You Let Me In - Camilla Bruce Page 0,8

eggshell between two fingers, pinching her nose lightly. I looked down. There was a bracelet of dead raspberry leaves, a ring made from deer spine, a necklace of frogs’ legs and hawthorn. It was the debris from these gifts that gave them away. My mother couldn’t stand clutter, and natural matter tends to leave a trail, especially in a very white room.

I kept silent, bit my lower lip. I knew it would do no good at all, telling them the truth. The older I got, the less patient my mother grew with Pepper-Man and his antics. Telling her that these were his gifts would only anger her more.

“We can buy some nice glass beads,” she said. “If you really want to make things, there are classes for that. You could learn embroidery, or knitting.”

Fabia bent down and looked in under the bed, her scrawny behind jutting out in the room, auburn hair bun bobbing. “Oh,” she uttered, pulling forth a gaggle of fresh finds: owls’ eyes, dried up and shriveled in a nest of roughly woven twigs. A crown made from pine needles and apple wood, a bird made from rowan and daisies.

“If you want to keep running around in the woods alone, you have to stop bringing these things home,” said Mother. “What do you want all these dead things for, anyway? It’s not pretty, Cassie. It’s repulsive.”

I didn’t disagree.

Fabia crossed herself as she tossed a pendant of claws and teeth onto the growing heap. Mother caught her in the act.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said curtly. “They were already dead when Cassie found them, weren’t they, Cassie?” I nodded. “She isn’t that mad,” Mother muttered, sending me a furious look.

They tore apart the bed next; fluffy pillows in lace casings, sheets and mattress, everything was thrown to the floor.

“Oh, Cassie, again?” Mother complained when she saw the rusty stains I so stealthily had tried to hide, first by scrubbing the mattress with a washcloth, then by turning it over. “I don’t get where this comes from, why won’t you tell me?” She was looking me over, searching my skin for scabs. I rubbed my neck, knowing very well that like Pepper-Man himself, she couldn’t see the damage done. I could, though. Every day in the mirror, I could see the traces of his love, etched onto my skin in deep punctures. The wounds were just as much part of me as the color of my hair, or the freckles on my nose—just there, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Fabia caught my mother’s eyes, motioned discreetly to her lower region.

“No, no, no,” Mother shook her head, “it’s far too early for that.”

Fabia gave me a lingering look and pulled a pair of yellow rubber gloves from the pocket of her apron, started filling the trash bag with gifts.

Mother stood before me, towering above me. “Is that all?” she asked in her sternest voice. “Talk to me,” she implored when I just stood there, wringing my hands in my skirt. “Why won’t you say something, Cassie?”

I shook my head, looked down at my toes.

“No excuses? No apologies?”

I kept shaking my head. Why should I have to apologize for what Pepper-Man did? I even felt a bit sorry for him, all his lovely gifts tossed and burned.

“Maybe your teacher is right,” Mother said in a quiet voice when Fabia left with the bag. “Maybe you ought to see a doctor—the special kind.” She made it sound like a threat. “I don’t know what to do with you.” Her hands were on her hips now, fingernails like claws on the slick navy fabric. “I give you everything a girl could want, a lovely room with lovely toys, a wardrobe filled with dresses, and what do I get in return? Dead frogs and brown leaves, a goddamn forest under your mattress—”

“I don’t want your stupid toys,” I told her, lifted my gaze and met hers. Suddenly I was furious, outraged at the unfairness of me being punished like that, all my things scattered and tossed, when he was the one who did it. He was the one who brought the gifts inside. He was the one who said to hide it.

“Well, I can see that,” said Mother. Even in her rage, her curls stayed all in place. “You would rather have eyes for marbles and rowan sticks for dolls.”

“They are pretty,” I muttered, eyes on the floor again.

“They are dirty and crude, and sometimes they rot.” She was referring to an