Page 24 of Her Wicker Guardian

My wedding ring disappeared into a fire, and whatever happened next gave me the man standing on the other side of my back wall. That should make me afraid to turn off the lights. Instead, knowing he’s out there eases some of the tension from my hand.

I look down at the phone again and don’t answer. After a moment, I slip it into my pocket.

The wicker man is outside. Trent isn’t.

I know which man I’m more afraid of.

Chapter Four

Wicker Man

The screen door closes after Rachel leaves the porch. Her footsteps cross the short stretch beside the cottage, then another door opens and closes. A moment later, I hear her moving inside. The rhythm grows quieter as she goes farther away.

I know the voice that belongs to those footsteps.

Rachel.

She touched her chest when she made the sound, then pointed toward herself again. Before I had eyes, I knew that voice.

I stand on the porch and listen until I can’t hear her anymore. The night keeps making sounds after she leaves. Insects call from the trees. Leaves move against one another beyond the screen. The night air cools around me.

The place Rachel prepared for me is behind me. Through the screen, I can see the yard and the darker trees beyond it.

The screen door is unlatched. I can leave when I want.

I lift one hand. Five narrow shapes extend from it, each made of woven pieces that slide over one another when I bend them. As I move them one at a time, the word comes.

Fingers.

I turn the hand over and study it.

Hand. Mine.

I press one fingertip into my other palm. Pressure moves through the living fibers in a widening path, one strand passing it to the next. When I press harder, more of me answers.

This is my body.

The gray cloth Rachel gave me is tied around my hips. I touch it, and the thin material gives beneath my fingers, so I ease my grip until it keeps its shape. It is softer than the fibers that make me and holds no warmth of its own, but where it rests against me it has begun to take mine.

Rachel showed me what to do with it. She stayed where she was, moved the cloth around her own waist, and waited until I reached for it. The tension in my arms eased while I tied it myself.

I look down at the gray fabric now.

Rachel showed. I chose.

The water bottle is light in my hand and soft enough to collapse if I hold it too tightly. When I drink, coolness spreads through the living fibers of my mouth and downward, sinking deeper until the dry pull inside them begins to ease.

She left the water here before I knew I needed it. Before I had a way to ask.

I turn toward the door and try her name. “Ra…”

I listen to it disappear into the night before trying again. “Ra…”

The second sound catches deep inside me and stops.

I put my palm where hers rested. A slow beat presses against it, quieter than it was when she touched me.

Deeper inside, beneath that beat, I feel a hard shape.