Lyla Brynn's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

The road wound through dark forest for three long days. Lyla held the reins while the old donkey plodded on. At night they slept in the wagon bed, wrapped in Agnes's blankets. They ate the bread and cheese until little was left. Few travelers passed them, and the trees pressed close on both sides. To fill the empty hours, Clara told stories. She invented knights, lost kings, and talking crows, her voice rising and falling until Henry laughed despite the cold. "You made that one up," Henry said, grinning. "I never make things up," Clara said, lifting her chin. "I remember them perfectly. That is a gift of the eldest." She snapped the reins and the donkey flicked an ear. On the third evening, the forest thinned. A tall stone church rose above the rooftops ahead, its spire sharp against the sky. Lyla sat up straight. She knew that spire. She had counted its bells every Sunday of her life. "That's ours," she whispered. "Clara, that's our church." Clara's hands tightened on the reins. "Faster," she said to the donkey. "Go on, you stubborn thing, faster." The wagon rattled over the cobblestones. Lamplight glowed in the windows of clustered homes. People they half knew turned to watch the ragged children roll past, but Lyla did not stop. She fixed her eyes on the hill beyond the town. The manor stood where it always had. Ivy climbed its stone walls, and roses trailed over the garden arch. Lyla's throat ached at the sight of it. Home. Mother would be inside. She would open the door and see the worn dress and know her at once. The donkey labored up the slope and stopped at the gate. Lyla jumped down before the wheels had settled. She ran up the path and pounded on the great front door. No one answered. She pounded again. Henry came to her side. Clara stood back, staring at the windows. Every one of them was dark. No smoke rose from the chimneys. The rose beds had grown wild and tangled, choked with weeds no gardener had touched in weeks. The door swung open under Lyla's fist. It was not locked. She stepped into the front hall. Dust lay thick on the floor. White sheets covered the chairs. A pile of old letters sat scattered by the door, unopened. "Mother?" Lyla called. Her voice echoed and died. "Mother, it's us. We came home." Nothing moved. Clara picked up one of the letters. Her face went pale as she read the name on it. "These aren't addressed to Mother," she said quietly. "They're from people asking where she's gone." Lyla pressed her hand flat against the wall. The house was empty. Her mother was not here. She had crossed a swamp and three days of hills to reach this door, and the one person she came for was gone. "She's not here," Lyla said. "But someone knows where she went. And we're going to find out."