From one of his voluminous pockets he pulled a small wooden box about the length of Bronwyn’s hand and perhaps two inches high. Vaguely Celtic designs decorated the corners.
She took it. “Ed, that’s so sweet. Really.”
“It’s not the box, bonehead. Open it.”
Carefully Bronwyn lifted the lid and pulled the object from its cradle of cotton.
The figure was about three inches high, carved from a single piece of catalpa wood. It depicted a young woman playing a mandolin, standing on one foot as if dancing. From the figure’s back extended a large pair of curved, two-lobed wings, similar in shape to a butterfly’s.
The resemblance to Bronwyn was unmistakable. “Wow, Ed,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
“Only ’cause the subject is.”
She ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the wings. They were carved so thin that even slight pressure caused them to bend. She felt a sympathetic tug in her own shoulders. “It’s been a while since…”
“I figured. But you never lose it.”
She looked up at him. “I hope you’re right.”
He grinned and playfully yanked one loose strand of her hair. “I know I am.”
After Ed left, Bronwyn stared at the mailbag for a long time. A robin sang outside the window, encouraging her. At last she tentatively opened the card Ed handed her earlier.
Dear Private Hyatt, it began. The handwriting was clearly a child’s, much younger than Aiden. I hope you are getting well. We saw your rescue on TV and want you to know we are praying for you. You’re my hero. It was signed simply, Emma, with a backwards capital E.
A picture was included as well. It was a school photo of a pudgy little girl with lank brown hair put back in barrettes. An adult had written, Emma, age 6 on the back.
Bronwyn stared at it, trying to imagine the girl’s feelings as she wrote this. No doubt her whole class had done so as well; Major Maitland told her that schools all over the country were sending her get-well cards. But she could find no common ground. Whatever emotions left to her did not include this degree of empathy.
And yet a fragment of melody and a long-hazy lyric sprang to her mind:
And that was all.
She put the picture and card back in the envelope. Then she went back to bed. She placed Ed’s carving of the mandolin-playing fairy on her bedside table.
8
“Bronwyn,” her visitor said. The figure stood in the bedroom door, backlit by the hall light.
Bronwyn blinked, looked at the window, and saw it was now dark. The clock on the bedside table read 1:45 A.M. “The hell?” she said sleepily, dragging her leg up the bed until she could rest against the headboard. She’d been asleep over twelve hours.
“Bronwyn,” the voice said again.
I can’t deal with the haint yet, Bronwyn thought fearfully. She felt her immobility more than ever, and winced with each crushing heartbeat; for an instant she thought she might really be having a coronary, her body too weak to survive this level of terror.
Then the voice registered. “Bliss?”
“You knew I’d be coming,” Bliss Overbay said. “I’m going to turn on the light now.”
Bronwyn scrunched her eyes shut, but still saw the sudden illumination through her lids. She blinked into it and waited for her vision to adjust.
“You look awful,” Bliss said with a smile.
“You look exactly the same as you did when I left,” Bronwyn replied. And it was true: Bliss was still slender, broad shouldered, and straight backed. She wore her long jet-black hair in a single braid that fell down her back almost to her waist. Her dark face had deep smile lines bracketing her wide mouth, which made guessing her age difficult for outsiders; she could’ve been anywhere between twenty and fifty. Her eyes seemed light blue or green, and often actually twinkled like they were illuminated from within. She wore faded blue jeans and a sleeveless jersey that displayed the snake tattoo around her upper arm. There was something disconcerting about the inkwork; it was the only thing in her appearance that hinted that she might be more than just another backwoods girl.
Bliss closed the door, knelt beside the bed, and examined Bronwyn’s broken leg. As an emergency medical technician, she knew how to interpret the damage. “Wow. Broke the femur in three places?”
“Four. The last one was a hairline crack that didn’t show up on the X-rays until they’d already put this thing on. And my fibula was practically pulverized.”
“That is one messed-up leg,” Bliss agreed. “How’s your arm?”
“This?” She pushed up her T-shirt sleeve. The puckered hole on either side of her biceps was scabbed and red, but no longer required a bandage. “It’s nothing. The bullet went right through. Except for being sore, it’s good as new.”
Bliss tenderly brushed a strand of hair from the younger woman’s face. “And your head?”
“I get headaches sometimes. And the crack is still sore if I touch it, so I try not to touch it.”
“I meant the inside of it.”
Bronwyn paused, then shrugged. “I’ve been better.”
Bliss nodded. Then she smiled and said, “We’ll have these pins out of your leg in a week, you know.”
“The doctors said six.”
“And if they were looking after you, it might be six. But you’re home now.”
“I don’t feel like it,” Bronwyn said, and gazed out the window. Nothing moved in the night. Had the haint already come, been unable to rouse her, and departed? Chloe would be livid.
Bliss folded her arms on the edge of the bed and rested her chin on them. “So you’re having some problems. Other than all the extra holes.”
Bronwyn couldn’t look at her. “Yeah. Two big ones. One is a haint that Mom says wants to talk to me. If she came tonight, she didn’t knock loud enough. And the other…” Now those tears threatened again. “Bliss,” she said very quietly, “I can’t play.”
“Because your arm’s hurt?”
“No, because I can’t remember how.” And then the tears really did come, weeks of them silently bursting free and running down her cheeks. She felt her face contort with the sobs aching to follow, but she held them at bay. “It’s like someone deleted the file from my brain.”
Bliss leaned over and hugged her. “That’s awful,” she agreed. “But not permanent.”
“What if it is?” Bronwyn whimpered into Bliss’s hair. “What if I never remember?”
“Then you’ll learn it all over again.”
Bronwyn pulled away and wiped furiously at the tears. “I’m a little old to be starting over.”
“What choice do you really have? You have to play. You have to learn the song when your mother passes it to you. You only have brothers, there’s no other option.”
Something in her tone got through to Bronwyn. That sense of danger returned, stronger and more tangible. She remembered the bird pecking at the window. “Wait a minute, is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here representing the other First Daughters. Something’s come up that affects you, and us, and we need you with us.”
The rhythmic pain in her chest returned. “What?” Bronwyn asked slowly.
Bliss paused before speaking, allowing her words to accumulate the weight they would need. “Peggy Goins saw one of the chairs on her motel porch rocking with no wind. Mandalay Harris had a picture of her mom with Chloe that fell off the mantel. I dreamed of muddy water. And your mama saw the sin eater come out of the woods and stop at your door before moving on.”