up and rocked her, which silenced Coco, at least for a few moments. Maren sat next to Aurelia and fixed her with a stern look.
“Tell me what happened,” she said. In a low voice, Aurelia did her best to explain—the basement, the red light, the three photographs that revealed the words you must leave in large, hand-drawn letters. They must have been drawn in the wet film, she explained, but that was impossible. And who would do such a thing? And how had the letters disappeared? Had she imagined it?
She expected Maren to tell her she needed more sleep, that this was all in her mind.
Instead, Maren said, “Is this the first time this has happened?”
Aurelia went to say yes, then paused. “I felt like someone was watching me today. In the forest. I know it sounds paranoid . . .”
“It doesn’t sound paranoid,” Maren said gently. “Did you see who was watching you?”
Aurelia bit her lip. “The trees.” She squeezed her eyes shut. She sounded ridiculous. She was ridiculous. She needed more sleep, more vitamin D. More wine. Definitely more wine.
“Did it feel threatening?” Maren persisted, and Aurelia nodded. She reached for her eyes, cautious that Gaia and Derry might not see that she had started to cry.
“Some people are susceptible to it,” Maren said with a sigh. “Others not so much. I think you might be the first type.”
Aurelia straightened. “Susceptible to what?”
“If you are susceptible, it can make you feel afraid,” Maren continued. “My father told us that sometimes it can bring out people’s dark sides, their baser selves. Make them act in cruel ways.”
“What can bring out people’s dark sides?” Aurelia said, utterly confused.
Maren pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, people nowadays regard nature in very romantic terms, like it’s something out of a Wordsworth poem.” She shook her head. “What they don’t realize is that nature has been around much longer than humans. We don’t understand it, not really.”
Aurelia felt more confused than ever. Her head pounded. She looked down at the photographs in her hands. Had she really seen words there? Maybe it was a trick of the light.
“The truth is,” Maren continued, “nature always protects itself by whatever means possible.”
Aurelia had endless questions now, but Gaia had already bounded over, a new drawing in her hand.
“Look, Mumma!” she said. “I’ve drawn your photograph with color! I’m doing cartwheels!”
“That’s beautiful, darling,” Aurelia said, appraising the sketch absentmindedly. She turned to Maren to ask her questions, but then Coco woke, and the moment was gone.
Later, right when she was about to say good night and head off to bed, Derry earned her sympathy. They were talking about Tom and Clive, about the build and how amazing the new house was going to be.
“How do you get Tom to stay interested?” Derry asked in a careful tone, with a pause before “stay interested.” Aurelia had to think about what she meant. Interested in what? His job? Exercise? What?
Derry folded her arms and glanced away. “Men just seem born to roam, don’t they?”
“I suppose each man is different,” Aurelia answered, equally vague. She knew if she said she actually trusted Tom and had never once thought about how to keep him interested—this wasn’t the 1950s, after all—the conversation would shut down. “How do you keep Clive . . . interested?” She broached the question gently, aware that this line of conversation was perhaps Derry’s way of reaching out for help of some kind. She was patently troubled by something.
“I don’t think I do,” Derry said, smiling and looking away. “I’m hoping a baby does the trick.”
And with that, Aurelia felt her heart at once go out to Derry and plummet for her. Using a baby to keep a man was the oldest listing in the book of Things That Don’t Actually Work.
But she didn’t say this. Instead, she poured them both a glass of nonalcoholic pinot noir and said, “I’ll drink to that.”
A knock at the kitchen door makes her jump. She turns and sees a figure through the glass who she recognizes faintly as one of the men working on the build. Erik, she recalls, the main contractor whose team was carrying out the physical work of the build. She likes Erik. He’s a man in his fifties with those enormous builder’s hands, white shaggy hair, and pale, sad eyes. In fact, before he’d even mentioned the recent passing of Siv, his wife of thirty years, she’d sensed a great sadness about him. Breast cancer. She’d noticed