Henry Perrin's Arc

Chapter 8 of 8

Henry sat at the kitchen table with the silver ring in his palm long after the light went orange at the windows. The cottage was quiet in a way it had not been in ten years. He had eaten nothing. He was still trying to decide whether to climb the stairs again when the knock came — three flat blows against the front door, hard enough to shake the ivy at the frame. Dahlia Wright stood on the step in the dusk. She did not wait to be invited in. "Where is he," she said. Not a question. Henry opened his mouth and she cut him off. "Alexander. Where is he. Violet went out to close the gate two hours ago. She didn't come back. Her basket's in the row. No sign of her." Henry felt the ring warm in his closed hand. He said Alexander was upstairs. Dahlia looked at him. "Then go get him." Henry climbed the stairs with Dahlia behind him. He knocked once and opened the door. The room was empty. The window stood open. The curtain moved in a slow, wrong way, as if something had just passed through it. On the sill lay a sprig of lavender, fresh, its stem cut clean. Henry set his hand on the sill and felt the wood cold. He turned. Dahlia was already looking at the sprig. "That's from my field," she said. "He was there today?" "No," Henry said. "Not today." Dahlia's mouth thinned. "Then he was there tonight." They went back down. Dahlia stopped in the doorway and faced him. "I've been kind about your boy," she said. "I've let you handle it. That's done. If Violet's hurt, I won't be asking you next time, I'll be coming with the others." Henry nodded. He said he would find Alexander. Dahlia studied him a long moment. She stepped off the stone and walked into the dark. Henry closed the door and stood with his back against it. The ring was still in his hand. He opened his fingers and looked at it. Then he shrugged on his jacket and got ready to go searching.