Page 48 of Holly & Hemlock
For a moment, we are suspended in the uncertainty, two bodies trying to reverse-engineer their own damage. Then Lane lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “The house makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do. Want things you wouldn’t normally want.” He looks away, as if the words are an affront to the wallpaper. “It strips you of who you are, and recreates who it wants you to be.”
I want to ask what the house wants me to be, but instead I say, “And what do you want?”
Lane stares at me, then at the window, then at his own hands, not answering the question.
“Well I want more of it. More of you,” I say, and lift my hands up to his face, pulling it down to reach me in a kiss. If he struggles with it, it’s not for long, because a moment later, he lifts me up and pushes my back against the wall. My legs wrap around his waist, and he kisses me until I can’t feel my lips.
Eventually, he sets me down, and leads me out of the house as if nothing happened. But I catch the almost-grin hiding behind his beard.
Outside, the world is blinding. The snow has crusted over, hard enough to walk on if you trust it, and the sky is a blue so bright it hurts to look at. Lane stands at the edge of the porch, surveying the grounds with the expertise of a man who knows every secret buried beneath. He points to the forest at the far end of the property, the trees huddled together like conspirators.
“Spruce and pine, mostly. Some fir, if you want the needles to stick around longer.”
I say, “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
He shrugs, but there is something close to pride in the set of his jaw. “Every year. Since I was a kid. Old Maeve let everyone set up Christmas in the house.”
We walk together, my boots slipping once or twice, but Lane steadies me without comment. The cold is so total it feels medicinal, scraping the inside of my lungs clean. I steal glances at him, at the square of his jaw, the way his hair darkens at the temples when the sweat freezes there.
I think about last night, about the way he held me on the table, the way he didn’t let go even after it was over. I wonder if it is possible to want two things at once—safety and surrender, closeness and escape. I wonder if the house has already decided for me.
Larkin appears at the garden path, hands in his pockets, head cocked at an angle that reads as both challenge and invitation. He does not call out, but instead lets us come to him, as if he is the gatekeeper to some other, better world and we are only tourists.
Lane’s jaw goes tight. I can see the muscle twitch even through his beard and the wool of his collar. I try to imagine what it would be like have dealt with Larkin and his attitude for decades, to be that furious and that controlled, all at once. I decide that Lane is either the most disciplined man alive, or seconds from a murder.
Larkin gives a little bow, the sarcasm obvious even from twenty paces. “Didn’t want to miss the festive slaughter,” he says, eyes flicking from Lane to me and back again. His coat is open at the chest, revealing a sweater the color of a cabernet and a pair of gloves that look as if they’ve never once touched a shovel.
Lane grunts, but says nothing. The two of them are electric together, the air between them dense with all the thingsthey won’t say. I try to step between, but they close ranks around me, the tension a live wire.
We trek to the edge of the grounds, the snow deepening with every yard, until the trees rise around us in a cathedral of needles and wind. The sun filters through in dazzling, brittle beams, the air filled with the chemical tang of sap and the faint, sweet rot of last year’s needles. Lane surveys the stand with the gravity of a priest at a funeral, measuring each tree for symmetry, height, the likelihood of lasting through Christmas without dropping its entire payload onto the parlor rug.
We reach the forest, and Lane surveys the closest trees with the air of a surveyor. He circles a few, pausing to run a gloved hand along the trunk, or snap a branch to test for rot. I try to help, but my knowledge is ornamental at best. I watch him, memorizing the gestures, the efficiency of his movements.
Larkin is no help. He paces the perimeter, touching every trunk as if expecting a password or secret handshake. “You know, in the city, they just paint the trees green if they die early,” he says, kneeling to inspect a lichen-crusted branch. “There’s something to be said for appearances.”
Lane doesn’t dignify this with a response. He stops at a blue spruce, ten feet tall, perfect in its symmetry, needles dusted with powder. “This one,” he says. “What do you think, Nora?”
“it’s perfect.” And it is.
“You want to do the honors?” he asks.
I blink. “I’ve never?—”
“It’s just muscle and leverage,” Lane says. “And intent. Just push and pull.” He hands me the saw.
I take it, surprised by its weight. I look at Lane, then at thetree, then back again. He nods, just once, as if to say‘go on, prove you’re not made of paper.’
Larkin stands beside me, just close enough that I feel the heat of him through the coat. “Careful,” he murmurs in my ear. “Wouldn’t want to lose a finger. Or an ear.”
I kneel by the trunk, raise the saw, and draw it toward me in an arc fueled by adrenaline rather than skill. The blade bites into the wood, resisting at first before it glides through with a satisfying resistance. But when I try to push it back, it sticks, a jolt runs through my arms, leaving a tingle in my fingers.
Lane doesn't laugh, but I can see the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Try again. Put your weight into it.”
Larkin leans closer, his breath warm against my ear as he says, “It’s all in the rhythm,” and without warning, he closes his hand around my wrist, adjusting my grip. He carries the scent of cologne mingled with smoky whiskey. His fingers press firmly on top of my hand, guiding the angle of the saw.
“There,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “Now, push.”
I do. This time, the blade sinks deeper, the sound a gratifying rasp against the bark. I repeat the motion, each stroke carving away at the tree, sap oozing from the fresh wound. Lane watches, his expression unreadable, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
