Ethan Greywater's Arc

Chapter 12 of 17

Margaret stood at the open door, the silver comb in her hand. Behind Ethan, the swamp mist rolled past the sagging shape of the old house, its broken windows glowing yellow in the dark. He had brought her the pressed flowers. He had found the mornings. But now she had a question, and he could see she dreaded his answer. "Ask me," Ethan said. Margaret's light dimmed. "The night in the yard. You pushed me and I fell." Her voice cracked. "I need to know. Did you mean to save us? Or did you mean to be rid of me?" The question struck him like cold water. He opened his mouth and found nothing ready. For years Silas had buried this. He had the fact of her death. He did not have the feeling behind his own hands. If he guessed wrong, if he reached for the easy word, she would hear the hollowness again. She would turn away for good. He did not answer. Instead he turned and went back into the haunt. He went to the old house with the crooked eaves. He climbed through a broken window into the room where he had once lived. On the floor, under a fallen board, lay a folded paper. The ink had faded to gray, but he knew the hand. His own. A letter he had written her, long ago. He read it kneeling in the dust. He had written it the week they married. He had promised to stand between her and every harm. He remembered writing it now. He remembered meaning every word. The night in the yard came back with it, whole this time. The woman raising her hands to curse Sammy. His panic. Margaret running in to pull him clear. His arm swinging out to shield her, not strike her. The stone. The terrible wrong angle. He had been trying to protect her. His own letter proved the shape of his heart. Ethan carried the letter to the door. Margaret waited, half turned to leave. "I wrote this to you," he said. He held the faded page up to the light. "I swore I'd keep you from harm. That night I reached for you to pull you back. Not to push you down. My hand caught you wrong. I have never stopped being sorry." Margaret read the gray ink through the open door. Her hand rose to her mouth. "You were trying to shield me," she said. "Yes." She was quiet a long time. Then she stepped back from the threshold and held out her hand across the light. "Come through," she said. "I forgive you." Ethan reached for her. His fingers passed into the light. But the door did not pull him in. He stood with his hand in the glow, Margaret's fingers an inch from his, and nothing moved him forward. Her forgiveness was not enough. Something still held him to the haunt.