Page 51 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
“Howard—”
“No, you have to listen.” His mouth puckers. “You have toknow. When I got back, she was talking about a baby crying, like she couldn’t even see me. Like I wasn’t there, or she was somewhere else entirely. She’s been searching everywhere for... for her baby. Our baby. But, Carrie, she’s never been with child. Not once. She never lost a baby, and she’s adamant it’s not Lillian or you. She won’t admit she’s just muddling things in her head...” He takes a breath.“She’s not herself. She’s in one of those moods, talking faster and faster, and I’m worried for her, Carrie. All she wants, all she’s ever wanted, is to love you. I can’t, Icannothave her broken. Not again. Even if she shouldn’t have—”
“What did she do?”
“She—”
“Howard!” Cora’s shriek rips through us. “Howard!”
His face drops, and he hobbles fast around the side of the house, throwing back the gate in his wake. I rush after him, heart in my mouth, wondering what I’ll find, wondering what Howard was finally about to admit—
Cora is holding Kep’s lead as the dog strains toward the chickens clucking and fighting to get into the henhouses, a mess of feathers and fright. Howard takes the lead from her, pulling it into his chest, and growls something I don’t catch as he pulls Kep into the house. He slams the kitchen door closed and turns, breathing heavily, and I notice for the first time the tremor in his hands.
“Cora. Never,ever...” He swallows, catching his breath. “...everbring Kep out back. She’ll kill the chickens. You know that. Youknowthat, woman!”
Cora blinks down at her hands, then at Howard, not even registering my presence. Her hair is a snarl, fanning out around her head, and her eyes are both wild and vacant. She’s wearing nothing but stockings on her feet, and I notice a food stain on the cardigan she’s wearing. I recall the conversation with the man in the hardware store when I first arrived, when I walked into the shop with the labyrinth of walkways between overstocked shelves with a list on my phone, picking up packets of screws and a hammer. He warned me about how she’s been, but I didn’t truly listen. He was talking about Cora, after all. She’s always been slightly out of step with the rest of the world.
I walk toward her now, taking her arm gently in mine, and guide her toward the house.
“I—I don’t remember... there was a baby crying, Kep was upset, we were going to find the baby, it was mine, I know it was...”
“It’s okay, Cora,” I say, my heart breaking a little at how forlornshe seems, this woman who has always been like steel. How lost. “Let’s make some tea, have a biscuit, a sit-down—”
“Don’t tell Carrie. Whatever you do, youmustn’ttell her.” Cora suddenly grips my arm, bony fingers stabbing into my sleeve. “She has to come back. It’s all wrong here without her. I made a mistake. Adreadfulmistake that night. That working, in the moonlight... Ivy won’t forgive me. But—but—youcan’ttell her.”
I turn cold.
“She’s not been herself for weeks,” Howard says quietly. “Maybe even months, but I guess it’s been so gradual I didn’t... hadn’t... It’s never really around anyone else, but it’s like her mind wanders. I just thought she was daydreaming, just wandering... but today is different, Carrie. It’s like something inside her has snapped.” Howard takes Cora’s other arm and guides her to the sofa. “But in the past week it’s gotten worse. She’s been babbling, not making sense. I didn’t know what to do, so I phoned the doctor. He’s coming here today after his appointments. He said to keep an eye on her, keep her safe. Not leave her alone at all.”
I swallow, stepping away from them both, a dark sense of foreboding sweeping over me. “I’ll make the tea.”
The clatter of the teaspoon jars me out of myself, and ten minutes of silence brings Cora back. Her gaze sharpens, her words turn more lucid, and I realize she’s been stuck between two worlds, with one foot in the present and one in the warm, coaxing pool of the past. Maybe in a dream of wanting a baby. Wanting one so much that it became real in her mind.
But it’s Howard who worries me. Howard, with his brown skin turning gray. He rubs at his left upper arm occasionally, a frown dimpling his features. He’s a little older than Cora, I know that much. She was a young bride when they married. In marrying Howard, she chose stability, a comfortable home, the townwhere she grew up. I heard stories about how he had his own farm, his own land, and the quiet confidence of a young man who knew how to handle life. Now they rent out the land next to the farm, keeping only the yard for the chickens and a field surrounding the house, left fallow. All I remember of Howard growing up was his calm, steady voice, his patience. How he never uttered a cross or unkind word.
I fuss with my mug as it grows cold in my hands, the glazed sides slipping against my fingers.
“Oh, Carrie,” Cora suddenly says, eyes snapping to me. “Have you had any shortbread? Howard, get her some cake. You’re here for elevenses, aren’t you?” As her eyes widen, darting between me and Howard, the ground tilts and there’s a sharp ringing in my ears. Howard is right. She thinks it’s the next day.
“Shortbread, yes...” I nod, my eyes meeting Howard’s, both of us thinking the same thing.
“And would you get my housecoat? It’s a little cold today.” She shivers and draws a blanket over her knees, but the heating is on full blast, and the house is warm against the slight chill coming off the mountains. I rise to my feet and slip into the hallway to find her housecoat, hanging on a hook by the door. When I turn, my gaze lingers on the scatter of sepia-toned photographs, seeking out the one that has always haunted me, that I am always drawn to.
The face of the trapper.
I stifle a gasp. I’ve been working with Matthieu for several months, but never noticed before now that the trapper looks so similar to him. The planes and angles of his face, the haunting quality of his eyes, the dark smudges underneath, the thick brows above. I take the photo off the wall, angling it to peer at the date in the top right corner. It doesn’t give the year, only the date. October 19.
The day after I returned... the day the frost formed over Woodsmoke.
I replace the frame on the wall, unease chilling me in this warm, quiet house. Returning to the lounge, I face Cora, after helping her into her housecoat, and take her papery hands in mine.
“Cora, I need to ask you... or I need to tell you. I can’t get ahold of Matthieu.” I take a breath, avoiding the full force of her pinching stare. “The frost has thawed, and I’m worried that you were right. That the frost tale... is true.”
Her features soften, turning almost wistful. “Forget him, my love. He was real to you, but he was never meant to stay.”
I shake my head, not wanting to believe it. But for the first time, her warnings sting me, like hidden nettles, worrying away at me with their poison. But there all the same, on the edge of my mind, and now I can’t shake them off. “You think... you truly believe the mountains...” I draw in a breath. Continuing quietly, I start again. “If the old stories are true, then Matthieu...”
“Has disappeared as the frost has thawed, yes,” she says. “Don’t go chasing after him up those mountains. He’s not coming back.”
