The bow made a quick, soft sound. The deer leaped into the air and came down running, bounding uphill into the shelter of the scrub—all except the largest doe, who fell dead with Hester’s arrow in her heart and her thin legs kicking and kicking. Hester walked up the hill and pulled the arrow free, cleaning the point on a handful of dry grass before she replaced it in the quiver on her back. The blood was very bright in the sunlight. She dipped her finger in the wound and smeared some on her forehead, muttering her prayer to the Goddess of the Hunt so that the doe’s ghost would not come bothering her. Then she heaved the carcass onto her shoulder and started back down the hill to her boat.
Her fellow Vinelanders seldom hunted deer. They said it was because the fish and birds of the lake were meat enough, but Hester suspected it was because the deer’s pretty fur coats and big, dark eyes touched their soft hearts and spoiled their aim. Hester’s heart was not soft, and hunting was what she was best at. She enjoyed the stillness and solitude that she found in the morning woods, and sometimes she enjoyed being away from Wren.
Wistfully, Hester remembered the little laughing girl that Wren had once been, playing splish-splash on the lakeshore or snuggling on Hester’s lap while Hester sang to her. As Wren had looked lovingly up at her and run her chubby fingers over the old scar that split Hester’s face in half, Hester had thought that here at last was someone who could love her for what she was, and not care what she looked like. Because although Tom always said he didn’t care, Hester had never shaken off the faint fear that he must, deep down, want someone prettier than her.
But Wren had grown up, and there had come a day, when she was eight or nine, when she started to see Hester the same way everyone else did. She didn’t have to say anything; Hester knew that pitying, embarrassed look well enough, and she could sense Wren’s awkwardness when they were out together and met her friends. Her daughter was ashamed of her.
“It’s just a phase,” said Tom, when she complained of it to him. Tom adored Wren, and it seemed to Hester that he always took Wren’s side. “She’ll soon be over it. You know what children are like.”
But Hester didn’t know what children are like. Her own childhood had ended when she was very young, when her mother and the man she thought was her father had both been murdered by her real father, Thaddeus Valentine. She had no idea what it was like to be a normal girl. As Wren grew and became more willful, and her grandfather’s long, curved nose stuck out of her face like a knife pushed through a portrait, Hester found it harder and harder to be patient with her. Once or twice, guiltily, she had caught herself wishing that Wren had never been born and that it was just her and Tom again, the way it had been in the old days, on the bird roads.
When Wren awoke at last, the sun was high. Through her open window came the calls of the fishermen down at the mooring beach, the laughter of children, the steady thud of an axe as Dad chopped wood in the yard outside. There was still a faint taste of chocolate in her mouth. She lay for a moment, enjoying the thought that none of the people she could hear, nobody else in all of Vineland, knew the things she knew. Then she scrambled out of bed and ran to the bathroom to wash. Her reflection peered out at her from the speckled mirror above the sink: a long, narrow, clever face. She hated her beaky nose and the scattering of spots around her too-small mouth, but she liked her eyes: large, wide-set eyes, the irises deep gray. “Mariner’s eyes,” Dad had called them once, and even though Wren wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, she liked the sound of it. She tied back her coppery hair and remembered Gargle calling her pretty. She’d never thought herself pretty before, but she saw now that he was right.
Running downstairs, she found the kitchen empty, Mum’s shirts hanging white on the line outside the window. Mum was oddly vain about her clothes. She dressed like a man, in outfits she had taken from the abandoned shops on the Boreal Arcade, and she was fussy about keeping things washed and ironed and safe from moths, as if wearing good clothes would make people forget her horrible scarred ruin of a face. It was just another example of how sad she was, thought Wren, pouring herself a glass of milk from the jug in the cold store, smearing honey on one of yesterday’s oatcakes. It was all very well, but it made life difficult for Wren, having a mum who looked so weird. Tildy’s dad, old Mr. Smew, was only about three feet tall, but he was an Anchorage man through and through, so nobody really noticed his height anymore. Mum was different. She was unfriendly, so nobody ever forgot that she was hideous, and an outsider, and that sometimes made Wren feel like an outsider too.
Maybe that was why she felt so drawn to the Lost Boys. Maybe Gargle had seen the outsider in her, and that was what had made him confide in her.
She went out into the yard, eating the oatcake, careful not to get honey on Mum’s shirts. Dad was setting small logs one by one on the chopping block and cutting them in half with the wood axe. He had his old straw hat on, because his brown hair didn’t quite cover the top of his head anymore and his bald patch sometimes caught the sun. He stopped work when he saw Wren, putting one hand to his chest. Wren thought he looked as if he was glad of an excuse for a rest and wondered if his old wound was hurting him again, but all he said was, “So you’re up at last?”
“No, I’m just sleepwalking,” she said, kicking a few sticks of wood out of her way and sitting down beside him. She kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder. Bees buzzed around the hives at the end of the yard, and Wren sat and listened to them and wondered how to broach the subject of the Tin Book of Anchorage. Then she decided to ask him something else instead.
“Dad,” she said, “you remember the Lost Boys?”
Dad looked uneasy, as he always did when she asked him about the old days. He fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist, the broad red-gold wedding bracelet on which his initials were entwined with Mum’s. “Lost Boys,” he said. “Yes, I’m not likely to forget them…”
“I was wondering about them,” she said. “Were they very wicked?”
“Well, you know Caul,” said Dad. “He’s not wicked, is he?”
“He’s a bit weird.”
“Well, maybe, but he’s a good man. If you were in trouble, you could turn to Caul. It’s thanks to him we found this place, you know. If he hadn’t escaped from Grimsby and brought us Snori Ulvaeusson’s map…”
“Oh, I know that story,” said Wren. “Anyway, it’s not Caul I was wondering about. I was thinking of the others, back in Grimsby. They were pretty bad, weren’t they?”
Tom shook his head. “Their leader, Uncle, was a nasty bit of work. He made them do bad things. But I think the Lost Boys themselves were a mix of good and bad, just like you’d find anywhere. There was a little chap called Gargle, I remember. He’s the one who saved Caul when Uncle tried to kill him, and gave Caul the map to bring to us.”
“So he was as brave as Caul?”