Page 55 of Clever Little Thing

A dark shape prowled by the railing—no, it was the fallen treeshe played on. “Stella!” I ran twice around the pond, screaming her name. She had to be close by. She wouldn’t just wander off.

I called Pete. My face was so numb from the cold I could barely form words.

“Jesus Christ, Charlotte! How could you lose her? What were you doing in the park in the dark—wait, never mind. I’m on my way.”

The band around my midriff pulled so tight I hunched over, panting. The house lights receded, and I wasn’t in a London park anymore. I was in a black wilderness with one or two dots of light on the far horizon, other people who had firewood and shelter, but I didn’t. I was so cold. I was cold at my very core.

The pain came again, a squeezing that intensified until I clutched the railings and then sank to the ground. Someone hurried past, and I wanted to stop him, ask him for help, but it hurt too much to speak. Seeing that I was in distress, he politely left me to my private torment.

I staggered around the lake one more time, tears and snot streaming. I couldn’t feel my fingers. It felt like a giant pair of scissors had snipped off the tips. And I deserved it. I’d give my fingertips to have her back. I’d give my unborn child.

Then my phone pinged:She’s here.

•••

Pete opened the door as I was fumbling with my key. “She came home by herself. Luckily, I hadn’t left to come find you yet. What the hell happened? How could you let her out of your sight?”

“Oh my god. Is she OK?”

“She’s a little chilled, but she’s fine. She’s upstairs.” But his face was grim. I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror, face pinched with cold and smeared with mud, leaves in my hair.

“I need to see her,” I said. But Pete was pointing at the empty bowl and wineglass I’d left on the dining table. “Hold on. Did you give herwineto drink?”

I folded my arms. “That’s mine.” There was no excuse for giving alcohol to an eight-year-old apart from the one thing he wouldn’t believe.

“And how did you get separated? What were you even doing in the playground after dark?”

“Blank—I mean, Stella wanted to go.” I thought quickly. “We were playing a game, and then she disappeared. We lost each other.”

“Well, thank god she was smart enough to find her way home on her own.”

“Is she in her room?”

“In the bath, trying to warm up. I offered to sit with her, but she wanted to be alone. Maybe she’s getting to the age where she feels more self-conscious about her body.”

“I’m going up there.” I had to find out if Blanka was satisfied with my punishment. I rushed into Stella’s bathroom. She was stretched full-length in the bath, her face underwater. The surface of the water was a smooth sheet, so she had to have been down there for some time. It was like she lay inside a glass coffin.

I screamed and lunged for her, and she sat up and blinked, water streaming from her hair. I dragged her out of the bath, my clothes getting soaked.

I pressed her to me while I tried to stop myself from shaking. Ipulled back to look at her face. “Why did you do that? I thought you’d drowned! Are you trying to scare me?”

Pete burst in. “What’s going on in here?”

“I was upset,” I said carefully. “Stella was completely underwater. That’s not safe, sweetheart.”

“She was practicing holding her breath,” Pete said. “Like her swim teacher told her to. Jesus.” He handed her a towel.

My teeth chattered. Blanka was sending me a message: her patience was running out. She wasn’t going to drown Stella—not yet—but she wanted to show me that she could. She wasn’t here to listen to my apology and watch me hold my nose to a cross. She wanted something else, and I’d better figure it out fast. It was just so hard when she wouldn’t speak. But there was one place where she expressed herself in words. I’d been wrong to let it go before.

“If you won’t talk to me, let me read your diary,” I murmured to her. Her dark gaze held mine.

•••

Pete brought me a tray in the bedroom: a cup of tea, a small pitcher of heated milk with a cinnamon stick, and a curl of lemon peel:té de California, we called this. Long ago, on our honeymoon in Spain, a café had served me tea this way, and I’d loved it so much that Pete insisted that I have it that way in every café that we went to after that, always leaving a generous tip.

But despite the gesture, I felt that something was different—perhaps the way his beard hid his face. “I’m not angry,” he said. “I’m just worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, although my teeth still chattered. I leaned alittle closer to him and realized what was different. Gone was the scent of citrus and freshly sharpened pencils. He smelled damp and earthy, the secretive smell of mycelium.

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