Charlie Morrison's Arc

Chapter 3 of 14

Charlie ducked through the low doorway and the cottage swallowed her whole. Inside was bigger than outside. The ceiling lifted to hold her. A long table ran down the center, set with cups no larger than acorns and one cup sized for her. At the far end, a figure sat in a high-backed chair of woven root. Not old the way a person is old. Old the way a hill is old. Fern hovered at Charlie's shoulder and went very still. Charlie's knees locked. This was not a friendly neighbor in the woods. This was a court. Her grandmother's warnings came back in pieces. Do not thank them. Do not promise. Do not sit before you are asked. She could not remember the rest. Her mouth went dry. One wrong word would end this, and Fern would have to walk her back through the barrier with nothing. Then she saw the book. It lay open on a side shelf, brown leather, rainbow butterflies stitched across the cover. Her grandmother's journal. She had last seen it on a quilt in a summer bedroom, being read aloud. The stories. The girl who curtsied wrong. The boy who said thank you and lost his name. The traveler who offered water first and was let stay. Not stories. Lessons. The figure in the chair lifted one hand a finger's width. An invitation. Charlie stayed standing. She reached to the pitcher on the table, poured a thin measure of water into the small cup nearest the host, and set it down without touching the rim. She stepped back. She did not speak. The room held its breath. Fern's glow steadied. "Sit," the figure said. The voice was low and even, like water under stone. Charlie sat. She kept her hands flat on the table. She did not thank them. She waited to be addressed. "You were taught," the figure said. "I was read to," Charlie said. "I am remembering." Something passed across the long face that might have been a smile. "Your grandmother sent water first, also. For sixty years. We accepted her at this table. We did not accept her past it." A pause. "You will be considered." Fern's wings gave a small, glad flick against Charlie's ear. "Considered by whom?" Charlie asked, and heard her voice hold. "By those not in this room." The figure folded long hands. "Come again at the next moon. Bring the book. Do not read ahead." Charlie understood she had been dismissed. She stood, stepped back three paces before turning, and followed Fern to the door. Outside, the clearing had gone dark blue. Fern landed on her wrist, light as a moth. "You did it," Fern whispered. "You did not fail." "I passed one room," Charlie said. She looked back at the cottage. "There are others."