14th November
Today I went to Groa’s shop to gather supplies for our journey to the tree. By Thora’s estimation, the hike will take about three hours each way. The village is carpeted in snow, partially melted by a storm that came in from the sea; I have been assured by Krystjan that the recent fall is but another clearing of the throat by Old Man Winter; when he truly settles himself over Hrafnsvik, I will know it.
Upon exiting the shop with my parcels, I could not help my gaze from straying to the farmhouse across the road. The curtains were drawn as usual, the sheep huddled in a corner of the field. Altogether the place had such an unwholesome air about it that it was hard to look away, dark smoke drifting sluggishly from the chimney like the ooze of an infected wound.
Mord was coming round the front of the house, and he gave me a wave before disappearing inside. I stared in astonishment at the side of his head, which was mottled with bruising, and returned to the shop to question Groa.
For once, the merriness dimmed in her pale eyes. “He was out rescuing his wife the other night,” she told me. “She nearly took a tumble into the sea. He pulled her back just in time.”
“I see,” I replied, and we left unsaid the oddness of a man sustaining such bruises in that scenario. Back at the cottage, I reported the news to Bambleby.
“Well, what did you expect?” He had absconded from his notes entirely and was seated by the fire rubbing Shadow’s ears. “The creature is clearly bent on driving both of them insane. I don’t know who the miserable wretch
imagines will care for its needs after its guardians have thrown themselves into the sea. They should kill it now and be done with it.”
“And kill their son in the process?”
“Their son may at this moment be suffering any number of torments. He may never be returned to them. We don’t know.”
He went back to Shadow’s ears while I fumed. I have not been able to convince him to care about Mord and Aslaug’s plight.
“It could be worse,” he said. “Mord and Aslaug are unlikely to fall prey to these snow ghouls when the weather turns. It seems that fate only threatens the lovesick and naïve, and I’ve no doubt they’ve been disabused of naïveté where love is concerned.”
He saw my face and gave one of his theatrical groans. “Tell them to be kind to it.”
This was the last thing I had expected him to say. “What?”
“They keep the changeling shut away in an attic. Spoiling the brats rotten is the only way to appease them.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Like you do with Poe. Really, Em, I thought you would have worked this out.”
I watched him. “And that’s what the parents of stolen children do in Ireland, is it?”
“The clever ones.” He rubbed his nose. “Just don’t ask me to pay my respects again, please. I can’t abide children, mortal or Folk.”
