At Miriam’s house, the cab lurched to a stop in a quiet cul-de-sac. Willow paid the man—and, judging by the way his entire demeanor shifted, no doubt overtipped him.
“Thanks,” he said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. He gave her a gap-toothed smile. “Much appreciated. But hey,you sure this is where you want to be? Seems a little isolated, if you ask me.”
But she hadn’t asked him. And she found it funny that he was concerned for her welfare now—only after she’d added a twenty to the forty-five dollar fare. He’d pulled into this dim little street without comment. He hadn’t said a word until money had entered the picture.
How much was she supposed to tip a taxi driver, anyway? A thousand dollars wouldn’t last forever. Already, she was sixty-five dollars poorer. Could she ask for the money back?
Nope, because she was moving forward. No more second-guessing her decisions. No more wishing for a do-over.
Willow opened the rear door and unfolded herself from the backseat. “I’m good, thanks.” The driver shrugged and rumbled off.
The moment the cab turned the corner, darkness pressed in. There were no other cars on the street, no porch lights glowing welcome, no hum of televisions behind drawn curtains. Just a long curve of houses that all seemed to hold their breath. Willow stood on the sidewalk, her backpack heavy on her shoulders. Somewhere, a sprinkler hissed faintly. From the dark cloak of trees, cicadas buzzed.
She took a cautious step toward Miriam’s house, which was large, old, and deeply, thoroughly quiet. Willow didn’t know what she had expected—curtains twitching, perhaps, or a warm square of light glowing from a front window. Something to say,I’m here. I meant it. Come inside.
Instead: nothing.
She climbed the front steps. The porch creaked under her sandals. She raised a hand and knocked once. Then again, harder.Tap-tap-tap.
No answer.
Willow waited, shifting from foot to foot. She knocked again and called softly, “Miriam?”
Her voice disappeared into the stillness.
She pulled out the business card Miriam had given her and stared at the address, as if it might change under her gaze. No, she was in the right place. Miriam had said,Come anytime. Morning or night.Hadn’t she meant it?
Uncertainty spread through her. What if she’d misunderstood? What if the invitation had been... symbolic? The kind of thing people said to be polite but didn’t really mean?
Willow stepped back and peered toward the side windows. No lights. No shadows. No movement.
She tried again, a little louder. “Miriam?” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and added, “It’s me. Willow.”
Still nothing.
She swallowed hard. Her cheeks burned, though no one was there to see. She felt like a girl caught loitering where she didn’t belong, playing at escape when all she’d done was run headlong into another closed door.
She turned to go, blinking fast, then paused when something pale tugged at the corner of her vision. A shape, low to the ground, was caught in the hydrangea bush at the foot of the porch. Willow stepped down and crouched. A length of soft gray fabric was hooked on a branch, fluttering just slightly in the evening breeze.
It looked like Miriam’s shawl, the one she’d worn at the party. But why was it here? Had Miriam dropped it? Had it slid from her shoulders without her noticing?
Willow reached for it, wondering if the fabric would be as soft as she’d imagined it would be. The moment her fingertips met the fabric, a current surged through her. The air wavered. Her vision swam. She heard a faint silver chime that she knewwasn’t really there. In her mind, she saw the tarnished silver baby rattle. First the baby rattle, now the shawl?
Only, no, itwasn’ta shawl. The knowledge came to her from a place unknown, but she knew it to be true. What Willow saw in front of her was a soft gray blanket, and not just any blanket but a baby’s blanket. It had none of the adornments you’d expect to find on a baby’s blanket. No silk trim, no embroidered teddy bears, no nubbly marks from being sucked on and loved. Its elegance had made it possible for Miriam to wear it as a shawl, but it was a blanket, definitely, knitted with love for a baby.
Willow loosened the blanket from the hydrangea bush, taking care not to rip it. The moment she freed the fabric from the last clutching twig, a great rushing filled her head, and she staggered backward. Everything went fuzzy. She couldn’t think. The landscape of Miriam’s neighborhood faded, and Willow fell out of herself. That was what it felt like. Not backward or down, but sideways into the vast, flat space between breath and silence.
She saw a forest, but she wasn’t in the forest. She was God or an angel or a mote of dust, an onlooker who saw all but couldn’t be seen herself.
A young woman emerged from the forest and strode through the high grass of a meadow, a baby on her hip. She was Willow’s age or slightly older. Maybe twenty or twenty-one. There was a hard line to her mouth, and the set of her eyes said she’d stopped waiting for anyone to be kind. And she was beautiful, this woman. Not in the pretty pastel way of women like Willow’s mother, but with the flare and danger of lightning.
Willow knew exactly who the woman was:Wrenna. She knew the baby, too. The baby was Willow’s mother as a tiny little thing. Not Mercy but Lark, with rosy cheeks and a tumble of blonde curls.
Wrenna carried Lark into a clearing where the high grass had been flattened and tamped down. A quilt lay beneath a massivetree. The Stillwood Tree, so sacred that its name pulsed through Willow’s blood. Its roots pushed up through the ground like ribs. Its branches brushed the sky.
Wrenna knelt and placed Lark on the quilt that lay beneath the tree. Lark was old enough sit on her own. She bounced and clapped her little hands, and Wrenna’s face softened with a smile.
Then Wrenna straightened and turned, startled. A man waited at the tree line. Willow’s heart gave a sick twist. Him. The wolf in a pastor’s clothing. He was older than Wrenna, broad-shouldered, eyes too intent. Willow saw longing in his eyes—a possessive hunger she knew too well.
