Chapter 8

Briar

I got back from The Burrow around eleven and couldn't sleep.

I lay on top of the covers for a while, then gave up and sat at the desk, then gave up on that too. The house was quiet. My parents' door was closed.

I went out to the still-house at one in the morning because I needed the backup sample set and I kept forgetting to get it during daylight hours.

Nothing dramatic. I'd been meaning to pull those bottles for three days, kept putting it off, and I had an early call with a potential buyer the next morning and wanted the reference samples in front of me when I took it.

The still-house was at the far end of the east orchard. I'd built it out there deliberately—far enough from the main property that nobody wandered past it, close enough that I could walk it in ten minutes. There was a path through the trees with a row of old iron lamp stands along one side, and I knew the path well enough to do it in the dark most of the time.

Most of the time.

The third lamp stand had been moved.

Not knocked over, not fallen. Moved—shifted a foot to the left and turned so the base sat across the center of the path instead of to the side of it. I didn't see it until I was already going down, my shin catching the edge of the base and my knee hitting the ground hard.

I stayed there for a second.

My knee was bad. I could tell immediately—the kind of impact that goes deep and starts throbbing before you've even finished falling. I got myself up and stood with my weight on my other leg and breathed through it.

I kept going. Picked up the lamp stand, put it back where it belonged, and kept walking.

When I got to the still-house, the door was locked.

Not my lock. I had a lock on this door—had for years, a heavy padlock I'd bought myself and kept the only key to. What was on the door now was different. Newer. A keyed handle lock, the kind that needed a specific key I didn't have.

I stood in front of the door and tried the handle twice, which accomplished nothing except confirming it was definitely locked.

My knee was swelling. I could feel it.

I sat down on the ground with my back against the wall and pulled out my phone.

I called my father first. It rang seven times and went to voicemail. I hung up and called my mother. Same result—seven rings, then the automated message.

I sat there and looked at the trees for a while.

The orchard at night was quiet in a way that daytime never was. No wind, no birds, just the occasional creak of branches settling. The cold came up from the ground rather than down from the air, which was something I'd noticed before but never particularly liked.

My knee was getting worse.

I called Emrys.

He picked up on the second ring. I told him where I was. He said he'd be there.

He arrived in eighteen minutes. I know because I watched the clock on my phone.

He came around the side of the tree line with a flashlight and his jacket on over what looked like a t-shirt and old jeans, like he'd pulled it on over whatever he was wearing when he fell asleep. He looked at me sitting on the ground, looked at the door, looked at my leg.

He didn't ask any questions.

He had the lock off the door in about four minutes using tools he'd apparently brought without being asked. I didn't see exactly what he used—he blocked my view of it—but it didn't take long.

Then he helped me up and took me back to the truck.

He had a first aid kit in the back seat. Not a small one, either—a proper kit, stocked, organized. He got an ice pack going and wrapped my knee while I sat sideways in the passenger seat with the door open and the cold air coming in.

I watched him work.

"How'd you know to bring tools?" I said. "And the kit."

He didn't look up. "I've got both in the truck. Always."

"That's not normal."

He glanced up at me briefly. "Is it wrong?"

I didn't answer that. Because no, it wasn't wrong, and that was the part I didn't know what to do with.

He closed the kit and put it back. I reached out and pulled the door shut. He went around to the driver's side and got in and drove me home without being asked.

At the front gate he pulled up and stopped.

I sat there.

The farmhouse was dark except for the porch light. His jacket from the tasting was still on the front step where I'd left it—I could see the shape of it from here, folded, exactly where I'd put it.

He hadn't picked it up yet. He'd just let it sit there.

I wasn't sure why I was still in the truck.

"Why are you always the one who shows up?" I said.

He looked at me.

"Tonight? Because you called." A beat. "Other times—" He stopped. Left it there.

He waited.

I got out of the truck and walked to the house, weight off my bad knee, hand on the wall when I got to the steps. I heard him pull away when I reached the door.

I didn't turn around.