Page 78 of Enchanted Village

She couldn’t shake it, the feeling of growing unease. She got ready for bed but knew her nerves were shot. She made a sleep tonic, some cranberry juice mixed with honey and a few other things, added essence of tusselkin and a dash of dried ulderberry dust for good measure. She sipped, letting the coolness and syrupiness of the liquid slip down her throat.

However, even with the drink, her anxiety remained a constant thrum. It beat at her heart, a bird in a cage, hammering against her. It was like knowing you’ve forgotten something but never being able to settle on what. She worried her lip and looked outside, finding the night dark and starless.

At once, there was a pounding that made her jump. Reflexively, she lifted her hands, which sent the glass hurtling to the floor so that it shattered and dark-red liquid splashed onto her pajamas and across the floor.

“Shit,” Margaret said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Bernie must’ve heard the pounding, for there she was, a dustpan and small broom in her mouth. She dropped down beside Margaret, setting down the dustpan as she swept the broken glass up with the broom in her teeth.

“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, jolting again as the pounding continued. Bernie’s amber eyes blinked at her. She set down the broom before she flew to the windows, peering through them. She huffed at whoever it was who was still pounding, zoomed back to Margaret, and returned to the window, tapping it frantically with her tail.

Margaret avoided the area with the glass, carefully hopped with her bare feet just in case. She hurried to the door, unlocked it, and opened it.

At the sight of Silas, her heart swelled, and all the anxiety left her like air being released from a balloon. Silas was here. Silas would make everything better. She nearly threw her arms around him, ready to tell him everything that had happened that night—

And then she saw his face.

A look of horror was etched into every corner of his expression. There were circles under his eyes suggesting he’d had as sleepless a night as she had, and his hair was wild, as if he’d been running his hand through it again and again. There was something else there, too, something that unsettled Margaret.

Fear? No, not that. Not exactly. But still, she opened the door and let him inside.

“Silas,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

For someone who had lost someone to sudden and terrible grief, these were the last two questions she ever wanted to ask another person. Grief ran to the worst possible places, assumed that death was around every corner. Margaret held her breath now, worried it was the worst again.

“Wyatt,” Silas said. “I—”

“What happened?” Margaret asked. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Silas said, and something in his expression darkened. “He’s . . . well, he hasn’t been fully honest with me, Margaret. With either of us. And I . . . I made a terrible mistake earlier. I don’t know if I’m too late.”

Nothing he was saying was making any sense. All of it had her anxieties ratcheting up to the worst possible level. Her hands were shaking, and she backed away from him.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “What’re you talking about?”

“Margaret,” he said. “Wyatt lied about being bullied. At least, I think he lied. This is all just a theory right now, but I’m worried.”

“Worried about what?”

He was dancing around her questions, not telling her the most important information. What was he hiding? And why wouldn’t he just tell her the truth?

“Silas,” she said, her voice a warning. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Silas couldn’t look her in the eye, and it was that detail that made her realize what other emotion she’d seen in him when he walked in.

Guilt.

Shame.

“He followed me into the garden,” he said. “I went in there to get something to make him hot chocolate because he told me the other kids had sent him some cursed letter or something. But really—”

“You led him into the garden?” Margaret asked, no longer vibrating with anxiety but with pure, unfettered horror and rage. “My grandmother’s garden?”

“He followed me,” Silas said, stepping toward her, but she moved back from him. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

“What did he do?” Margaret asked. “Silas, what did he do?”

“I don’t know,” Silas said, his voice a rough, strangled rasp of his usual deep, warm tone. “Nothing while he was with me. But I went to find out who his father is, to call him in the morning. And, Margaret . . .”