Page 14 of Sweet Silver Bells

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

I t was hard to leave Olivia alone, even if he was just down the hall. Hunter returned to the living room feeling refreshed, dressed for whatever surprises awaited him now.

Olivia was in his living room unsupervised. Hunter chewed on his thumbnail until he gave up and went to check on her.

With fresh socks, his thicker snow pants, and a hoodie, Hunter stood under the entryway, staring at Olivia's back, as she sang to the plants his mom left behind, her voice light, hushed as if she were telling them secrets.

She probably is.

The stress that had pulsed through him—while he dressed with the urgency of an Olympic speed skater—began to fade. His heartbeat slowed as her song wrapped around his head, seeping into his blood. It was a haze, a poison he’d drink willingly.

His mind, drunk on the moment, whispered that nothing had ever felt so right. Not with her there, wistful and glowing, mistletoe held just shy of her lips.

There was no question—Hunter saw it move.

The mistletoe twitched, softened, seemed to breathe in her hands. Its leaves curled and relaxed, responding to her song the same way his body did.

But unlike him, it didn’t just react. It grew.

New life unfurled—leaves the deepest shade of green, berries a vivid crimson—spilling out from the original six-inch stem she’d held delicately between her fingers.

Hunter took it all in, awe oozing out of his pores. The leaves had reached the floor, falling in small circles like rope, a vine of thick, pointed holiday cheer.

The unbelievably soul-crushing beauty of her siren song stopped.

“That’s enough for now,” Olivia said to the vine. “Now, where to hang you where light can shine through the windows?” She turned, her face pensive, her lips pursed and pulled to the side.

Adorable.

His head was stuck in that haze, the spell from her song. He knew he didn’t need it; his thoughts of her were true, but it did help erase the anxiety that hid in his stomach, knowing what she could do, knowing it was likely just a part of what magic she had.

“I’d like to wrap this around the mantle.” She didn’t ask, as if this were her house.

“You can decorate however you wish,” he said, bowing slightly.

Bowed. You bowed.

A full smile spread across Olivia's face, her nose scrunching a little.

The confidence his approval gave her sent butterflies into a vortex formation inside his core.

He smiled back as she skipped over to the mantle, placing what she could carry of the elongated mistletoe along the back, humming and coaxing the plant into hanging.

It grew and slid into several feet of corkscrew-shaped vines, hanging onto the textured walls in the living room once there was no room left.

After a few blinks, yards of green graced the entire living room, wrapping around the beamed ceiling overhead.

“Wow,” Hunter said, “the house is already so different.”

He knew that the forest responded to her voice, her song, but seeing the magic that laced her vocal cords in action with natural light in a familiar space was a new level of surreal. Hunter stared at her in awe, doing his best not to allow his mouth to hang open.

“It’s filled with life now,” she whispered.

Hunter’s mood plummeted, triggered by the words from the lips he so carefully studied.

Life.

Like when Sarah was alive.

It was a sobering sentence, uttered from the first woman he felt pulled to get to know since the tragedy. The haze of Olivia’s song did what it could to push the grief out of his mind, focusing him only on this black-haired beauty, but Hunter couldn’t allow himself to forget. He would never forget.

Am I ready for this? If she wants me, too, can I move forward, Sarah?

“What are your hobbies?” The question felt small, but it tugged him out of the quiet cocoon of his grief.

Smooth, Romeo.

Olivia only blinked at him, her smile waning. “Hobbies?”

“What did you do for fun before you went into the forest, before you decided to never come back out?”

“You want to know me, Hunter?” Her head tilted, considering. “Is that why you sang for me?”

She’s crazy and terrifying; why can’t I let her go?

He nodded.

“What is this box?” she asked, moving her finger across the dusty screen.

“It’s called a TV, a television. It plays stories that move. Should I turn it on?”

Olivia frowned at it and shook her head no. “Your tree doesn’t like it.”

“My tree outside?” Hunter looked out the window.

“It doesn’t like the noise. Its hum is too loud when the sun goes down.”

“I didn’t realize.”

Who would?

“I don’t think I had any hobbies. I worked in my little garden, the one my mother had made for me under the window to my bedroom,” she finally answered his question.

“When I was sure that I was alone, I would sing to the plants—the jasmine, the pink alliums, the lavender, and the thick vines that grew up the side of the brick. It was the only time I was allowed to sing, when there was no one there to hear.”

Hunter looked for sadness in his eyes, but he only saw acceptance.

