Being a Barrow - A Sequel to Barrow's Boy

Anecdotes of the Anguished

      The night before she was meant to go back to school, Abigail sat by the window of her room, staring out at the sky. It was dark apart from the stars, the moon in a new phase that hid it from her view. Her hair had grown long enough now that it could be braided, and ran a finger along the braid, wrapping the ribbon around her finger once she reached the bottom of it. She'd been reading, but after reaching the melancholy end of the chapter, she'd opted to put her book down for the night.

     She turned at a soft knocking at her door, standing and padding across her rug to answer it. 

     "Hello, dear," her father said with a smile as Abigail opened the door. Standing in her nightgown, she looked up at her father expectantly. "May I come in for a moment?"

      Abigail opened her door wider, letting her father walk into her room, and closed the door behind him. Alexander did not come to her for no reason, she was well aware of that. It was how the Bennetts worked. To the point, no avoiding the facts. She knew that now and understood its benefits.

      "Before you go back to school, I want to tell you an honest story, Abigail," Alexander said, just proving her observations. He sat on the edge of her bed, creasing the sheets, and looked at his daughter expectantly. "Will you let me?"

      "Of course, Papa."

     Abigail sat next to her father, looking up at him. The man had a weariness to his face that she was not used to. No, he was typically like a marble statue, every line perfectly chiselled into place.

      "I'm not good at telling stories," the man confessed. "Not like you are. So you will have to forgive my lack of proficiency."

      "Consider yourself forgiven." Alexander smiled at his daughter's answer, looking at her affectionately. It warmed Abigail's chest.

      "When I was a boy, I used to be playmates with a neighbour. Ernest," Alexander began. Abi had never heard of this boy, but she said nothing. "We weren't anything alike; not in personality nor class. But, he lived close, and it was convenient."

     Abi had a sense that she already knew where this was going, but she said nothing. Perhaps whatever Alexander had to say would help to close the gaping would that she had opened in herself.

      "I did not notice the pattern at first. He was smart enough to start with little things. But, each time I would invite him into my home, something went missing," Alexander continued. "By the time that I had realized, he'd taken quite the collection. I confronted him one day, and he tried to deny it. But my parents got the police involved, and once they found our belongings, nobody could refuse the truth."

     Alexander grew quiet enough that Abi could hear the wind from outside her window. He wasn't looking at her now, just staring at the wall.

     "Do you think we were wrong to go to the police? Or was Ernest in the wrong?"

      "I don't know Ernest," Abigail tried to avoid the question, but her father shook his head.

     "You're a smart girl. Just consider what you know."

     Abi tried to picture her father as a boy, playing with the neighbour. It was a near-impossible task. 

      "Did you trust him?"

      "Yes."

      "And you gave him a chance to confess, yes?"

      "I did," Alexander confirmed. 

      "Then Ernest should not have betrayed your trust," Abigail settled on. "He had his chance, and he ruined it."

     Alexander tilted his head to the side, eyes trained on a painting hanging on Abigail's wall. It was one that she had created years ago. She remembered her father not being fond of it when she had originally put it up, but he'd been willing enough to let her dictate how she decorated her own room.