He continues speaking, but all I can focus on is the lone crow mask dangling at the bottom of the rack.
Stars. It looks exactly like the onehewore…
Sweat collects at the back of my neck, and my vision swims. How can it still be this hard after so long? “I don’t need a mask,” I blurt, clutching the bottle of dye to my chest as I stumble for the door.
Outside, stinging autumn air floods my lungs, cooling my overheated skin. I mull over my choice the whole way home. When I finally reach our cottage, I’m no closer to a decision.
I consider climbing back through the window but figure my neighbor has probably realized I haven’t been in the bathing room this whole time, so I grip the frozen doorknob and ease the door open.
Widow Mae glowers at me from her chair. “Where’ve you been all this time? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I went for a walk.” I unhook my cloak, hanging it atop Eason’s spare coat.
Eason.
His large slippers sit next to mine by the bed we share. The wood he chopped is piled in the shed right outside. If not for him, this ramshackle cottage wouldn’t have those curtains or the small copper tub in the bathing room.
After all he has done for me, how can I leave him?
The answer is simple.
I can’t.
I will simply have to wait until next Samhain to return.
I tuck my hair dye into my pocket and cross to the sink to fill the kettle. The last time I was selfish, my life was ruined. Better to keep my feet on the ground where I cannot fall than let myself drift back into the clouds. “Would you like some tea?”
Mae collects her knitting from her lap. She must’ve been working the whole time I was gone. The scarf looks nearly finished. “A spot of tea would be lovely for these old bones.” The rocking chair creaks away the seconds as I add water and hang the kettle over the fireplace to boil.
With nothing better to do, I take my seat and collect Eason’s sock with a hole in the toe from the basket of items that need patched up. “On my walk, I saw some folks preparing for Samhain.”
Mae’s chair stops creaking. “You’ve your dates all mixed up. Samhain was last night.”
“No, Samhain is tonight.”
“You’re mistaken.”
I set my needle and thread aside. “I’m not mistaken.” The more she protests, the more unease fills my core. She is lying to me. Before I can ask why, she leans so close, she damn near falls out of her chair. Her nose wrinkles as she inhales deeply.
Is shesniffingme?
She is. She’s sniffing me. “What are you doing?”
Wordlessly, she leans against the chair’s high back and resumes rocking and knitting.
I repeat my question again, but she still doesn’t respond. “Mae!”
With a huff, Mae finally drops her needles. “I know about the drinking, dear. Your Eason told me all about how you struggle.”
I might struggle with guilt and grief, but, “I do not struggle with drink.”
“There’s no need to shout, Allette. There is no shame in admitting you need help—my first husband Leonard was the same. It’s why young Eason asks me to stay with you. To make sure you don’t fall prey to its call while he is away. Don’t you worry. We’ll dry you right out, and when that fine young man returns, you can give him the sons he so desperately desires.”
Eason hardly could’ve told her the truth about my wings, but to let this woman think I’m an alcoholic? He could’ve given her any other excuse, and yet he chose this one. “Is that why you tried to lie about Samhain? Because you’re afraid I’ll go on a bender?”
A nod. “Your Eason said it’s important that you do not know about the festival. On account of all the merrymaking in town,” she adds.
Bloody hell.