The Heartwood

Chapter 11

Looming like towers above him, Asher stands beneath the people in his life. Feathers spill from their hair and mouths as every one of them attempts to coddle him. They coo and comfort, reaching down with fingers that are too long. Sliding their alien touches along his cheek, turning his head to direct his gaze up the hill. They are faceless and transformed into something weird as they susurrate with a single voice: "Conquer Heart Wood. Prove to the frightened man trapped in the gardens that there will be no more anonymous alone, haunting the ghosts of stones."

But from afar, Asher sees the Count. The pale-haired man erupts into a storm of cards. The Tarot faces scatter into a frenzy of slow-motion fluttering, and black birds swoop in to snatch the cards away. Asher runs to salvage something, but he does not know the math and the equations required to get himself there in time. He is not smart enough. He does not understand the science that is required to save every card. The strangers that he leaves behind whisper of this, and before long, in a span that stretches hours, the cards are vanishing under thick beaks. Asher is left with one single piece of the Tarot.

What is the point of looking?

He awakens to find himself surprised that he had slept at all. The pale dawn fills the room and the boy feels distantly removed from the tangle of dreams that he has overcome. The images are clear, but the anxiety that they had triggered rests quietly now.

He tries to track a correlation between the events of the dream, but they are as hazy and nonsensical as the previous day seems. It is probably for the best, Asher admits bleakly. His bed smells of his sweat and Asher touches his forehead, not sure if the cold surface signifies illness or not. He feels hollow. He feels empty of purpose.

Knocking softly, his mother joins him. She treads carefully is if her son could break. He finds the thought entirely possible, appreciating her gentleness. She eases onto his bed and brushes at his greasy hair.

"Your teacher is here," she murmurs.

Asher says nothing, feeling nothing at the prospect.

"I told him you were unwell and he says that he is not surprised. Concussions are fickle things, but he came to talk and check up on you. There was...well, it is probably best for him to explain."

The boy nods. "Can he come up here? Do I have to go down to the dining room?"

The tone Asher employs is quiet. He supplicates, offering to do more if it is requested. He knows she will now agree to anything.

"No, no, my Baby. Stay in bed. I'll alert Mr. Kingsley, and after that, our dear Lynna will fix you a breakfast. What do you feel up to eating, my Dearest?"

She leaves with his request and, as Asher watches the door click closed, he realizes that he has not changed. He cannot change. There are those that follow and those who lead. His parents wish to lead and do not realize how readily they follow.

A creak in the hall announces the most talented of manipulators. Darren does not knock at the door. He steps in as if he belongs wherever he chooses. Asher holds the man with unimpressed eyes and Darren smiles, not kindly.

"You look well," greets the tutor. The formality is an act.

"I have a concussion."

"Yes. Nasty thing that. Your family is very concerned for your wellbeing. It is touching."

"On the topic of families, you don't have a sister," Asher responds, tamely. Unthreatened. "You were not absent yesterday because of a family emergency."

With no hint of denying it, Darren shuts the door before taking a seat on Asher's bed. He fills the exact space Mrs. Walsh had vacated. It is deliberate.