“They wanted her magic powers,” Jane adds shrewdly.
“Exactly. They wanted to capture her and bring her back to where she came from.”
“But there was a prince?” Jane assumes, as though this solves everything.
And I suppose, when you’re six years old, it does.
“Yes, there was a prince. And he was…” My voice trails off for a moment and I feel that subtle tingle that covers my skin every time I think of Zen. “Well, he helped her escape from the bad people. She loved him very much.”
I can tell right away that this was the correct answer. Jane smiles triumphantly. “So now she could be happy? Because she escaped?”
The expression on Jane’s sweet little face causes a splinter to stab into my chest. She looks as though the weight of her existence—everything she knows to be true—is riding on this very answer.
“She was,” I say cautiously. “However, because she was so different, she often felt…” I exhale, finding the truth in my breath. “Lonely. And scared. Like she didn’t belong anywhere. Like she wasn’t…” I pause again, glancing down at Lulu, her tiny handcrafted body tucked into Jane’s slender, pale arms. Her faded red lips, permanently drawn into a smile. Her blank button eyes stare back at me. Unblinking. Unfeeling.
“… human.”
The two syllables hang in the air like a puff of stale smoke, waiting for the wind to determine which way they will drift. How long they will stay.
When I look down at Jane again, her forehead is furrowed and I immediately fear that I’ve failed at my attempt to entertain her. “But she wasn’t an animal,” she argues, confusion soaked into her small voice.
“N-no,” I try to explain, stammering slightly, “I meant, she didn’t feel … real.”
Jane is pensive. She appears to be absorbing everything I said. Analyzing it. Deciding whether or not this qualifies as a satisfactory story.
“If she wasn’t real,” she finally says, “then she wouldn’t have been able to run away from the bad people. That was a good choice.”
My smile is strained. “I suppose it was.”
There’s a long silence in which neither one of us speaks or looks at the other. Finally, I feel a soft tug on the sleeve of my shirt. I glance down to see that Jane has ever so carefully peeled away the cuff to reveal the thin, black mark underneath.
She studies it for a moment. Then, with surprising boldness, she reaches out with one tiny finger—barely a twig—and touches it. Sweeps along the length of the line. Delicate. Like a baby mouse running across my skin. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I don’t say anything. I don’t try to move away. I just watch. And feel.
“She needs to hide really well.” Jane finally speaks, her voice quiet but steady. Unusually wise for her age.
She removes her hand, allowing the sleeve to fall back into place, concealing the inside of my left wrist once again. “So they can never ever find her.”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes liquid and sparkling.
My bottom lip starts to tremble. I bite down on it hard. Small droplets of blood trickle onto my tongue. I swallow them.
“Yes,” I say, trying to ignore the bitter metallic taste in my mouth. “She does.”
5
INSTINCTIVE
My favorite times of the day are early in the morning before everyone is awake, when I sometimes sit alone and watch the sunrise, and late at night. After dinner has been eaten, the dishes have been cleaned and put away, the children have been tucked into their beds, and Mr. and Mrs. Pattinson have retired to their room. That’s when Zen and I slip out the front door, tiptoe across the dark field, duck under the split-rail fence, and retreat into the woods.
It’s the one place where we can be alone. Where I no longer have to hide. Where I can be myself.
And where we can have total privacy.
Tonight, when we arrive in our usual clearing, Zen sets the lantern off to the side, bathing the shadowy forest in a gentle, warm light. He immediately gets to work preparing the space, pulling large armfuls of leaves, moss, and shrubbery from the surrounding area and arranging it on the cold dirt floor to create a soft surface. I wait near the trunk of a thick elm tree and watch him. Waiting for his cue.
Once he’s finished, he stands in the middle of the bed he just created and stares across the opening at me. “I want to try something new tonight,” he begins, his voice measured and careful.
“New?” I repeat, anxiety instantly creeping into my voice.
He obviously can hear it because he gives me one of his looks. His head lowers and tilts half an inch to the right. His dark eyes peer intensely into mine and his lips press together.