Page 55 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
“Since the frost thawed...” Tom says softly.
I nod and sniff. “Exactly.”
Tom rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, we both know Woodsmoke and the mountains are... an unusual place.”
“To put it mildly.”
“And I know Cora meddles in people’s lives when she shouldn’t. But real people don’t just... disappear like they’re a spirit in the old tales. They don’t.” He bites his lip. “Where does he live?”
“He’s got a cabin up in the mountains. You remember that one we found when we were kids? Past the lookout, up in that clearing?”
“I remember. The Vickers place,” Tom says, a faint smile whispering over his features. “Have you gone up there?”
“Not yet. I didn’t want to hassle him. He might just need time or space—”
“Has he done this before?”
“No—” But I stop, suddenly remembering the last time the frost thawed, that day I went to the cabin to find him. How the place was deserted, how I felt eyes pressing into me... “Actually, yes. He’s done this before.”
Tom nods. “All right. Well, there’s not a lot you can do tonight. If this is a pattern, Carrie, I’ve got to say—”
“It was the last time the frost thawed.” I frown, blinking back sudden tears. “Tom, what if Cora’s right? What if he is... a curse? What if the mountains have cursed me for leaving and Matthieu isn’t... real?”
Tom stands staring up at the ceiling for a minute, as though gathering his words. Both of us have seen what Cora is capable of. And neither of us fully grasps why there are things we can’t explain—in our own lives, in the stories, in the snatches of fable woven into the fabric of Woodsmoke. The warnings we were given as children to not stray from the mountain paths, to always greet the mountains when we return, to never trust our eyes and ears... and to never fall in love if we know it’s a love that could be cursed.
“There’s a chance of that,” he finally says. “But... there’s also a chance she’s wrong.”
I stand as well, crossing my arms over my chest. The cold has crept in, stealing into my heart, and all I can think about is Matthieu. “I’ll go up there. Tomorrow. I’ll go to the cabin.”
“Carrie, I know you know the mountains, but...” Tom stares at the dark window. The one facing the mountains. All those old warnings, those old tales, are in his mind too, swirling behind his eyes. It’s a shared understanding we all have here. Finally, he looks at me. “The snow will have thawed, ground will be slippery. Don’t... don’t leave the path. If you hear a voice, or a cry, don’t follow it. Be careful.”
I leave at dawn.
This time I pack a rucksack with more than just a day’s worth of food. I pack medicine, bandages, and a torch. And as I pack, I tell myself it’s unnecessary. He’ll be there, in the cabin, probably absorbed in another project. Or he’s taken on work at another site, or he’s just ill, as I thought last time. I can’t believe Cora’s tales. I can’t believe in my legacy, the old stories threaded through the mountains. I can’t believe in any of that and still know that he is real. He’s a new beginning. A fresh start. He’s the first man I’ve truly cared for since Tom, and I’m not ready to give that up.
As I climb, my breath hangs in uneasy clouds, materializing like little ghosts before disappearing in my wake. I climb steadily, walking with the rhythm of the thoughts driving me forward. I picture him, his hand holding mine, the night under the stars, the scrape of ice under our skates on the frozen lake. I picture all of this and never falter, never flag. And as the sun climbs the ladder of the sky, casting the mountain in an eerie glow, I reach the clearing and the cabin.
The quiet is deafening. As it did the last time I was here, unease steals over me. I step forward, and the mountains ruffle and sigh. I can almost imagine them breathing my name, whether in warning or as a greeting, I’m not sure. All I know is that the mountains are on edge. That I’m standing on the threshold of something I do not fully understand.
“Matthieu?” I say softly, my gaze tracking right and left as I cross the clearing. Unseen eyes, pressing, burning into my spine, send shivers skittering over the back of my neck, and I have to force myself to walk evenly. To breathe evenly. It’s instinct. It’s that gut feeling you can’t easily explain. It’s that needling, that insistent finger tap of fear or excitement or panic that tells you what you should do.
Mine is telling me that something is very wrong.
I knock first, listening for any sound, any sign at all that he is here. When there’s no response, I close my fingers over the door handle and shake it, leaning my forearm against the old wood to shove the door in. “Come on, bloody thing.”
Heat prickles along my hairline, but when I snap my gaze back to the clearing, there’s no one there. All is silent. Watchful. The mountains are waiting for something... but I don’t know what.
With a groan, the door gives, and I fall inside, my boots clattering on the floorboards. I quickly right myself and push the door closed. My whole body is heaving, my lungs tight with the need for air, and I breath wide and deep, flooding them with oxygen. The feeling of unseen eyes fades, leaving only the imprint behind. The mountains are far too watchful today. As though waiting to see what I discover.
I turn to the room, looking first to the kitchen, then the lounge, then the door left ajar that I know leads to the bedroom. I swallow, wetting my dry throat. “Matthieu? Are you here?”
Silence.
It’s dense as fog, and I’m wary of walking to the bedroom, of what I will find there. I cross to the door in only a few steps, though it feels like a mile, an endless stretch of floorboards to the other side of the room. I steel myself, then push the door open wider. All I find is a well-made bed and a stack of well-thumbed paperbacks with cracked, weary spines. The window is slightlyopen, and damp air is whirling in with the scents of pine and loam. I breathe out a sigh, releasing the tension in my shoulders, and walk to the window. I pull it closed, fastening the handle, and stare out at the tightly packed trees. Shadows form between them, taking the shapes of men, of monsters, of the things in the old tales that are always hungry, forever restless.
“Where are you?” I ask the silent room. “Where have you gone?”
The cabin is more homely than it was the last time I was here. As though warmth and life have suffused the space, flooding the corners, softening its jagged edges. I brush my fingertips along the stack of paperbacks at his bedside. All nature and history books, they’re creased and have frayed covers, as though handled many times. There are no photographs displayed on the chest of drawers, only a comb. A half-used bottle of shampoo. No indication of what he was before I met him.Whohe was.
