I headed over to take a photo, expecting to see a witch. It didn’t give me a bad vibe, though. If anything, I’d been transported to another time, when technology was only a word and not a way of life.
Stooped over, gathering herbs, a woman with long dark hair noticed me and smiled. “Hello there.”
“Hello. I was just admiring your lovely cottage. I hope you don’t mind me looking.”
“Not at all. It’s such a nice day to be out and about. Are you a tourist?”
I nodded. “That I am. From London. I’m staying at Raven Abbey.”
“Oh, how nice. I’m just collecting some chamomile.”
I looked over the picket fence. “This garden is so perfect. The colors are amazing.”
“Many come by and take photographs. I imagine there are a few postcards getting around.” She chuckled.
“It’s wonderfully photogenic, and your garden’s a delight.”
“Thank you. It’s a labor of love.”
“My name’s Penelope.”
“I’m Marion,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“I envy you living out here in this wonderland.”
“It’s not an easy life. I have to work at it. I grow most of my food, and I have some animals at the back.”
“That’s so admirable, though.”
She smiled again.
“Well, I’d best be getting back.”
“Nice meeting you, Penelope.”
“And you.”
I watched her as she went back into her home.
* * *
I ARRIVED TO FIND Blake asleep. He looked so peaceful that I couldn’t disturb him. I held up the bottle of whisky. For some reason, I felt like a hit.
“It’s a bit early for that.” I heard from behind.
I turned to see Blake with his hands behind his neck, smiling and looking relaxed.
“Did you go for a walk in the forest as planned?” He rose from the bed. “I might as well join you.” He lifted the crystal decanter and poured himself a shot.
“I did. I met someone who lives in a cottage outside the wood.”
“Right. A man?” His frown nearly made me chuckle.
“No. A woman.”
“That cottage belonged to Gareth Wolf. But he’s no longer alive.”
“Her name’s Marion. She grows her own food and has animals. She was lovely.”
“Marion?” Blake studied me. “What did she look like?”
“She had dark eyes and hair and a scar on the side of her face. Very pretty, though.”
The frown on his face deepened. “What side?”
“Huh? The scar?” I asked, feeling a tightening knot in my tummy from Blake’s sudden intensity.
Gulping down a shot of whisky, he nodded.
“On the left side.”
An aching gap of time fell between us.
“I’m going there now,” he said at last.
The breath that I’d been holding escaped. “Why? Do you know her?”
He didn’t seem to hear me. I followed Blake and half expected him to stop me, but he seemed lost in a trance as I scurried along behind him.
47
* * *
BLAKE
WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN scattering Milly’s ashes at twilight as she’d requested. Instead, I almost ran along. I knew that forest path so well I could have moved through it with a blindfold on and still found the cottage that now housed my undead mother.
It had to be her. The scar gave it away. It was from her fucking savage husband after he’d held a knife to her throat before slashing her face in one of his drunken jealous rages. Hiding under the table as a six-year-old, I watched on, shivering through a cold sweat. That experience, which felt like fingernails digging into a wound, flashed before me.
But why fake her own death?
It was assumed she’d fallen into the river. They’d even sent in divers. Now I understood why her body had never been found.
I slowed down just as we reached the edge of the wood. At my shoulder, Penelope stood. Her panting blended with the hum of scurrying birds.
She clutched her arms. “Why are we going to the cottage? Do you know her?”
“I think she’s my mother.” I took a deep, steadying breath and held out my hand. “Come.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your description and the scar on her face.”
“But that’s kind of vague, isn’t it? I thought your mother’s name was Mary.”
“Marion is close enough, wouldn’t you say?” I said.
Her small, soft hand clasped mine, and suddenly, the tension dissolved. I could face anything with her by my side. Her reassuring half smile had a calming influence.
“I hope she doesn’t mind us bursting in like this.”
“It’s only six o’clock, Penny.”
As we moved along the path, memories of playing by the cottage flooded back. I opened the squeaky gate, and my tread became hesitant. With each step, my pulse accelerated.