Towering - By Alex Flinn Page 0,36

of the frozen lake. I could see nothing but the coat. I could not see that it was a man, much less the man of my dreams.

I shut the window and went back to my harp.

Featherbeds are soft;

And painted rooms are bonny;

But I would leave them all;

To go with my love, Johnny.

As I played, I closed my eyes and tried to picture his face. It was silly, of course, for it was merely a dream, a figment of my imagination. My imagination had made him perfect, gifting him with every wonderful attribute of the men in my books, the darkest hair, the greenest eyes, the strongest chin, the broadest shoulders, until he was Arthur and Lancelot, Robin Hood and Perseus all rolled into one, then gifted with the intellect of Rochester and the wealth of Darcy. No man could match up, surely not an ordinary youth with ordinary blemishes.

And yet, I ran to the window to look again, to see if he did. I could not tell yet. But now, at least, I was certain it was a man. The shoulders were too broad, the walk too bold to be a woman. That it was a man was wonderful, yet scary, for I am sure it was a man who killed my mother.

But I was up, and he was down. My tower would protect me . . . if I wished it to.

I was not sure what I wished.

He walked closer. In truth, walk was not the proper word for what he was doing. Rather, he struggled over the snow and the trees. Slogged, perhaps, or lumbered. I wondered, for the first time, what he was doing here, and why he continued when it was obviously so difficult. It was not merely uncommon, but unheard of, for anyone to come this close, particularly in winter. In summer, there were children who played and went boating on the lake. The part of the lake that I could see was covered in branches, likely hiding my tower from others’ sight. Sometimes, the children came closer, but never close enough to see me. It was almost as if he knew I was here, as if he were looking for me.

To kidnap me?

I stopped singing entirely. I crouched down on the floor, resting my glasses on the windowsill. I peered through them. Now, he was close enough that I could see his face but for his hat and scarf. He could see mine if he possessed glasses. And if he looked up, rather than examining every root or rock that might trip him. He paused in his trudging as if trying to decide where to go next, looking at the stand of trees to his left, the frozen lake to his right. As he did, I saw a bit of hair, peeking out from underneath his hat.

It was brown, dark brown, much like the hair of my imagined lover. Yet, from my reading, I knew that many men had dark hair.

He made his decision and stepped onto the lake. I sucked in my breath. In years past, the lake had frozen solid. I knew for I had seen deer walking upon it. But this year, the weather had been warmer than usual, and though the ice was covered with snow, the animals had avoided it. I wondered if he might fall through, like Amy did in Little Women. If he did, with no one to fish him out, he would surely die.

He took another tentative step. Then, another. Then, a third. It was all right. He believed so too, for his steps became faster, more confident. In fact, he nearly skipped, so relieved (I imagine) was he to escape the tangle of trees, dead and living.

And then, he disappeared from sight.

18

Wyatt

I didn’t know whose stupid idea this was. Or rather, I did. But was I so starved for adventure, for closure . . . for redemption, maybe, that I’d go out in the cold and snow to look for a ruined tower when no one but a crazy old guy who apparently lived in Josh’s hardware store even knew it existed? When the voice I heard was probably a loon?

Yes. The sad thing was, yes. I was the loon.

I’d passed Josh’s family’s cabin half an hour earlier. Since then, I’d been slogging through the woods where there was no path, where the roots of trees seemed to come alive beneath my feet, and the branches reached down to grab me with their stabbing, scratching