“I studied with my tutor," she continued. "I went to dance lessons. I was regularly fitted for new dresses as I tore mine running barefoot. I was always purposely losing the strings to my corsets.”

Olivia’s focus moved on to the coffee table that was still alive with the seven poinsettia plants. Hunter winced, just a little, imagining the house filled with hundreds of them if she took the same route with the festive red leaves as she had with the mistletoe.

He supposed it could be funny, explaining to the neighborhood that his little house exploded from wild holiday plants.

Your willingness to accept that was awfully fast, Hunter.

Olivia held her hand out over the leaves, petting them, and like a cat, Hunter swore he could almost hear it purr back at her. She hummed, the leaves curling under in response, comforted, nurtured, the red color brightening even more. Hunter had never seen a natural color so brilliant.

“Where should we put them?” Hunter asked.

“They are asking for more light,” she said. “The poor things have been practically deprived, but still bloom to the best of their ability. They are valiant, strong.” She lowered her voice, speaking to the plants, “I’m proud of you all.”

There was no tune to her voice, but the plants still reacted, shooting up, each growing four or five feet, nearly tumbling over as the shiny gold foil paper that held their plastic container crinkled with ferocity. Olivia beamed at them, her children.

Hunter put his hands on his face and bent, crouched down to brace himself.

There was no silence once the foil stopped resisting, no cracking of the containers that split down the middle, no dirt flooding the floor.

Instead, his ears were immediately hit with an uncontrollable, free laughter.

Hunter looked up at Olivia, partially hidden by the foliage surrounding her.

Her hands were on her belly, and her face was pointed at the ceiling as her body shook from joy.

Hunter wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

You probably should.

“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” he said, and stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, grimacing.

“Are you scared of me, Hunter?” she asked, and the laughter finally ran out of her body like helium being squeezed from a balloon. The energy was lighter; there was a joy in his living room that wasn’t there before, that hadn’t existed in any way.

“Terrified, if we are being honest.” He chuckled.

It wasn’t a lie.

“I think I rather enjoy that.” She tenderly moved her hands through the poinsettias that now stood at her eye level. “I suppose we could move them in front of each window. They will need larger pots. Do you have any to spare?”

Hunter shook his head, bewildered that he would be expected to have such a thing lying around.

Maybe for her, you should.

“I can get some. I can go now if you’d like. I can bring back some takeout, too.”

“Take out?” Olivia cocked her head.

“Food prepared in a kitchen, a restaurant,” he clarified. “Catering, perhaps.”

She nodded.

“What kind of food did you eat in the forest?”

“I stood in the rain, I soaked up the moisture from the soil, I pulled in vitamins from the sunshine when I dipped my toes out of the edges of the trees.”

You’re going to make this as hard as possible for me.

“Olivia, what did you like to eat before you became a part of the bark?”

“Hmmmm.” She smiled. “I don’t remember eating much. I was always a bit of a waif as a child. I suppose that I appreciated sweets and beautiful pastries that were displayed near the champagne fountains on birthdays and during balls.”

“During Christmas?” Hunter asked.

She nodded again.

“If I leave to get sturdy pots for the poinsettias, will the house still be standing when I return?”

Olivia smirked. “Perhaps.”

“How does it work?” Hunter asked. “The plants grew without you singing. You only spoke to them that time.”

“They are a part of me; I am a part of them. My singing is necessary only to control other humans, a funny consequence.”

“Is it just men that are affected?”

“That’s a peculiar question. Plants do not have genders.”

Hunter sighed. “Your singing—does it only work on men? Or does everyone forget?”

“Women are affected as well.”

Hunter walked into the kitchen, turning his back on her to grab his wallet off the counter. When he returned, Olivia was peering out the front window, her eyes large, sad.

“Your poor tree,” she whispered.

“We can put the TV in the garage, unplugged when I return,” he suggested.

“Yes, we must. We must bring it relief.”

Hunter opened the front door and walked out of the house. “I’ll be right back. Please stay inside, don’t talk to anyone, don’t trust anyone.”

Olivia just stared at the tree from the window, blowing her hair off of her face, her eyes going vacant as she sighed.

Hunter closed the door, watching her from the other side of the window, his stomach tightening again as he admired her face, her hair, her beauty, her strangeness.

“Let’s go buy pots on your teacher's salary,” he muttered to himself as he walked to his car, the snow on his lawn crunching under his boots.