I kneel down by the small chair beside the window, where Oliver stripped out of his coat, and feel along the thick fabric until I find a pocket. I slip my hand inside. And find nothing. My fingers trail along the collar, finding the other pocket filled with a few small twigs and broken bits of pinecone—not uncommon after tromping through the wilderness. I settle back on my heels. Maybe there is nothing to find.

Maybe I shouldn’t look through his things. I would be furious if I found him snooping through my closet, my bedside table. A soft prick of guilt nags at me. But I touch the coat again, the heavy canvas, finding the main zipper and then sliding my hand along the interior of the coat. Sure enough, there is a hidden pocket, smaller than the others, but tucked high along the chest. I feel for the opening and reach inside. Something small and soft meets my fingertips. I pull it out and hold it in my palm: the pouch of herbs I gave him. I squeeze it in my hand, the scent of cloves and cardamom and lily now long gone.

He’s kept it all this time—inside his coat, close to his chest.

I hear him breathing in the bed, and I sink back onto my heels, feeling stupid for looking. For thinking I would find some clue, some small thing to prove him guilty or not. A liar or not. Instead, all I’ve found is the pouch of herbs I gave him—as if he couldn’t part with it, even when its potency wore off.

Wishing I had never snooped in the first place, I slide the pouch back into the pocket. But I feel something else.

Smooth and cold.

I pull my hand back out and watch a small chain unravel, something bulky and shiny at one end.

It makes a soft clink sound, and I quickly cup my palms over it, to keep from waking Oliver. My knees ache on the hardwood floor, but I shift closer to the window, opening my palms like a clam unveiling a single pearl inside, and there, resting in my hand, is a silver pocket watch. The chain is broken—one of the links bent, the rest of the chain missing. But a soft ticking sound emanates from inside, the hidden gears clicking forward, tiny mechanisms fluttering in soft unison. It still works. I run my thumb over the glass, peering in at the white face of the watch, the gold hands keeping time.

It’s a simple pocket watch, skillfully crafted. And I wonder if it belonged to Oliver’s father or his grandfather. A memento maybe. Or perhaps he found it in the Wicker Woods—a lost item he plucked from the forest floor.