Where The Heart Lives Read Online Free PDF Page A

and
in his eyes, a question. Uncertainty.
    “If I go, I won’t be back,”
Lucy said, speaking to them both, but looking at Barnabus. “I know it.”
    Knew it like the truth. Just as
with those visions of the day previous, she could feel inside her head the
future tumbling away into a dark cold place, and if she went with Mr. Wiseman,
that would be her fate. Something lonely and awful. Like having her wings cut
after a taste of flying.
    Miss Lindsay’s eyes flashed
golden, and this time Lucy was certain it was not her imagination. “You want to
stay here? You’re sure of it?”
    Lucy nodded, struggling with
her fear. She knew it was terrible— she was terrible—and her father, her father would think she was just like her mother— but she did not
care. She had to stay. Something would break inside her if she left this tiny
world within the forest—this dangerous forest—this little place with these
strange and wonderful people who made her felt safe and welcome. If her mother
had felt this way, all those years ago, then Lucy could forgive her. She
understood now, what could drive a woman to abandon all. She understood, and if
it was selfish, then so be it. She would be selfish, and happy.
    “Barnabus,” said Miss Lindsay
crisply, “take Lucy to the pond at the bottom of the hill. I’ll handle Wilbur. When
he’s gone, I’ll come fetch you both.”
    “I’m sorry,” Lucy said,
suddenly regretting the trouble she was causing the woman. “If you don’t want me -- ”
    “No.” Miss Lindsay brushed her
fingers across the girl’s forehead. “You are no trouble to me or this family. This
is your home.”
    And with that, she turned and
strode away toward the cemetery, where Mr. Wiseman was helping the mourners
unload the coffin. Barnabus tugged on Lucy’s hand. It took her a moment to
follow; she kept hearing those words, seeing those golden eyes, and felt inside
her a flush that could have been what Henry spoke of, that sense of running
away. The grand adventure. Making a new world from the old. She was not
married, but it felt the same: a union, in its own way.
    She and Barnabus crossed the
meadow, chased by crows. They climbed a gentle slope through scattered oaks,
and at the crest of the hill gazed down upon a body of still water, blue from
the sky and filled with lily pads and brown ducks. The forest nudged the
northern edge of the pond, but the sun chased back the shadows and the grass
was tall and green.
    A rough dock jutted from the
shore. Barnabus and Lucy sat at the end of it, careful of splinters, and
dangled their feet in the water. After a short time, he reached over and held
her hand.
    She liked that, and felt a stab
of fear that she might have to give it up. But then she remembered Miss
Lindsay’s calm strength and said, “They’re good people, aren’t they? Henry and
Miss Lindsay. But they’re not…like other folk. Regular, I mean.” She had been
about to say normal ,
but recalled Miss Lindsay’s feelings about that word.
    Barnabus nodded, squeezing her
hand. He did not appear at all perturbed by her question or the implication,
but rather, seemed comfortable with the truth: that Henry and Miss Lindsay were different,
inexplicably so, and that it was natural. Like the wind or the moon. She liked
that too.
    “How long have you lived here?”
Lucy asked him, jumping slightly as fish nibbled on her toes.
    He spread out his fingers. Five,
then two. Seven years.
    “And before that? Did you
really live in the forest?”
    Barnabus shrugged, gazing past
her at the dense tree line. His mouth moved, but not a sound emerged except the
whistle of his breath. He looked, for a moment, frustrated—and Lucy wondered
what it would be like to have no voice, to have a lifetime bottled up inside
her without words or sound. She reached out, unthinking, and touched his lips
with her fingers. She only meant to tell him it was all right, that he did not
need to explain, but his face was so close and his eyes