Weird that they’re here, though. We’ve had hardly any tourists this year, and for them to linger now, of all weeks, feels suspect.

As soon as my eyes find the grove again, my relief at having a solid lead is laced with a wash of hot anger. “Why would he have taken off like this? For the grove of all places?”

“It’s an area of outstanding cultural interest,” John says, a twinkle in his eye.

“Not when you’re six. And it isn’t like him.”

“No, it isn’t, is it.” John’s voice gets quieter as we approach the thick line of trees and pull to a stop at the line of split logs and woodchips that serves as a parking lot.

We step silently out of the car and, side by side, enter the grove. The oaks suck us in. I hold my breath in the abrupt darkness, feeling, as ever, like something has shifted here, like I’m breathing different air, older oxygen. I can’t remember if I felt this way before I knew what the grove was, before hearing Ian Pike recounting the old legends from the bar at the Dane’s Head. The ghosts who drift out of the grove to celebrate on Christmas Eve. The ancient oaks created by Celtic gods, still standing sentient, waiting for their planters’ return. The stone. The deaths. Hundreds, thousands, nobody knows how many human sacrifices.

Maybe I always shivered here, maybe not. But I’m susceptible now.

The grove, the only wild collection of trees on Lute, too small to even call it a wood, but once inside, it may as well be a forest.

I draw my canvas coat closer around my waist as the wind blows, sliding against the rich green leaves above us. I could walk this path with my eyes closed by now. I can smell which season it is, the sharp scent of growth of sap, the lurid aliveness of summer. The track narrows, and I let John take the lead, glancing furtively at the dipping oak branch where I sat mere hours ago. The whispers from the oaks get louder, closer, as if to tell on me, what I get up to in here. John would not approve.

Then, above the din, I hear voices, and my pulse thrums in my throat.

John is already nodding down the path, setting off toward the sound. “What did I tell you? Young historian. He’s gone straight for the area of outstanding…”

The next gust smothers his voice.

I see Charlie’s back first, his sweater with the thick red and blue stripes. My little boy is sitting down on a pile of leaves, scratching his head. His hair has gone brown already, but in the light falling from the canopy, it looks blond again, like when he was a baby. He’s peering up, talking to someone, but there’s no one there. He’s talking to the air.

“Charlie?” I call out, my pace quickening.