The entire scene made Miles’s heart ache.
“Join us?” Mom asked hopefully, perched at a table that held a partially completed puzzle.
Miles shook his head. “I’m going for a walk.”
“It’s raining.”
“I won’t melt.”
True enough, but when he stepped down from the porch, he almost changed his mind. His light jacket, fine for Louisiana, didn’t keep him dry or stop the seeping chill. His sneakers weren’t appropriate for the weather either. They soaked through as soon as he stepped onto the grass, and soon after, the water seeped up the cuffs of his jeans.
Nevertheless, Miles walked around the corner of the house and cut across the unmown grassy incline that led to the woods. When he was little, he used to roll down that hill, arriving in a dizzy, laughing heap near the Castle’s foundation. Now he just trudged upward.
It wasn’t raining very hard, and as soon as he entered the woods, the evergreen branches kept him dry. Although he couldn’t see the path, his body remembered where it was, and every footfall on the soft loam felt familiar.
Almost immediately, the forest swallowed him. But maybe that was a poor choice of words. There was certainly nothing aggressive about it, nothing dangerous. It was more like he’d been welcomed so warmly that he became a part of the surroundings.
Miles walked for ten or fifteen minutes, nearly blind but trusting, listening to his muffled tread and the soft patter of water. Things rustled in the brush—things that undoubtedly saw Miles, even though they were invisible to him—but he felt no fear.
Finally, and according to no particular prompt, he halted. He was shivering, and his eyelids were so heavy that he was tempted to lie down. But instead he remained standing and inhaled the clean, pure scents of growing things, his mind drifting. If he did lie down, moss would creep over him and ferns would grow around him, and soon he’d be indistinguishable from the forest, as much a part of it as the trees themselves. That wouldn’t be so bad.
He’d actually closed his eyes and leaned a hand against the scratchy bark of a fir when he heard the sound. Just a single but deliberate little thud, as if whatever—or whoever—had made it wanted to get Miles’s attention. Miles opened his eyes but saw nothing except a few vague shapes. He felt something, however. Someone was watching him.
“Remy?” he whispered.
There was no response.
Miles spun around and, walking at a fast clip, returned to the Castle.
He went inside through one of the back doors and hurried up what had, long before his time, been the servants’ staircase. Unlike the grand stairway off the entry hall, this one was cramped and steep, with plain wood treads and unadorned walls. He didn’t meet anyone else.
In his room again, he thought he might like a bath in the huge clawfoot tub where he’d imagined himself a pirate when he was little. He even went into the ensuite bathroom and reached for the chrome faucet. But then he stopped. Moving seemingly of their own accord, his feet took him back into the bedroom and to the still-open door to the turret stairs. This time he climbed them.
He'd always enjoyed the way the treads creaked under his feet, as if singing him a song, and the smell of freshly cut wood that inexplicably lingered in the narrow space. But the stairway was nothing compared to the turret room. As a teen he’d spent hours and hours in there, drawing or gazing out at the view or sometimes simply turning things over in his head. It was at once a calming spot and an inspirational one, a place where he could experience solitude while imagining himself king of the world. And not a single relative ever joined him up there. It was his space alone. Well, except for—
Nope. His space.
Miles stood at one of the windows facing the woods. Between the darkness and the rain, he couldn’t see a thing; but he didn’t have to. He knew the view, how the grassy area ended and the trees climbed the hill in a sculpture of green, how birds soared high above before swooping down into the branches. He’d sketched and painted the landscape dozens of times, but he would have remembered it regardless. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a Thorsen by birth or blood—the forest was a part of him, and perhaps he was a part of it.
By all rights, the room should have been chilly. But Miles’s cousin Kirsten, who was two years older than him, called herself the Wizard of Wires. It wasn’t even an exaggeration, because she had an uncanny ability to make electrical things work. She’d been repairing and upgrading the Castle’s antiquated power grid since grade school. For Miles’s fifteenth birthday she’d given him a space heater that she claimed would turn on as soon as he entered his tower and would instantly make the space cozy, no matter the weather. And she’d been right. Now he was twice fifteen and then some, but Kirsten’s gift still worked perfectly.
“Miles.”
The whisper from behind him should have been startling, but it wasn’t. If he was honest, he’d expected it. Nonetheless, it made his heart speed. He didn’t turn around.
“Hello, Remy.”
Remy, likely standing at the top of the stairs, didn’t come any closer. For a long time they both remained silent, but Miles felt Remy’s gaze on his back, as heavy as if it were a physical thing pressing into him.
“You shouldn’t go into the woods alone at night.” Remy’s voice was still soft, still carried the faintest hint of a French accent. French-Canadian, actually—a distant cousin of the lilting Cajun and Creole Miles had enjoyed in New Orleans.
“I’m an adult,” Miles said.
“It’s dark.”
Miles snorted. “I know my way.”
“There are predators in the woods.”
“Nothing in there is going to hurt me.”
Remy stepped nearer, but hesitantly, perhaps afraid he might spook Miles. It sounded as if Remy’s feet were bare, as they usually were, and each footfall sent a shiver down Miles’s spine.
When Remy spoke again, he was close enough to touch. “Will you turn around so I can see you?”
“You can see my reflection.”
“All right, then. Turn around so you can see me.” A long pause. “Please.”
After a minute, during which he considered refusing, Miles sighed and shifted his feet. He hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights in the turret, but a little illumination crept up the stairway, adding to the bit of moonglow through the windows. Enough for Miles to see Remy standing in worn jeans and red flannel and, yes, barefoot. He was a little taller than Miles, but not as tall as a Thorsen. His face would be as unlined as always and his hair undoubtedly still the color of a raven’s wing, unmarred by a single strand of gray.
“Hello, Miles.”
“I like what you’ve done with the kitchen.”
The corner of Remy’s mouth twitched upward. “Yeah? You don’t think it’s strange for a guy who never uses it to be in charge of the renovation?”
“I don’t think you need to be a chef or an epicure to figure out how to stick in an oven and make everything look pretty.”
Remy’s hand started to rise; it hovered for a few seconds before dropping to his side. “How are you?”
“Okay.”
“You look tired.”
“Gee, thanks.” Miles crossed his arms and leaned back against the window frame. “I did just fly across the continent, you know. And ran the Thorsen gauntlet.”