walls, only the few pieces I’m working on uncovered in this old, dusty shed.
“Work shed.”
I drag a stool over, set the first-aid kit on the low table by the chair, and pull her hands into my lap.
“It’s a little bigger than a shed,” she says.
I shrug a shoulder and open the kit.
“Is this where you come when you go into the woods?”
I nod, finding the tweezers to pull out the glass.
“Ouch.” She tries to tug her hand away when I remove the first shard, but I don’t let her.
“It’s going to hurt, but we have to get the glass out. Maybe this will teach you not to go snooping since you clearly didn’t learn your lesson the night you wandered into my brother’s rooms.”
“I wasn’t snooping,” she says as I get back to work. “I was just curious what your brother was carrying into the woods and where he was going.”
The definition of snooping. But I don’t comment. I’m curious too. “What was he carrying?”
“I don’t know. He had something in each hand, like barrels or something. They were heavy I could see that much.”
“You don’t know where he went with them?”
“I didn’t see. By the time I got out here, and after I backtracked to find the path twice, he was returning to the house. I think he was, at least. And he didn’t have the things with him anymore. That’s when I came across the solarium. How old is it, anyway?”
“Old. My father had it refurbished for my mother a long time ago, but it’s been on the grounds since at least my great-grandfather was alive.”
“Whose doll was that?”
“Annabel’s,” I say, keeping my eyes on my work.
“Your sister. Ouch!” I drop a small but sharp shard into the corner near the fireplace.
“Almost done.”
It’s quiet for a time. “Do you ever go there?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“When I was trying to go back to the house, I kept walking in circles, ending up back there. It was eerie.”
I look at her. “Stay away from the solarium. Just stay out of the woods altogether.”
“Did something happen in there?”
“Just stay away, okay?”
She nods and silence falls again, the only sound that of the rain on the roof and wood crackling in the fire.
“Is this your workplace? Do you make these things?”
“Used to be Lucas too, but now it’s just me.” I pick out more glass.
She surprises me when she turns her hand around to touch a rough spot in my palm. “I knew you did something with your hands.” She circles it, and I watch her delicate hand inside mine. It’s all I can do for a long minute until I drag my gaze to look at the top of her head, her attention on my hand.
“Lucas made that switchblade,” I say.
She meets my eyes.
“Made one for each of us. I didn’t realize my sister still had hers.”
“When?
“When we were kids. Maybe twelve.”
“You had those sharp blades at twelve? Why?”
I return my attention to picking out glass. “My father was never a gentle man. I guess Lucas thought he was doing his part to protect us.” Does she hear the sarcasm in my voice?
She’s quiet, and when I look at her, I find her eyes on me. “Did you make the doors at the house?”
“Yes,” I say, picking out the last of the glass and getting to my feet.
“That’s a lot of work.”
I grab one of the bottles of water I keep out here and go back to her. “I like doing it. Gets me out of the house and out of my head.”
“If you don’t want to be here, why don’t you just leave?”
I exhale and smile. “Things don’t work that way with us.” She studies me. “Hold out your hands.”
“The Gates of Hell doors. They’re appropriate, I guess.”
She’s got that right.
There’s no running water, so she stretches her arms out in front of her. I wash the cuts as best as I can with the water before grabbing a towel and resuming my seat to dry them. I hold onto them, her hands closed in prayer, mine over hers in the same position around the towel.
“Did Michela give you the knife on our wedding night?”
She searches my eyes and gives a quick shake of her head. “I took it.”
I cock my head to the side. “Really?” She’s lying. “From where?”
“It hurts,” she says, gesturing toward our hands.
I guess I’m squeezing a little too hard. I let up, set the towel aside, and get antibiotic solution from the kit.