Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [82]
I go to Long Boy’s cottage, now deserted. Even the embers in the fire have grown cold. Anne Wycombe was right, for it is instantly apparent that the boy has taken things: the quilted cover from his trundle is missing, and when I open the larger of the trunks, I see that the woolen blankets are also gone. He has not touched his mother’s bedclothes, however, and I wonder at this. Perhaps he has not gone to find her after all.
I set about building a fire, piling kindling as high as it will go, for the house is deathly cold. Anne Wycombe has indeed been conscientious in her duties, for the tiny cottage is spotless. I consider going in search for the boy, but know not where to look, so I decide that there is little else to do but wait. I have not told my mother of his disappearance, believing she has plenty enough to worry her at the moment, and I am hopeful that he will return of his own accord. If nothing else, the cold or hunger may drive him home before the night is through. The fire blazes quickly and I draw a chair up to the hearth and take a roll out of my pocket, for I have eaten nothing since yesterday. A jug of ale lies on the table and I pour myself a mug. Next to it is the painter’s sketch of Long Boy and now that I am not consumed with anger, I can see that the boy was right, for the painter has caught his very essence. It is the eyes which define him: remote, uneasy, disturbed.
I do not know what motivates the painter—whether it is curiosity or some form of opportunism. Or perhaps he is in search of something different altogether, for it occurs to me that he is a man without a place. Like Dora he has left behind his people and his homeland and now surrounds himself with strangers, defined only by his talent. As I stare into the fire I hear footsteps on the threshold. The door pushes open slowly to reveal the painter standing there. He steps inside, and stands silently regarding me. There is a look of melancholy in his eyes which I have never seen before. He removes his hat and takes a few steps into the room, glancing toward the bare trundle in the corner.
“Where is the boy?” he asks.
“He has disappeared,” I answer.
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
His eyes drift downward to the sketch on the table.
“It is a good likeness,” I tell him.
“At least I have accomplished this much,” he says with a wan smile. I think of the others in his room, the ones of me. Are these also his accomplishments? The painter stares down at the sketch again.
“The boy was restless,” he says, looking up at me. “He told me that his mother ran away.”
“Maybe that is how he sees her death.”
“He said that she no longer wanted him,” says the painter.
“Perhaps all children feel this when their parents die,” he adds, turning away. I look at him: remember that he too was left an orphan at the same age.
“Did you?” I ask.
He considers this for a moment. “I felt my place was with them,” he says finally.
“And where is it now?” I ask.
“I do not know,” he says slowly, and for the first time I catch a glimpse of his uncertainty. He has done this deliberately, allowed me to see this, but I do not know why.
“Why did you come here?” I ask finally.
“To return these.” He removes the diary and the miniature from his pouch and holds them out to me, as if they are an offering of peace. I hesitate before accepting them, for suddenly I do not want the responsibility that they bring. The burden of it all seems too great: the boy’s disappearance, my mother’s incarceration, the desecration of Dora’s corpse. I finger the crimson diary.
“Did you read it?” I ask.
He nods. “I had to know if it was hers,” he says, his tone embarrassed.
“And?”
He shakes his head no. “It was written by her mother.”
I feel a stab of disappointment, as she slips once again from our grasp.
“What did you hope to find?” I ask.
“She left me with so many questions. I thought perhaps there’d be some explanation . . . but it was foolish of me.”
I open the book: examine its brittle yellowed