Page 98 of Memories of the Lost

Sage took her hand. “Will you share?”

“Yes.”

The woman had followed her into the alcove, and her face had gone white. “It’s you, isn’t it? Rosemary. You loved it here so much.”

“My name is Tillie,” she said, but there was a breaking, a sense of something coming, that tsunami pouring over the defenses she had built.

She remembered. Sinking down in a chair, she felt the breaking waves and could do nothing to stop it. All at once, the empty place in her memory filled to the brim and overflowed.

She remembered Joey, the cat, purring next to her, and her whole heart swelling with love as vast as the sky. She remembered sitting on a sofa with her mother, Sage on the other side, their hair still wet from their baths as Clare read a book in her lively voice, giving the animals all voices of their own. The mouse wife and fairies in the forest andhares and wolves and all the other beings who had made their way into her work.

The memories she thought might drown her simply washed through her, settling back into their places. Some thin, some bright. She saw Sage playing by a stream, eating across the table, playing dolls behind a chair somewhere.

She heard Sage crying out, “Rosemary, where are you?”

She took a breath. “I’m here,” she said. “I’m Tillie, but I am also Rosemary.”

The woman sank down next to her and took her hand. The grip was strong and cool, bracing. “Welcome home, child.”

From the back wandered a cat, a big cream-colored Siamese with crossed blue eyes. He meowed a welcome, too, and jumped in her lap as if he belonged there.

Tillie bent her head and kissed him, and even as she did, and claimed the old lost part of herself, she felt a burning longing for Arlette. She wanted to tell her mother the story of finding her other mother, of finding these cats, of discovering she had a place in the world that felt so very, very right.

Even if her mother had been the one to separate her from it.

The shopkeeper peered at her. “But where have you been all this time?”

Smelling the fur on the cat’s head, she said, “A woman stole me,” she said. “And took me to America.”

The woman was silent. “We always said it was as if you were stolen by fairies.”

Tillie nodded. In a way, she supposed it had been just like that. She thought of her mother, gardening so cheerfully, stirring a pot of soup, laughing in the way that she had with her hand on her chest, so tickled with herself.

She felt she should be angry with Arlette, but she couldn’t find that emotion amid the grief. She only missed her. She would always miss her.

And yet, it was good to be home, too. At last.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The family was gathered in the living room of Clare’s house when Tillie returned. It was only Clare, Levi, Sage, Paula, and all the animals, scattered around the room. A fire burned on the hearth.

Clare held out her hand. “Will you sit with us, Tillie?”

She felt Liam look at her, and she gave him a slight nod, then joined Clare and Sage on the sofa. Clare sat in the middle, Sage on the other side, their hands clasped together. When Tillie sat down, Clare continued to hold her palm up, and Tillie hesitated, then gave in. Clare had long white fingers and neatly shaped oval nails. They were Sage’s hands, and Tillie’s. That was a thing she’d never had before, seeing her traits in the body of another person. She felt both resistance and comfort in that recognition as the two long-divided parts of herself began to come together. A little wail somewhere deep cried her other mother’s name, and yet, she saw something in this mother’s eyes that felt real and true. Recognizable.

It had been such a long, long, strange day, after a long, long, strange week. She was tired to her bones, and had a great many things to think about, but she didn’t feel off-center, or lost, or any of the things that had undermined her. The memories that had returned were only tatters and bits, but they were like rocks, mooring her to this place, these people.

Clare held the hands of both of her daughters. “I know you must be very, very tired, Tillie,” she said. “I promise not to keep you long before we feed you and send you to sleep, but I have a little story to tell you, if you can bear it.”

Tillie nodded. For the first time, she let herself really look at Clare, at the sharp nose and dark hair. At her temple, the skin was thin enough to show the veins beneath.

“The Evelys have been a part of this village for centuries,” Clare said. “Some say since before William the Conqueror, though I have my doubts it has been that long. We’ve been farmers for the most part, ordinary village folk, and happy to be so. We were not complete here in this generation without you, and I just want to welcome you back into our fold. Maybe it will never feel quite like home, but I hope it will feel likeahome. We want you, and we are glad you’re found.”

An opening creaked through Tillie’s soul, and she saw how Clare had been in her paintings, over and over, through the years: an owl, a coyote, a bobcat. Her throat ached with the possibility, suddenly untenable, that she might never have realized that simple truth.

“We don’t expect you to love us right away, or come to terms with everything, but we are here for you. Take as long as you need.”

A tear spilled over her cheek, and Sage said, “Mum sandwich?”