Unforgotten(18)

“Us?” I ask in surprise, dropping my spoon of porridge. It plunks onto the table and Mrs. Pattinson gives me a disapproving look. I hurry to fetch a cloth and wipe up the mess.

“Yes,” she says sternly, beating her fist into the dough. “You’ll take Blackthorn and the wagon. It’s only an hour’s ride. You’ll leave straight after breakfast and return for dinner. That should give you enough time to sell the lot of it.”

The way Mrs. Pattinson gives the order, with such finality in her tone, I know there’s no use in arguing.

“We can’t go to London,” I whisper hoarsely to Zen as soon as we’re outside the house, heading toward the barn.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I repeat, exasperated. “Because it’s a huge city. With people and inquiring eyes and suspicious glares. It’s far too risky!”

He shakes his head to dismiss my concern and lets out a small cough. He seems to be walking better now. Perhaps he did just need a good breakfast.

“It’ll be fun. Don’t worry, we’ll blend right in.”

“Maybe you will,” I counter. “But I’ve never been good at blending right in.” We reach the post where Mrs. Pattinson has tied up Blackthorn in preparation for our journey. He flinches when he sees me coming and I gesture vaguely at his reaction. “See? Even the stupid horse knows I don’t blend in!”

Zen stops and turns to me, taking both of my hands. “Shhh,” he coos. “It’ll be fine. Besides, we can’t stay cooped up here all the time. We can’t let fear keep us from living our lives. An occasional trip to London now and then won’t hurt. And besides, it’ll be good to have a change of scenery. Get your mind off things.”

I drop my gaze to the ground. I know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s referring to the nightmares. The ones he wants me to forget. I choose not to tell him about my experiment with the knife this morning.

“And it’ll be nice to do something together. Alone.” He tilts his head down to look into my eyes again, flashing me that irresistible half smile that I’ve fallen in love with over and over again. “Won’t it?”

I admit the idea of seeing something besides the walls of this house and that barn is tempting. Thrilling, even. But the hot itchy sensation that crawls over my skin tells me it’s not a good idea.

“We’ll be extra careful,” he assures me, dropping my hands. “Just don’t go bending any iron bars or lifting any oxen over your head.”

I have to giggle, despite the near-debilitating fear that’s coursing through my veins. “I can’t bend iron bars,” I begrudgingly remind him as I follow.

He slaps his forehead. “That’s right. I was confusing you with Superman.”

My forehead wrinkles. “Who?”

He chuckles. “Never mind.”

“Well, what about you?” I ask, giving him a sharp stare. His skin still looks extremely pale. “Are you feeling well enough to go?”

He gestures to his fully functioning arms and legs. “I feel great now. That’s some powerful porridge.”

Zen enters the barn and returns with Blackthorn’s harness, throwing it over the horse’s back. Blackthorn eyes me skeptically as Zen works to attach the harness to the cart.

I start loading the extra apples that Mrs. Pattinson has allotted into the back and then climb onto the bench. Blackthorn snorts in disapproval and stamps his foot. But Zen is quick to put him at ease, as he does everyone who seems to distrust me. He walks up to him, pats him gently on the face, and whispers in his ear, “Don’t worry, old man. She’s not that bad.”

I let out a huff. “Well, thanks.”

Zen smiles, grabs the reins, and hops up to sit beside me. He gives Blackthorn the signal to go and suddenly we’re off, trudging through the tall grass on the outskirts of the property, until we reach the dirt road that will take us into town.

I turn and watch the small farmhouse, where we’ve spent the past six months of our lives, get smaller and smaller behind us. Although I know it’s only my imagination, through the clip clop of Blackthorn’s hooves on the ground, the rumble of the wheels beneath us, and the hiss of the wind whizzing past my ears, I swear I hear it whispering goodbye.





9

STORMS



Throughout the hour-long drive, I steal quick glances at Zen from the corner of my eye, taking note of his slouched posture, sagging cheeks, and general air of fatigue. I ask him repeatedly how he’s feeling and every time he answers, quite snappishly, that he’s fine.

But he certainly doesn’t look fine. Every few minutes he has to cough and he’s been consistently wiping perspiration from his brow even though the weather is actually quite cool today.