Henry Perrin's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

After breakfast, Henry carried the cups to the basin. He stopped. Red drops streaked the white bowl. Fresh. Not his. He heard Alexander humming in the next room, soft and slow, like nothing was wrong. Henry turned the tap and watched the water run pink, then clear. He stepped outside to fetch wood. Behind the hedge, half-hidden by ivy, he saw it. A small heap of bones, picked clean, stacked too neatly to be the work of any fox. Tiny skulls faced outward. Henry's chest tightened. He looked at the cottage window. Alexander stood there in his pale sweater, silver bracelets catching the light, watching him with quiet blue eyes. "I was going to clean it up," Alexander said when Henry came back in. His voice faltered. "I just — I don't always remember. The wind moves things, sometimes." He trailed off and looked at his hands. Henry looked too. A thin cut crossed one knuckle. Henry took a breath. He smiled the smile he had practiced. "Foxes," he said gently. "Must have been foxes." Alexander's shoulders eased. Henry turned away and folded the dishcloth with steady hands. In that moment, he chose. He would not ask. Not yet. He would carry the knowing alone, and let the boy believe he had not seen.