Winterwood

The pot of water on the stove begins to boil, and I carry it into the kitchen to make us oatmeal and a cup of tea. Suzy lowers her chin on her knees, and I see that her smile is gone—her thoughts have strayed back to this room, this house in the woods, the cold always looking for a way in. This place where a boy has died. It all floods back through her, and I think I see the fear that blinks out at me behind her fawn-colored eyes, Paris now impossibly far away.

We are quiet the rest of the day. Afraid to speak—afraid we’ll lose ourselves to foolish, imaginary daydreams. Instead, I sit beside the front window and watch for a figure moving through the trees outside, for any sign of Oliver. But he never appears. Only a deer that picks its way through the snow just as evening sets over the forest. It walks down to the shore and paws at the surface of the frozen lake, trying to break through the ice, but something startles it—a bird maybe—and it darts back into the forest.

I look to Suzy, curled up beside the fire like a child’s doll, carefully placed with her hands in her lap, and for a moment I can’t be sure how much time has passed, how many hours—how many days and months—since she first came to stay with me. Since the storm hit and the road became blocked. I feel like I’m losing track of the minutes. Time playing tricks on me ever since I found Oliver in the woods, ever since my eyes met his.

Tick, tick, thud.

I stand up from the chair to shake away the feeling, to root my feet against the floor. The clock above the kitchen sink ticks, ticks, weaving itself along the fibers of my mind, pushing the seconds forward, too fast.

Tick, tick, thud.

I squeeze my eyes closed and hear the clock waver, like time is stuck between seconds. A trembling sound leaves my lips. A wheezing gasp of air.

“You okay?” Suzy asks.

My eyelids peel open and I nod. “Fine,” I breathe.

“You were shaking.”

I clench my hands together so she won’t see, and I pull them into my sleeves. “I’m just cold,” I lie.

But I know it’s something else. Déjà vu or slipping time—something is happening that I’ve never felt before. Grandma would tell me I need rest, she’d place her hands on my forehead and make me drink tea with chamomile root and vanilla leaf. Then, while I slept, she’d creep into my dreams to see what was really wrong with me. She’d use her nightshade to fix me.

I walk to the stove and hold my hands over the heat. “Maybe we should sleep down here tonight,” I say. “It’ll be warmer beside the fire.”

She nods, but her skin has gone pale, like she’s barely listening to me. Her eyes no longer glimmer with laughter, and she chews on the side of a fingernail, staring down at the floor.

We are safe in here, I want to tell her. But that would imply we aren’t safe out there, in the forest, in the mountains, in the dark.

But the truth is:

I don’t know anymore.

A bone moth is following me. A boy is dead. And my mind is clattering between my ears—threatening to crack.

And maybe… the worst hasn’t even happened yet.

“Nora! Nora!” a voice is repeating. “Wake up.”

“What?”

“Get up.”

My eyes whip open, white spots flashing across my vision. I’m lying at one end of the couch, facing the fire, knees pulled up to my chest—Suzy had taken up the rest of the couch.

But now she’s standing over me, eyes like saucers.

“What’s wrong?” I push myself up to my elbows. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” she answers.

I clear my throat and rub at my eyes, glancing around the dark living room where everything looks just as it did when we fell asleep.

“There’s a fire,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “Down by the lake.”

“What?” I stand up from the couch, letting the blanket that had been draped over me fall to the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she adds, like she needs to explain herself. “I was standing beside the stove, trying to get warm, when I saw the light outside.”

At the windows, I press my palm to the glass, where ice has formed on the thin pane. Intricate and spiny. Beyond the wall of pine trees, down near the lakeshore, a bonfire tosses sparks up into the night sky like confetti. And I can just make out the silhouette of boys backlit by the flames.

“It might be Rhett and the others,” she says. “They probably snuck out of their cabin.” She smirks a little and walks to my side. “We should go down there,” she adds, nodding to herself, looking at me like she hopes I’ll agree.

But I shake my head, the buzzing inside my ears growing louder. “They can’t have a bonfire that close to the trees,” I say.

Her expression drops. “Why not?”

But I’m already moving past her to the door, my pulse thudding down every vein, a drum in my chest pulled tight. Fin lifts his head from his place beside the woodstove, ears forward, gaze expectant. “Stay,” I tell him and he lowers his head.

“Where are you going?” Suzy asks, trailing me with her eyes.

“Trees don’t like fire,” I say. “I’m going to put it out.”