Page 10 of Holly & Hemlock
He nods, once. Then, abruptly, he turns away, as if I’vealready bored him. He begins to examine the yew branches, snapping off a few dead twigs and tossing them aside. I watch his hands, thick-fingered but oddly precise, stripping away debris with the same intent as a surgeon exposing a wound.
“Do you always work in the dark?” I ask, because I can’t bear the silence.
“Sun’s bad for some things out here,” he says. “Winter’s better for cutting.”
The yews look no healthier for his attention, but he keeps at it, methodical and relentless.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Grew up here. My father used to tend the grounds. I’ve been keeper about ten years or so.” He shrugs. “Haven’t set foot off the property in damn near four.”
Huh?
“You haven’t left the property in four years?” That can’t be right.
He grunts and nods.
I want to ask about . . . everything. Doctors appointments or family visits or going out to the pub. Picking up groceries or, I don’t know, seeing a movie. Anything normal people do.
I decide that surely he’s fucking with me, but when he looks up I sense nothing but honesty in his eyes.
Where Larkin’s vibes are all cunning and devious, Lane has an honesty about him. Like he doesn’t care enough to make up any kind of lie or put on any airs. As if he will simply grunt and move on if he has no inclination to speak about anything.
But I remind myself this is just my first impression and I could be deadly wrong. Though I’m rarely ever wrong when it comes to first impressions.
“Do you ever take a break?”I ask.
He glances at me, a flicker of amusement surfacing for a fraction of a second. “I did, once. Didn’t like it.”
I hide a giggle that attempted to burst out of my mouth and shuffle my feet. The cold has found its way into my boots. I look at my hands, half-expecting to see the hemlock staining them, some dark mark of contamination.
“What happens if you touch it too much?” I ask. I mean the plant, but also not.
He shrugs. “It weakens you. Gets in your blood. Not right away, though. Takes time.” His gaze rests on me, and I sense a double meaning, whether intended or not.
I want to laugh it off, but there’s something in the way he says it that makes my skin prick.
“Well, I’d like to explore the gardens more. I know it’s winter, but plants are a special interest of mine. I’ll be around for at least a few weeks. Perhaps if you have some time, you could show me more?”
Lane nods his head. Simple answer, requiring no vocal effort. I think that’s the end of the conversation, but then he speaks.
“House like this? It’ll keep you here longer than a few weeks.”
I want to argue, to assert control, but I remember I have no idea what I’m doing here, really. I look back at the mansion, looming over the gardens, and it occurs to me that every person I’ve met so far has warned me, in their own way, to get out.
“Why does everyone here speak in riddles?”
He chuckles at that. For just the briefest moment, but I saw it and for some reason it feels like a victory.
“Anyway, I just needed some air,” I say, softer than intended.
Lane stares at me a moment, then gestures toward a breakin the wall, where the path disappears into the wood. “That way’s better. Less wind. Less of the house staring at you.”
I nod, and begin to walk. He follows, or maybe he just happens to be going the same way. We pass under a bough of blackthorn, the spikes catching on my sleeve. Lane reaches over and breaks off the offending twig with two fingers, careful not to touch me.
“Thanks,” I say.
He grunts again. Then, as if reconsidering, he says: “If you see the cat, don’t feed her.”
