He stood at her side, quiet and steadfast and patient as she hunted for the right words, picking the ones that sounded the least panicked, even as her heart insisted this wasn’t the time for moderation, that the most frantic phrases might actually be needed.
“Do you…” Again, she hesitated, running her tongue across the inside of her teeth as though to taste the words before giving them voice. “How much faith do you put in Witchety?”
He made a low, throaty noise as he gazed along the driveway, where Witchety was growing smaller, Marsh’s tail whipping energetically in their wake. “I’ve known her a long time. She’s reliable. Last Friday was the first time she’d missed her booking in the years I’ve worked here.”
“Oh.” Margot’s fingertips explored the leather strap from her bag, running along where it had been stitched shut and where some of the stitches were already pulling apart. “I guess what I’m asking is…do you think Gallows Hill actually needs these blessings?”
She’d asked it like it was halfway a joke, expecting Kant to shake his head or smile or comment about how superstitious some people could become. Instead, he gazed down at her, the heavy brows casting shade over his eyes. He was silent a long moment. Margot could only imagine he was testing his own words the same way she had.
“Some people believe Gallows Hill is a piece of the town’s history and not much more,” he said at last. “Other people feel the deaths have turned it bad. Won’t visit. Won’t even drive on roads near it. They talk about a Gallows Hill curse and think Witchety is protecting us from something worse.”
Margot crossed her arms over her chest. More of her hair had come loose during the walk and now buffeted around her face, itching at the back of her neck and sending minute shivers along her spine. “What side do you fall on?”
Gray eyes searched hers. Then he said, “I’m glad Witchety comes here. I’d better make that phone call. Her neighbor doesn’t like the place, but he’ll still come and pick her up.” He made to step away, then hesitated. “Can you find your way back to the house on your own?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
Margot tightened her arms around her chest as she watched Kant pace back toward the staff buildings. His answer had been noncommittal. But it also hadn’t been a denial that something was wrong.
She wondered what he’d seen in his thirty years working there.
Margot held her posture—shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around herself—as she followed the drive toward her home. The path was rocky, with weeds and grasses creeping in from the edges, and Margot found herself tracing one of the ruts formed by generations’ worth of cars traversing that path.