Page 50 of Holly & Hemlock
I step aside to let them bicker.
Whitby hands Larkin tidy bundles of string lights, and he unwinds them, making Lane attach them to the tree while he adjusts them.
Whitby presses another ornament into my palm—this one blue, etched with silver lines like frost. Larkin is next; she gives him a faceted drop, clear as a tear. For Lane, she chooses the only wooden ornament: a tiny, whittled wolf with an eyepainted black. The choices are deliberate, but I do not try to parse the logic.
The next hour is spent in a dance of placement and adjustment, the three of us moving around the tree in a pattern both competitive and cooperative. Lane’s height means he does the top branches, and Larkin shadows him, offering advice that is half-mocking, half-sincere. I take the lower limbs, working slowly, threading the wire hooks with trembling care.
The tension is not gone, but it has changed flavor. If last night was the threat of a match to gasoline, today is the steady burn of a hearth. Larkin and Lane trade barbs, but there is affection buried in the violence, a rhythm to their rivalry that feels older than either of them. When our hands brush—once, twice, more times than I can admit—I flinch, but not from cold.
After fetching us mulled wine, Whitby watches, orchestrating in silence, her eyes tracking every motion. Sometimes she hands out ornaments; other times, she simply watches, arms folded, as if memorizing the choreography for later blackmail. At one point, I catch her smiling—not a full smile, but a crack in the mask, a flex at the mouth’s corner. It feels like a benediction.
Larkin has a talent for finding the tree’s weak points. “This one can’t support the weight,” he says, fingering a branch near the top. “You’ll split it.”
Lane ignores him, pressing the next ornament home with a surgeon’s patience. “If you’re so worried, why not do it yourself?”
Larkin glances at me, as if for permission, and then climbs the ladder Whitby has fetched from the closet. He ascends with a dancer’s confidence, hips loose, arms steady. He reaches the top and, for a moment, surveys the world from uphigh. He balances the star in his hand—a battered brass thing, dull with years—and for a second, I see the child he must have been, hungry for approval, desperate to put the finishing touch on something larger than himself.
Lane stands behind, one foot on the bottom rung. “Careful,” he says, but Larkin ignores him, reaching high to place the star.
When the ladder shifts, Larkin’s balance falters—not enough to fall, but enough to scare me. Lane catches him at the waist, one hand braced against Larkin’s hip, the other anchoring the ladder. Their eyes meet, and I feel the charge, the whole history between them compressed into a single, silent second.
Larkin rights himself, the star now perfectly placed. He climbs down, close enough that for a heartbeat, the two men are chest to chest, breaths mingling in the air. I wonder what would happen if I left the room—if the tension would ignite, or collapse under its own weight.
They do not look at me, but I know I am the axis they have chosen to revolve around, for whatever reason. And I can’t help but be grateful for it.
“Nora, why don’t you plug the lights in,” Lane says, finally. Larkin nods, and they both stand back.
I plug the lowest strand into the conveniently placed modern outlet, grateful the storm ended and we had electricity again.
The tree lights up in golden white light and everyone oohs and ahs.
Whitby claps once—soft, but the sound cuts the room in two. “Beautiful,” she says, and it is not a compliment, but a judgment.
We stand back to admire our work. The branches are a bit wild, but the glass ornaments catch the late-afternoon lightand multiply it, fracturing the world into a thousand, shifting pieces. In the largest orb, I see our reflection—Lane tall and stoic, Larkin sharp and luminous, Whitby a pale pillar at the edge. And in the middle, me—smudged and imperfect, but anchored, undeniable.
For the first time, I feel not like an intruder, but a participant in something ancient and necessary. I think of the house, how it consumes and remakes those who serve it. I think of Lane, Larkin, Whitby, and all the ghosts who live in these walls.
I think of myself, and for once, I don’t flinch from the image.
The four of us linger, watching as the sun sets and the ornaments change color, shifting from blue to red to gold. The house is silent, holding its breath.
ACT III
THE UNRAVELING
15
The Key and the Will
The sun finds me before anyone else does, spearing through the frost-latticed windows and pooling in bright, hard squares along the kitchen floor. The radiators haven’t woken yet, but the air is warm from the oven’s ghost heat and the tang of spent yeast. I am alone for once. Even Whitby is missing, unless she is camouflaged behind some new domestic duty.
The only sound is the slow scrape of a knife, my own hand cutting bread with a caution I wish I could extend to the rest of my life. The crust yields with a tiny groan. The inside is pale and forgiving, steam wisping out. I don’t wait to butter it before snagging a bite.
It is only when I reach for the butter knife a few minutes later that I notice it: not the everyday flatware, but a key. Brass, ornate, heavy in the palm. The handle is shaped like an owl’s head, the eyes glassed in black. I lift it from the tray and watch the morning sun catch the uneven tarnish, turning it briefly gold. It is so deliberate, so entirely itself, that I feel the small prickle at the back of my neck that is the house’s signature.
It is not mine, that much is certain. And I’m not sure why it would be given to me without explanation, except for something Whitby—or the house—wanted me to unlock. Hemlock was a strange place, filled with even stranger customs.
I turn it over in my hand, searching for some sign, some provenance. The teeth are thin, wickedly notched, meant for something with more substance than a closet or a jewelry box.
