Ivy of Our Hearts

Thirty-nine

A figure lingering by the trees down below caught my eye. I rubbed my eyes, thinking my vision had failed me. The snow, falling nearly a foot tall, lit up the sky well enough for me to see. It could've been the long shadow of a tree, but then the figure began to move on swift feet. The longer I stared at it the closer it got until it reached the fence.

I shut the door and pressed my back against it, eyes closed, heart thudding.

"What is it?" asked Margaret.

"Someone's out there," I said. "Out in the storm." I opened my eyes as she traipsed to the window. "Don't look. Don't look. They might see you."

Too late. She was already at the window, hands pressed flat against the pane. "I don't see anyone."

A hard knock rattled the door beneath my back. I leapt away from it. Stumbling, I fell and landed hard on the floor. Margaret pulled me up. They knocked a second time—and even Manderley stopped weeping and let out a shrill caw. Margaret and I held onto each other. Who could it be? Had Nora awakened from her death, roused by me murdering Phillip? Could it be her ghost, mournfully roaming the woods?

"I know you're in there," said a woman. "Let me in or I'll break down this door."

This couldn't be real. I shut my eyes again; wishing that when I opened them the person at the door would be gone, there wouldn't be a dead body on the couch, and my soul, my blood, wouldn't be tainted by committing such a heinous act.

"Maybe it's the police," Margaret said, her hand loosening in mine.

"If it was the police they would have said so."

"I know you're in there." The door shook under the weight of a fist. A strong, unyielding fist. Did we have time to move the body into the other room? I didn't know what to do but to hold Margaret's hand tightly. Tears filled my eyes. In my head, I was already preparing my confession, absolving Margaret from the crime.

It was me. I killed him. Take me. Leave Margaret alone.

The door tore from the wall, hinges and all. Margaret and I screamed and scrambled back but where would we hide in a three-room cabin? In the doorway stood a tall figure, face darkened by a hood. We couldn't see eyes beneath the cloak, but it was obvious we were being glared at, scrutinized. A chill wound around my spine, curling up, up, up into my heart. I couldn't read Margaret's features, a look between shock and awe. I, on the other hand, had grown stoic. Whatever this person wanted I would oblige if they left us alone. Where had Phillip kept the money? I dared not glance away from this person.

"Where is my son?" she asked.

"What?" The word left my mouth before I could think.

"I've come to take his body home. Where is he?"

Margaret and I said nothing more, but when Manderley cawed the woman's head shifted. She thrust off the hood of her cloak, revealing her face to the light. I gasped. Margaret didn't move, as if she couldn't, as if the shock of it all had settled in her like cement. It was her. The woman in Nora's paintings.

Wingless, beakless, but tall and as slender as a wrist turned on its side. Hair the color of chestnuts. A sharp nose. A pink mouth. A thick, black brow. Her forehead curved. I saw this as she gazed down at Phillip. I didn't know what I expected her to do, cry, grab me around the throat, or tear more of the cabin apart.

She walked to him, no glided, because the fae had such a buoyant way of moving. She knelt by him. Taking his limp hand, she kissed his fingertips one at a time.

"My son," she said. "Death does not become you."

"How..." Margaret cleared her throat. "How did you know he's dead?" Even as she said it her voice was soft.