Ivy of Our Hearts

Fourteen

In my mind, I saw him, not as a human, but as a monster with the beak and black feathered wings of a crow. But even monsters could be fooled.

From behind the shrub where we hid, I watched for him. Neither he nor Manderley had appeared from behind the trees, but they were there. I could tell. Worse than that, as if he were as omnipresent as the wind, I felt his gaze on my skin.

"What is he—?"

Margaret began to speak. I pressed my hand over her mouth to quiet her. I'd heard something. The foliage brushed my nose as I leaned forward. I inhaled its musky smell. First I saw the tops of his boots, heavy brown leather and laced with a careful hand, the kind that could make the right amount of noise if he'd wanted to be heard, but his footfalls were quiet, ghostly almost. He took his time slinking out from behind the trees, like he was unsure if he should stay hidden. When he came into full view, I allowed myself to see him, really see him, for the second time, more than the spindly veins on his hands, more than the inky blue pools of his eyes. It was a dangerous feat, if any.

And I wish I hadn't done it.

It struck me then how beautiful he was, in the kind of way that sad, lonely things were beautiful, the kind of way that made me want to crawl out from behind the shrubbery, heart in hand, blood gushing down my forearm to say, "Here, take it. Nothing would make me happier." It was then I realized what Margaret had meant. "When I'm around him, I feel so..." Willing. That was what she'd meant to say. I had no idea why I felt so willing.

Margaret took my hand away from her mouth. I hadn't realized I'd still held it there. She pushed aside the foliage, making enough room for her to see him. He had his back turned to us several feet away. We could attack him and maybe he wouldn't see us coming. If I could find something to hit him with, a thick branch perhaps, it might buy us some time to get away. But for some reason it didn't seem like something I wanted to do. What had once made him so lethal now made him numinous. The air around him shimmered.

A star had bloomed beneath my skin, a star so bright my flesh hummed with longing.

Phillip took a step farther away from us, away from my willingness to like him, to have him like me. "You're going the wrong way. We're right here." My heart beat out those words, but I didn't know why or how to stop it. It scared and excited me all at once.

Margaret jerked her thumb over her shoulder. We could run, she'd mimed. When I didn't move, she grabbed my arm. Let's go, Ivy. Phillip moved even farther away. His head tilted, listening for us.

Could he hear my heart beat? Could he hear the storm raging beneath my ribcage? "I'm right here," it said. Phillip of my heart.

Margaret tugged me. Her eyes were wide, frantic. "What are you doing?" they asked. I leaned into the shrubbery, ignoring her, and watching him. With every step he took away from us, Margaret tugged at me. But I did not move. I couldn't. If I'd believed in spells, I'd believe he'd casted one on me. He kept me rooted to that spot.

His movements. His feigned naivety about all of it. I couldn't turn from him.

Then my mind whispered to me, he would never have my heart, too quick for my heart to fight against it. I had a moment of clarity. I shook whatever I'd felt away, the willingness, the desire to be liked by him. We had to leave now. I nodded at Margaret.

"Okay," I said.

We made to move, to run, when from somewhere up above came Manderley's call. Phillip's head lurched to the right. Now both Margaret and I were rooted in place, trapped once more. The bird circled and landed on his shoulder. Like before, it angled its head to his ear, and I had the impression that it had whispered to him. Phillip whirled. His eyes were on us, where we hid.

He would never have our hearts.

This was my prayer if I ever needed one. Margaret took my hand and squeezed. Our sorrow was near, and we could sense it. As he came towards us, his footfalls were all but quiet. The rumble they made echoed in my bones.

He would never have our hearts. He would never have our hearts. He would never have our hearts. I would guard my heart from him. I said this to myself, again and again, until I believed we could fool him. We could win.

We were still crouched behind the shrubbery when his shadow fell over us. "There you are," he said, as if we'd been playing a game of hide-and-seek. Manderley nipped at his cheek and he stroked the bird's belly.

Margaret and I didn't move. We were more than rooted. We were paralyzed under his gaze.

"Are you going to stay down there?" Phillip asked, still stroking Manderley. "I wouldn't if I were you. The ticks can bite."

He said this more to me than to Margaret, but he would never have my heart. I pulled my hand from Margaret's, swallowed my fear, and pushed myself to my feet to face him. "What do you want from us?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, both hands raised.

"Then let us go," I said. I pushed back my shoulders so that I stood taller; even still he stood several inches taller than me.

He squinted; his mouth set in such a harsh line his lips were almost nonexistent. "I have," he said. "You're here because you want to be. Right, Margaret?" His gaze shifted down to her.

Margaret blinked up at me. She looked as fragile and helpless as her baby brother Benny. Like she was my own, I felt the need to protect her. She pulled herself up, looking between me and Phillip. "I... I... don't know," she said. She bowed her head as if in shame.

Phillip held out his hand to her. "Come," he said. "There's nothing for you to be afraid of. You know I just want to help you, Margaret."

She didn't lift her head, but her hand reached for his. It trembled.

I slapped his hand away. He winced, cupping it against his chest as if it was a fragile baby bird. "Let us go home, Phillip," I said. "You can't keep us here."

Manderley cawed as a sudden breeze swept over us. The strength of it should have rustled the trees and disheveled the dirt, but I'd seen it with my own eyes. Nothing stirred. In fact, it came and went so fast it was as if it hadn't happened. Had Margaret felt it? She still had her head bowed and toyed with the dirt with her shoe.

Phillip watched me as if I was a thing to be studied. A placid expression was etched into his fine, lithe like, features. Beneath my skin, something flickered. Warm. Alive. Willing. The abhorrence I'd had towards him seeped from my pores, slow enough that I could fight against it. He would never have my... Never have what? The words slipped from me.

But I had to find them.

Images flashed in my mind. The crow that'd followed us through the woods—Manderley. Margaret's ribbon tied around the tree. The poem and the dead moth. All of it held no significance whatsoever except for him. Phillip.

He raised his hand to my cheek, where I felt his pulse beating wildly, warm, alive, and wanting. Wanting me in a way I'd never been wanted before.

"Love isn't poison," he said. "You don't have anything to be afraid of. Let me in, Ivy."

What power could such a touch have?