Page 29 of Red

Then why me? Why save someone this time? Just because it happened in closer physical proximity, so Jack couldn’t avoid the violence, the cruelty of it, this time?

Then I realized Amma was watching me, and I flushed and looked away. “What?”

“Nothing.” She nodded toward the stairs. “But we should—”

“Talk, yeah,” I finished for her. “You okay down here, Jack?”

“Yes. Go on and catch up. I’ll find you later.” He smiled at me over his shoulder and went to poke at the gargoyle.

As we emerged into the light, I said, more than a little wonder in my voice, “This is what you’ve been doing?”

“Mmm.” This was an affirmative, for her. “The more I dig, the more I find—shame I can’t find a magical backhoe.”

“Think Ma Greenwood could help?” I was joking… mostly.

“Yes. But there’d be a price.” She smiled. “I’m sure Jack paid one for his magic.”

“He guards the forest,” I said with a shrug. “Seems to love it.”

“Never leaves?”

“I think he explores. But it’s his safe place.” I glanced sideways at her. “Is it yours too?”

As she led me into the stone house, she said, “There’s something satisfying about being in a place where the magic I’ve always felt just beneath the surface of everything is so much clearer, so much more obvious. Makes me feel less crazy.”

I had to ask, “Will you stay?”

“No. Not forever.”

“Why not?” Seemed to me that she was always trying to get here, when she was home. And I could understand why now; she never could resist an archaeological mystery. One involving magic would just be unparalleled, for her.

Amma led me into a small, low-ceilinged kitchen with a fire in the hearth and a rocking chair in front of it. She sat in the chair and I pulled up a cushion on the floor, legs lotus-style. Then she said, “You, sweet boy. Of course it’s you.”

A shock of surprise, and I sat straighter. I was old enough to take care of myself, was my first thought. And then I remembered why I’d come looking for her in the first place, and realized that no. In some ways, I would never be old enough.

In most ways, adult humans had to be self-sufficient. But in others, we required connection. Without it, I would’ve floated away and disappeared a long time ago—and happily. But I still couldn’t resist saying, “You could’ve told me.”

“Would you have believed me?”

Of course not. I thought she was on some nerdy forest excavation with a bunch of other, younger nerds, getting dirt under her fingernails and oohing-and-aahing over shards of pottery and bone. I had to admit, “I probably would’ve tried to put you in a home.”

“Exactly.” With a little creak, she rocked back in her chair. The kitchen smelled vaguely dusty, as if it hadn’t been used in a century or more—and maybe it hadn’t, if it really had belonged to Jack’s predecessor. After a moment, Amma said, “You came for a reason.”

“Oh, well. Jack has my bag. I brought that Darjeeling you love. Just got delivered, so I thought you might like it for your birthday.”

She just looked at me and said, “Devan.”

I nodded. She was right. I should just say it. “The nightmares.”

“Ah,” she said, as if she’d expected as much.

I swallowed hard, wondering how to approach this. I couldn’t backtrack and change the subject to what she was doing; she’d preempted me on that one. So I had to tell her.

Which, really, meant I had to ask her. Did this happen? Is it true? Was I in the room when my father strangled my mother to death?

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the dream image: feet under the bed. I said, “It must’ve been really hard, to have to raise me after losing Mom like that.”

“No,” she said immediately. “I was so grateful to have you. Always grateful.”