“And you think that man was in your house?”
“I do,” I answer.
“And this Maggie St. James also?”
“Maybe.”
He brings the mug to his lips, but it’s empty. He shakes his head. “If those people were here in Pastoral, if they were in your house, we would know.” He looks up at me, unblinking, mouth pulled into a strange curve. And there, in the subtle twitch of his eyes, I can see that he’s trying to maintain control—of his temper, of me.
At the Mabon tree, the women are just finishing binding the tree with fabric, and their singing slows to a stop. They fold their arms around Alice now, protecting her—a show that they will always be with her, even as she enters this new marriage and her role as a wife. Then the women break apart, smiling, laughing at some private shared joke.
“Travis could have snuck into the house at night, slept in the sunroom, and we wouldn’t have known.”
“And the woman?”
I shake my head, turning the photograph away. “I don’t know—I’m not sure where she was. But I think they were both here, in Pastoral, and we need to find them, we can’t just—” My words break off. I sound manic, out of breath.
“You need to let it go,” he says gently, like a parent consoling a child who’s had a bad dream. Just go back to sleep and everything will be fine by morning. He clears his throat, then adds, “My eyes are sore from crying, my lungs are sore from coughing, my knees are sore from kneeling, and my heart is sore from believing. If you are sore and tired, then come into these woods and sleep.”
It’s a quote from Cooper, our founder, and I suspect Levi speaks it now as a reminder. He thinks I’ve forgotten why we’re here, or maybe he thinks I’ve forgotten who he is: our leader. I’ve pushed him too far, and I can see the strain now cut into his forehead.
He sets his empty mug in the grass at his feet, swaying as he rights himself. “It’s late,” he says finally, patting a hand on my shoulder, and nodding.
He takes a few steps forward, then staggers away along the edge of the trees so he won’t be seen and disappears into the dark.
I watch the place where he vanished, a thread of knowing weaving itself tighter and tighter until it feels like my mind will snap. It wasn’t what he said exactly, it’s the way his eyes cut slantwise over to me, the thick rasp of his breathing. He might be drunk, but it’s more than that.
Levi is lying.
* * *
I stand on the porch of Levi’s home, concealed in shadows, my shoulder pressed against the log exterior.
Peering through the front window, I watch Levi walk to the cabinet and drag out another bottle of whiskey. The dark, tawny liquid splashes onto the wood table as he fills a glass, holding it to his mouth, before knocking the whole thing back in one gulp. He sets the glass on the cabinet but doesn’t refill it.
The fireplace is lit in the living room, candles glowing throughout the house—one of the community members must have lit them earlier in the night so our leader and his bride could return home and not be forced to fumble around in the dark.
He walks to the fireplace and tosses something onto the flames. It looks like a small piece of wood, kindling maybe. And then, through the muffled barrier of the windows, I hear a sound, like a back door shutting. Levi turns his head, listening. For a moment there is only silence, and then footsteps.
“Levi?” a voice calls into the house.
I recognize the sharp upswing of her voice. It’s not Alice Weaver, come to look for her new husband.
It’s Bee.
Levi walks to the back of the house, where the kitchen faces the forest beyond. Bee’s voice is low and I can’t make out their words, but soon they appear again in the dim light of the living room, Bee’s hand in Levi’s, and he leads her up the stairs.
When they’re out of sight, I enter the house quietly and leave the door ajar behind me, to allow for a swift exit. At first, I don’t know what I’m doing, why I’m here—or what I’m hoping to find. Maybe some proof that Levi knows more than he’ll admit. So I walk into his office, keeping my footsteps light.
The interior of his office is filled with dark wood furniture, and the heavy cotton curtains are drawn closed. I’ve never spent much time in here—I’ve never had reason to—but now, I eye Levi’s mammoth desk: a thing that was here long before Pastoral was founded, the kind of solid antique desk that will last another hundred years, with thick wood legs and a smooth, lacquered top.