Henry Perrin's Arc

Chapter 7 of 8

The days thinned toward the festival, and Alexander's door stayed shut. Henry left food on the stairs. He listened at the wood and heard nothing but breathing, slow and wrong. The cottage felt colder. The ivy at the window tapped harder, like it wanted in. Henry began to find proof. A dead sparrow on the step. Fresh bones behind the basin, stacked small and neat like a child's game. The air in the hall thickened one night into a dark, coiling fog that slid under Alexander's door and would not answer prayer. Henry knelt and prayed anyway. The fog thinned. It did not leave. On the third morning Henry climbed the stairs while Alexander walked the fields. The room was tidy. The bed was made. On the pillow lay the silver ring, and beside it the silver chain Henry had hung at his throat as a boy. Cast off. Set down like shoes at a door. Henry picked up the warm silver and closed his hand around it. The boy had taken off his armor. The darkness had room now, and Henry had no way to call him back. Henry sat on the bed and understood, plainly, that he had lost his watch over Alexander. Whatever came next, he would not see it coming.