Page 13

One of the basket handles shifts.

Then the flame flashes white. A crack sounds near my feet, and the basket jumps hard enough to send me backward.

Another crack follows. One handle pulls itself free of the weave, not breaking but sliding loose as the narrow brown strands begin unmaking every crossing.

“Oh, shit.”

The basket collapses. Brown willow spreads across the tile, moving with purpose. The loose strands gather almost immediately, crossing and tightening over one another until two feet begin to take shape where the basket had been.

I back into the opposite counter. The weave rises.

Ankles become calves, then knees and thighs as more willow races upward from what remains on the floor. Hips form next, followed by a broad torso.

Shoulders spread wider than I expect. Arms take shape at either side, ending in hands whose fingers separate one by one.

There is no point pretending I’m still watching an object rearrange itself. A man is forming in my kitchen.

The last recognizable section of the basket disappears into him. The basket’s perpetually loose strip of trim whips upward and threads itself into the weave at his side.

I reach behind me and hold on to the counter. The flame in the sink is still burning white.

Above the forming shoulders, finer brown strands create a neck and head. His face comes last, the weave there tighter and more refined than the rest of him. Narrow willow crossings shape a strong jaw, cheekbones, nose, brow, and finally a mouth with contours that shouldn’t be possible with wicker.

Living green begins appearing through the brown weave, subtle along his arms and chest, as though new growth is threading itself through older willow. Then the flame goes out.

The panties are gone. There isn’t even ash left in the sink where they burned.

Everything stops. The refrigerator is against my back. I don’t remember moving that far, but the cold metal is solid behind me and I’m absurdly grateful for something in this kitchen behaving normally.

Smoke hangs faintly above the sink. The man standing between me and the counter smells nothing like smoke.

Fresh wood. Rain. Something green that reminds me of branches cut in spring.

He doesn’t move. Neither do I.

Ten minutes ago, the basket beside my sofa held yarn and an unfinished scarf. Now six feet of living wicker stands naked in my kitchen.

His eyes open, and for one startled moment I forget that the rest of him is woven. They’re deep amber, glossy and dimensional, with darker rings curling inward like grain in polished wood. The fine willow around them forms expressive lids, and I can tell the instant he focuses on me.

My breath stalls. The distance between us suddenly feels much smaller.

His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. He tries again, his tongue working awkwardly inside a mouth that has never spoken before. His woven brow draws tight.

The irritation is so unmistakable that a startled laugh escapes me. Of all the things I expected from a man who was a knitting basket several minutes ago, annoyance with his own tongue wasn’t high on the list. He tries once more.

“Oh…”

The word comes rough but recognizable. He works his mouth again.

“Good.”

I wait.

“You are… beautiful.”

The fact that a living Wicker Man is standing naked in my kitchen becomes less surprising than the fact that those are the first words he’s chosen to say to me.

“Oh.”