Hey, her brother says, and stops walking. I just figured out why you do what you do, Rachel. All that sleeping outside. You were exposed.
In the screened hide, she scans the pen, locates them, and hands Lawrence a pair of binoculars.
Behind the big tree trunk. Just left of it.
He takes the glasses and adjusts the focus, moves them away from his face, and then brings them back to the bridge of his nose. He is unaccustomed, she can tell.
Can’t see anything except ferns and bushes, he says.
It might help to scan quadrants, she suggests. Think of a grid.
Right.
He continues to search. She wonders if this is the first time he will have seen one. Even with all the zoos and parks of the modern age, most people do not come into contact. Setterah Keep had closed by the time Lawrence was old enough to be taken, the animals donated to other centres or destroyed. She suddenly hopes it is the case — she would like to be the one to show him. He adjusts the focus again. They are well camouflaged, but he’ll find one, if he’s patient. Or they’ll move and make it easier. She remembers again the mystic at the 500 Nations powwow, asking her for some kind of spiritual response to her first sighting, her blunt dismissal. After, Kyle had told her he’d gone through the weyekin ritual at the age of twelve — about the fasting and fireless nights, the alteration of mind, and the idea that attributes of the gained spirit would be lent to a person for life. It was unclear whether he subscribed or not. If Lawrence enjoys seeing them, if he is moved or simply appreciative, that will be enough for her.
He peers through the glasses. He tells her he can see an ear, twitching in the thistles and fronds; he thinks it’s an ear. They are lying down, almost hidden in the tangle of undergrowth.
Bingo.
Rachel holds her own binoculars steady. They are in the shade, close to each other, keeping cool. A cloud of gnats hovers above them, and their ears flick now and then. After a few minutes, Ra stands and shakes off, expelling the dirt and flies, his ears flapping. He gazes at the hide.
Wow! Incredible! He’s looking right at me. Am I talking too loud?
No. You could say nothing, he’d still know where you are. They’re getting too used to us, which is a bit of a problem.
Ra sniffs the air, his long nose tipped up, the black, leathered nostrils flaring. He yawns and drops back down to the warm dusty earth, in plain view, as if doing them a favour by exposing his great lean body. He has given up scouting for exits and digging. The hot weather is making him doggish, as are the fresh carcasses being dumped at various places in the enclosure each week. Now he slumps to the side, rolling in the grass and exposing his underbelly. They will have to start implementing some scare tactics, prevent the pair from becoming too used to hotel life and human stewards.
They spend half an hour at the wolfery, watching. Lawrence is fascinated, asks when they might mate. The following winter, after release, she tells him. On the way out, they bump into Huib and Sylvia. It feels odd, introducing a member of her family to colleagues; she has never done so before. She stumbles and says half-brother, which is an unnecessary distinction, but no one seems to notice. They chat pleasantly for a moment on the wooded path, in dappled sunlight. It amazes her, the ease with which everyone can get along, as if it is the most natural thing in the world; perhaps it is. Sylvia mentions law school, and Lawrence wishes her luck.
I’m not sure about it any more, she confesses. I’m enjoying working here with Rachel too much.
Lawrence glances admiringly at his sister. The feeling of companionability is nice, she admits, though the compliment is unwarranted. Sylvia has been undertaking the menial work of any volunteer, albeit enthusiastically.
We’re going to the pub for lunch, if you want to come along, she says to the others.
It is the weekend. The project requires daily work, but there is room for play, and the staff members have yet to socialise together without Thomas Pennington being present, hosting like a king.
Maybe we’ll join you for a drink later, Huib says.
OK. Has Alexander been down today?
First thing. He charted and then had to go. He said to say hi.
They seem nice, Lawrence says as they walk on to the pub. That was the Earl’s daughter, was it?
Yes.
She seems normal. No pearls and frills.
I wouldn’t quite go that far. But she is doing well.
Outside the Horse and Farrier, they pass Michael Stott’s utility vehicle — the small world of Annerdale. The gamekeeper greets them through the open window of the truck.
How do, Mrs Caine.
He seems less sullen than usual, perhaps because Rachel is with a man, perhaps because she is pregnant — the news is known on the estate now — and he assumes she might leave the project. A sleek, brindled lurcher pants on the passenger seat next to him, its pink tongue spooning out, brown bandit patches over each eye. She has yet to discuss the deer population with him, and a possible cull, but she does not want the mood of the day spoilt with a terse exchange. She nods hello, and follows Lawrence into the bar. He turns to her with a smirk.
Orange juice?
She points at the Guinness pump.
No, I’ll have a half.
Of stout?
Binny had stout every day when she was pregnant with you, she tells her brother. She said the doctor told her to — something about iron deficiency. It might just have been an excuse.
Well, I turned out OK, he says.
Anyway, I’ve been reading the studies. The latest evidence is alcohol in moderation is fine. Caffeine and alcohol, yes, smoking and class A drugs, no.
Right-o, he says, grinning. This is a nice pub. I’m going to try something local.
He orders a pint of Helvellyn Gold. They sit at a table by the window with menus and their drinks. Now she has stopped walking, Rachel can feel the baby moving — a sensation somewhere between tender thumping and flapping, a sudden burst under the skin. Nothing is as she anticipated. There are moments she feels genuinely joyful, irrationally so, and other times the decision to go ahead seems ludicrous, a madness. But the screening results came back good. The second scan was clear — no anomalies, the baby is developing well, heart chambers, brain, spine. She glances at her brother, who is looking out of the pub window at the kempt village green, sipping his pint. He is decent and kind, though under the surface he often seems conflicted, true parts of himself hidden away. But then, is she not also reticent, giving herself over only gradually, if at all? It would be good to have him as a friend.
I have thought about it, she says. I have thought maybe I’ll be a hopeless mum. Like her.
Lawrence turns back, barely missing a beat.
No, he says, firmly. No, Rachel. You’ll be brilliant. I know you will.
He looks her squarely in the eye.
You’ll be a brilliant mum, he repeats.
It is an irrefutable assertion. He does not know her, any more than she knows him. Life divided them early, made them strangers. How can he know anything so certain from the handful of times they have met? But it is not hysterical optimism or crazed fantasy. He means to believe and so he believes. Perhaps it is survivalism, she thinks, the method he used to get away from the intolerable reign of Binny, still a teenager, vulnerable, only half made. He could so easily have fucked it all up — school, a profession, his love life. But he didn’t. He left, and he prospered. If he were the elder, if she had been less autonomous, less isolationist, he probably would have tried to take her with him. Whatever demons he carries, he also succeeds, she thinks. For a moment she feels almost ashamed, and humbled by his generosity. It is she who should express admiration.