Healing - Book One

twelve

I did not see Enoch again all day. Instead, Emma and I were sent into the village to collect some fabrics from the seamstress. It was not too long of a walk, but the trek along the marsh-like meadows proved to be tricky in my patent pumps. When the two of us eventually arrived in the boutique we were presented with several sizeable rolls of textiles ranging from rich crimson velvets to simple white cottons. Needless to say, the extra weight and awkward shape of the rolls make the walk back even more tedious than the initial approach.

Once Emma and I returned, Miss Peregrine rewarded us with scones and cups of hot tea and gave the rolls to Bronwyn to carry up to her quarters in the attic - an action which the little girl completed with much less effort than us. Emma drank up her tea then hid herself away in the library to read. I did not see her again until dinner.

That evening I changed into a thin, floaty frock as a result of the evening air warming up. Miss Peregrine arranged for dinner to be held outside; each one of us took a chair into the garden before Bronwyn dragged the table through the lattice doors onto the groomed grass. All but one of us sat down, and Enoch's chair remained empty throughout the meal. We ate bread with butter, tomatoes, cold carrots and tiny crackers. Surprisingly, however plain I initially thought it was, I liked the taste very much.

This brings us to the present moment. I'm sitting up in bed, the sky is dark outside. The linen curtains float silently on the breeze entering through the open window. A noise downstairs awoke me - it was a such loud bang I'm surprised nobody else has gone to investigate. So, I take it upon myself to go downstairs. I shiver when my bare legs exit the content warmth of the blanket. Brushing my disarrayed curls from my face, I pad silently across the floorboards towards my bedroom door, which I had deliberately left ajar to let a little light in from the corridor.

Outside my bedroom, the hallway lights are now turned off.

"Perhaps Miss Peregrine switched them off." I murmur, talking myself out of becoming frightened.

After a second of letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, I shuffle down the hallway towards the stairs; I can already see a very dim light trickling up the walls. Quietly, I walk on the balls of my feet down each step, cringing at any tiny sounds I make for fear of being caught.

I reach the ground floor; a tiny slither of orange light creeps from a crack in the kitchen door. I hesitate to do anything - until I hear what sound like muffled sobs emerging from the direction of the kitchen. What sort of intruder would be sobbing?

The question I ask myself provides a little reassurance which pushes me to prod the door open a little more. Silently, it slips a few inches wider and, in a spur of confidence I open it up completely. My hand stays on the handle while I hover in the doorway, examining the events before me.

Enoch sits at the head on the kitchen table, bandaged hands covering the majority of his face. He is dressed in a dark green robe tied at his waist - a piece of paper lies crumpled on the wood. There's no doubt that the sobs came from him, they continue when I'm in the room.

He has not yet noticed my entry. Cautiously, I approach him, not wanting to make a sound. However, he must sense me because his pale face suddenly escapes the safety of his palms. His skin is no longer flawlessly porcelain, more blotchy and tear-streaked. His brow furrows as he slams his hands on the table.

"Go away." He hisses - his voice is noticeably wobbly.

"No. Not unless you tell me what's going on." I say forcefully. His lips press together stubbornly. "Enoch, I will not say a word if you don't want me to. I promise." His eyes follow me as I pull out the chair to his right and sit down steadily. "We can talk through it. It might make you feel better-"

"Nothing can make me feel better. Nothing." He suddenly snaps, I jump a little at how sudden his voice arrives. Enoch obviously notices my reaction and, a little shockingly, looks as if he feels guilt. His gaze retreats into the detailing of the wood quickly, desperate not to meet my eyes.

I don't say anything more. Instead, I wait, knowing that eventually he'll either tell me to go away again or perhaps let slip what's upsetting him so. Sure enough, I soon hear an almost inaudible murmur seeping through his burnt fingers, reminiscent of a frightened child.

"There were four of us back home. Me, mother and father, and my younger sister Fenella. She was born when I was five years old - so twelve this year. Loved that little thing to pieces, she was the one that cheered me up when I was low." Enoch takes a deep breath in and wipes a tear from his eye. I think I already know where this is going, but I let him finish for the sake of letting him vent his emotions for once. "The letter I got today - I didn't want to open it because I don't want to hear what my parents have to say, it's all bollocks to me now. But for once I'm glad I opened it, otherwise I would have been in the dark for even longer. Anyways, they'd written to tell me that...that.." More tears seep from the Scottish boy's tear ducts as he stammers our his words. "Fenella passed on - she'd gotten ill and... and they never really knew what it was."

His voice cracks, and my heart breaks for him. I let my hand slide across the table and gently touch the bandage-less fingertips of his right hand sympathetically. It seemingly takes him a little by surprise, but the cold, miserable pessimist who just lost his beloved little sister lets the tiniest smile creep across his lips. I feel my heart become warm at the fact that maybe, just maybe, I've gotten through to him.

I'm so immersed in my minuscule achievement that I don't immediately notice Enoch gasp and snatch his hand away.

"What? What happened?" I ask, worried I'd done something wrong.

"It stung." He says airily, examining his blistered fingers. Realisation rushes through me.

"It's healing. Come here." I retake hold of his right wrist and slowly peel away the bandage. I hear air rush through his teeth as he withholds a cry of agony - however his cries would have been with good reason. Patches of his skin come away with the material - my nose wrinkles with disgust at the gruesome sight. Gently, I put the discoloured rag to one side and sandwich his palm with both of my hands.

"It will sting a little bit but, I promise you, they will be so much better afterwards." With those words, I feel a much stronger buzz pulsate through my hand and, sure enough, his hand also pulsates in time. Why did I not do this in the first place, I ask myself.

After a few more seconds, I release Enoch's hand. He looks at the unscathed skin on his hand in somewhat amazement. While he's distracted, I repeat the process on his other hand and, soon, his hands are as good as new.

Silence engulfs us. Unsure of whether to comfort him in his grief or to leave him in peace, I hang my head and unhurriedly ascend from my seat.

"You're going?" He asks suddenly. I seem to have drawn his attention from his healed palms.

"Yes, I'm getting tired again. And, um, I really am sorry. About your sister. Truly." I clasp my hands at my abdomen as I turn to go.

"Thank you, Violet."

Any time before this night, the encounter would have felt odd to me. However, whether it is due to his sadness of perhaps even just our mutual fatigue from lack of sleep, it was honestly the most pleasant conversation we have shared. Whether we will be amicable in the morning or not is another discussion entirely.