She’d told him from the beginning: She could only find the dead.
Ling. And Theta. Evie and Sam.
With each stroke of waking, the pain sharpened. Gaspard whimpered and licked Henry’s hand. The hound looked up at him as if waiting for an answer to a question. Henry leaned his head back and blinked up at the indistinct leaves of an elm until he could find his words.
“I know. I know,” Henry said. He cried out as the pain sliced through him.
“Gonna need some strength,” Louis said. “Kiss me, cher.”
Louis put his lips to Henry’s, kissing the last of his strength into Henry. And when they pulled away, Louis was fading, like a sliver of moon late in the morning sky.
“Gaspard. Come on, boy. Time to go home.” Louis whistled and the dog bounded toward him. The setting sun warmed the river to a shimmering golden-orange. “I’m headed over there. But you can’t come along. Not yet.”
Louis waved from the riverbank, and he was a bright thing, a portion of borrowed sun.
“Write me a good song, Henri,” he called.
Henry’s throat tightened as he waved back. “Sweet dreams.”
Louis mounted the steps to the cabin, fading to gray as he went, and then Henry heard the faint, aching cry of a fiddle. The notes lingered on the wind for a moment more, and then even that was gone.
But some other memory was coming to him—a sense that there was somewhere he was needed, like a twin missing the other.
“Ling,” Henry said as it came to him, and he set off running toward the forest.
On the long Chesterfield, Henry and Ling lay perfectly still, dreaming, while Mabel and Jericho kept watch silently. Mabel took one of the soggy watercress sandwiches from the stack wilting on the fancy plate. Already she’d turned away several angry partygoers at the door. It spelled doom for the museum, though that seemed a moot point now.
“What do you suppose they’re dreaming?” she asked, nibbling a corner of sandwich.
“I don’t know.”
“I hope they’re all right down there.”
“I shouldn’t be here. I should be with them,” Jericho said, and some dam gave way inside Mabel.
“So you could look after Evie?” she asked, looking up at Jericho.
Jericho turned back to watching their sleeping friends. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. Was it after Knowles’ End or before?”
Jericho kept silent, but the muscle at his jaw tightened.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter,” Mabel said, pushing the rest of her sandwich aside. Black spots danced before her eyes as she fought back stinging tears. “Why did you kiss me, then, if you prefer her?”
“It isn’t as simple as that,” Jericho said.
Lightning flashed at the windows. Harsh light streaked across Mabel’s fists. She could see every freckle on her skin. He’d chosen Evie. It didn’t matter that Evie was liable to break his heart, that she could never care for Jericho the way Mabel did, or that Mabel had volunteered her time to help with the exhibit. It didn’t matter that Evie could have any boy she wanted, and would. He’d chosen her. The realization sucked the air from Mabel’s lungs. Every day, Mabel Rose worked to make the world a little fairer. But the hard truth was that there was some unfairness you couldn’t do anything about. You couldn’t make a boy like you just because you liked him so very much. And tonight, as she’d watched Jericho with Evie, she knew the truth: Jericho was in love with Evie. Did Evie know? Had she known all along, even as she had encouraged Mabel and given her advice?
God, she was such an idiot.
And she hated this dress. Evie had been wrong—it didn’t suit her disposition at all. That was just the way Evie wanted to see her. The way everyone wanted to see her: Good old Mabel. Reliable, predictable Mabel. Chipper Mabel.
When she got home, she was going to burn this dress.
Jericho indulged in his odd habit of making a fist and releasing it. Mabel had found it eccentric but charming before. Now it grated on her.
“Would you like some coffee?” Jericho asked.