salvation. “Minnie,” she said, “take Charles home.”
Minnie and Charles still huddled on the ground, holding on
to each other. Charles’s breathing was fast, his eyes unnaturally
bright. Minnie looked up at Cora, anguish written on her features.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I just wanted . . . I just wanted to
have another story with you.”
“Go home, Minnie! Now!”
Her sister’s shoulders folded in on themselves, no trace of wild
energy left. For a moment Cora leaned forward, wanting to take
Minnie into her arms, to whisper sweet stories in her ear, to share
warm, safe secrets in a space all their own.
But no. No stories. Minnie’s stories had done enough for one
night, and a wave of resentment washed away Cora’s tender impulses.
Thomas helped Charles up. “Go slowly,” he said. He frowned
as he watched the two of them walk back down the hill, arms
around each other as though both were on the verge of falling.
“You should go with them,” Cora said. She brushed off the
front of her skirts and set her jaw determinedly, betrayed only by
the slightest trembling.
Thomas took off his jacket and put it around her; his shirt
was striped, accentuating the long, lean lines of his arms and
slope of his shoulders. Earlier today Cora had thought him quite
handsome. Now they all looked like ghostly photographs of
themselves — washed out and indistinct.
“I’m not leaving you to this business alone,” Thomas said. “We
all decided to come. I’ll see it through.” They set off down the hill
and onto the lane together. Arthur followed, a silent constant.
“We were taking a walk for my brother’s health,” Thomas said
as they neared a tiny cottage set off from the road, the trees around
slowly reclaiming the yard for the forest. “You and Minnie and