Page 26

On her way back from the village, dusk painted the clifftops in drowsy watercolors. She had an anxious, horrible thought that perhaps Alastair was unwell again, that he had gone back to the hospital in Driftsea. But as she stepped out of the shadowed woods on the path to her cottage, she heard the sound of a car.

It came, unhurried, along the road. Familiar and beetle-black. Marcus drove and Alastair sat in the passenger seat. He was reading a book, his body turned toward the window, as though trying to ignore the presence of his father. When Lark saw his face, she bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she tasted blood.

She watched as the car drove toward Saltswan. Then she hurried home. Her brothers were still at the mine. Lark went to her room and took out the letters she had written to Alastair. She piled them intoa stack and tied it together with a long red ribbon from her dresser drawer.

Before she could change her mind, she set out across the cliffs.

Saltswan was quiet and still as Lark went through the iron gate. She remembered how it had been locked when Alastair brought her here, how they had to climb over. The windows watched her approach the house. She shivered, though the heat was summer-thick, warm and cloying.

The front door—broad, enameled wood—was between twin panes of glass that were decoratively frosted, blurring her view inside. An iron bell hung beside the door, gleaming and untarnished, with a silken length of rope hanging down from its center.

Lark thought of Marcus Felimath, the way he’d torn her wreath from Alastair’s head and cast it away like it was poisoned. He had always ignored her on the rare occasions he came to the cottage to speak with Henry and Oberon. But if he answered the door, they would be face-to-face.

Fear knotted her stomach. She could still leave without ringing the bell. But the days were slipping past. Soon summer would be over, and she would be on the train back to the city. And Lark knew that if she lost her nerve this time, she’d never be brave enough to come back again.

She couldn’t make herself pull the bell rope, to set the noise of it striking through the air like an alarm. She raised her hand. Hesitated a moment, knuckles pressed soundlessly to the wood, before she managed to knock.

Silence drew out. Lark narrowed her eyes at the frosted panes of glass beside the door, trying to make out the shift of shadows, an outlined silhouette. But nothing moved. If she hadn’t only just seenAlastair and his father drive past, she would have believed the house to be empty.

She was about to knock again when the sound of footsteps came from within. Slow, unhurried. Finally, the door opened partway. Alastair looked out at her. He kept one hand on the frame as he stood in the opened space, as though barring her entrance to the house. He looked her up and down, unsmiling. His eyes were cold.

“What are you doing here?”

Lark took a step back. She peered at him, confused, the tone of his voice throwing her off-kilter. The door had opened to reveal not her friend but this new, stark stranger.

Her fingers tightened against the letters, making the paper crinkle. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly embarrassed about the fact that she had tied envelopes together with a ribbon. She wanted to tuck them behind her back, but it was too late. Alastair had already noticed. His eyes narrowed toward the bundle of envelopes.

“I was worried about you,” Lark finally managed to say.

Alastair arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because I haven’t seen you…” She trailed off. He was watching her so coolly, as though she were a stranger who had come to deliver a telegram. Something impersonal that linked them not at all. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Alastair tugged at a sleeve, smoothing down a minute wrinkle in his cuff. Lark noticed for the first time that he was dressed as formally as Marcus had been at the bonfire, in tailored wool trousers and a starched shirt. His shirt was buttoned tightly all the way to his throat, the collar fastened with a glinting silver pin.

“And,” Lark went on determinedly, “you just told me how you’ve been unwell. So I—”

His eyes narrowed at the mention of his illness, and he gave a flinch, as though she had stung him. He tugged a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath. “I haven’t been unwell. I’m busy. That’s all.”

Quiet expanded between them, a palpable thing. Lark fidgeted with the ends of the ribbon tied around the letters. She had always thought herself sensible, not someone who took risks. Growing up beside the wild sea, she had learned when to step back from danger. And now there was a small, still-sensible part of herself that told her she should leave. That if she stayed and continued to speak with cold-eyed Alastair Felimath, she would sorely regret it.

But another, more stubborn part of her remained fixed in place. She stared at him, as though she could puzzle out from his features what had happened, how the boy who gave her a book of Caedmon’s sketches, who held her hand, who whispered her name so breathlessly in the field had become likethis.

Biting her lip, she forced herself to ask, “Alastair, are you… angry with me?”

“No.” His answer was mild, truthful. There was no anger in him, and that was even more unsettling. The way he seemed so unbothered by all of this.

“Then have I done something wrong?”

He looked past her for a moment, eyes fixed on the seascape behind where she stood. His brows creased, and then he let out a deep breath. “It’s not that you’ve done anything. It’s only… I’ve been thinking. We’re very different people. It didn’t matter so much when we were children, but now I’ve realized how much itdoesmatter.”

Lark clutched the letters against her chest. The red ribbon trailed down from her hands like spilling blood. She felt as though the Alastair who wore her wreath and hid with her in the field had vanished. Perhaps he never existed at all. He was only a dream that she had constructed in the midsummer twilight.

“I thought we were friends. At the bonfire, you…” She swallowed the rest of her words, her cheeks burning, as he shook his head.

He sighed, casting her a solicitous look. “I want to apologize.”

“Forwhat, specifically?”