Page 68 of Holly & Hemlock
It is Larkin who breaks it, as always. He raises his glass, the gesture as elegant as ever, but his hand shakes, just enough to betray the cost of the performance.
“To our home,” he says, “however ugly.”
He drinks, and for a moment, the flames from the candles catch in the green of his eyes, making him seem almost phosphorescent.
Lane, astonishingly, raises his glass as well. “To Hemlock House,” he echoes, and the sad tone is so alien coming from him that I almost choke.
They look at each other—not as adversaries, not as foils, but as fellow travelers on the same ruinous road. I see, for the first time, the recognition that binds them: two men whohave given everything to a house that never loved them back.
They drink, and I drink, and Whitby appears to clear the table, her movements more brusque now, as if the ceremony is losing its hold.
The main course is gone. There is only dessert left—a trifle of berries and cream, the top dusted with a powder so fine it floats on the air for a moment before settling.
As Whitby places it before me, she leans in, just enough for me to feel the whisper of her breath. “It is almost over,” she says, and for the first time, I think I hear relief.
Larkin pushes the dessert around his plate with a spoon, not eating, just watching the cream bleed into the juice. Lane, predictably, devours his, but more out of duty than pleasure.
I set my own spoon down, unable to stomach another bite.
The conversation shifts, softens. Larkin asks Lane about his plans for the orchard, and Lane answers with more words than I have ever heard him use in a single sentence. They talk about grafting, about rootstock, about the way each season leaves its mark on the trees.
I listen, and I realize that the old hostilities have faded, replaced by something like curiosity, or even respect. Their relationship a complicated one, but beautiful nonetheless.
I think about the curse, about the way it has defined every relationship in this house, and I wonder if this, finally, is what breaking the chain looks like—not a dramatic confrontation, but the slow, stubborn work of forgiveness.
The last of the wine is poured. Whitby brings coffee, black and bitter, and serves it without a word.
We sit there, the three of us, not talking, not needing to. The only sound is the slow tick of the grandfather clock, and the faint crackle of the fire in thenext room.
The house feels different now. Lighter, maybe. Or just less certain.
Larkin sets his cup down and says, “I’m glad it was you.”
Lane nods, once, then looks away, the corners of his mouth twitching in what could be the beginning of a smile.
Whitby appears in the doorway, a shadow against the blaze of the kitchen. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says, and I know she means for us to finish, to let go, to end it.
We linger. No one wants to be the first to leave.
Eventually, Lane stands, pushing his chair back with a sigh. Larkin follows, and together they move toward the door, the space between them no longer a gulf but a bridge.
I remain at the table, staring at the arrangement, the holly green and sharp, the hemlock laced around it, a last, poisonous sentry.
I think about what Whitby said, about choosing what to starve and what to feed.
I think I understand now.
I stand, smoothing the skirt of my dress, and follow the others out.
The house is silent, waiting for its next command.
For once, I am ready to give it.
20
A Final Night
The solstice dinner burns away in a slow afterimage. The ritual of it, the performance, the calculation—none of it lingers. I’m left with a headache, a stain on my lip, and a kind of glutted ease that makes the rest of the house feel very far away. After Whitby vanishes into the kitchen, I drift into the library. The men were admiring the Christmas tree in the hall, but are behind me now. I don’t look back. Not yet.
