other. Happy. I remember that day. I remember going on a hike with them,following an old trapper map of Tom’s, eating our lunch in a clearing with mosquitos buzzing in our ears. I smooth my finger over us, each of our smiles, our sunburned noses. The summer before I left.
