Page 96 of Wished

So. It wasn’t real.

For a week I’ve known it wasn’t real. Since I woke up. I only let myself hope for a moment. But this confirms it. There is no bottle buried next to a folly in the woods.

I must have heard of these ruins from Dorene, or in an article about Max, or ... I don’t know. Somewhere, my subconscious picked up this tidbit and put it in my dream.

I lean back on my heels. My jeans are soaked and covered in black dirt and moss streaks. My hands are stained brown, my nails dirty. I hold out my hands and stare at them.

“What are you doing?” I ask them. “What did you expect to find?”

I shove the dirt back into the hole and then pile the rocks back on top. They clink together like markers for a tomb. This is me burying any last glimmer of my misguided hope.

I glance behind me, back through the woods, thickly leafed out and darkened by the shade. It’s early evening and the shadows are growing longer, crisscrossing over the forest floor. I can just barely make out the stark gray lines and the cold stone of Max’s home. Soon the setting sun will hit the walls and turn it a warm gold, but until then, it’s lonely and gray in its solitude.

Max is back to being all alone.

Just like he has been for the past ten years.

I make a decision—I’m here, I may as well go all in. I stand and wipe my hands on my jeans, leaving dirt streaks on my thighs. There’s a line of sweat on my forehead, so I quickly rebraid my hair and pat it down.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to do this again—to talk to Max—so instead of thinking or second-guessing, I hurry through the woods. At the lawn, under the open sky, I feel exposed and small, like a mouse below a hawk, but I keep going.

The estate isn’t welcoming like it was when I saw it in my dream. There are no bright, blooming flowers, no gracefully curving beds, no glowing windows. It’s back to its stark, austere, isolated beauty.

What will you say?I ask myself, trying to think up the words to explain why I’m here.What will you say to him?

I knock on the door, flushing when I see how much dirt is still covering my hands. I put them behind my back, clasping them there.

Maybe I should go. I could run home, take a shower, put on a dress. Then come back.

But I know if I turn around now, I might not come back. Not ever. But I have to make sure. Because if there’s even a slim chance my wish was real, then I need to try. I promised.

But what will I say?

I’ll say ...

The tall wooden front door swings open. The hinges sigh, creaking as the door sweeps inward onto the marble tiles.

I stare, mouth open, eyes wide.

It’s Madame Blinken. The housekeeper from my dream. Except ... not.

She scowls at me, her eyes narrowing and her nose flaring. She’s just as neat and tidy as the last time I saw her, but she is not happy to see me.

“Is ... is Max here?” I ask. Then, more confidently, “I’m here to speak with Max.”

She sniffs and then looks me over, detailing every dirt smudge, every moss stain, and every drop of sweat and hair out of place.

“Monsieur Barone”—she emphasizes the “monsieur”—“is unavailable.”

“Unavailable or not here?” I ask, looking past her at the brightly lit marble entry. The chandelier is casting sparks over the floor, the lights are shining, and there’s a savory, herby smell coming from the kitchen.

Does that mean he’s home?

Madame Blinken sniffs again and begins to close the door.

“Wait!” I say, suddenly desperate. “Would you please tell him Anna Benoit is here?”

Madame Blinken stops, the door half-closed. When I say my name her eyes widen, and I know intuitively it isn’t because she’s happy to see me or because Max told her to let me in as soon as I arrived. Instead her grip tightens on the door and her knuckles turn white.

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