And the days were heavy with that now. The beat of her eyelids shut showed her the lake shadows bursting through the mist, the splashing of the water, and that low voice, haunting, whispering truth and threads to her. She could not drive it from her mind; such a stain clung like unease at the edges of thought. But she would set it at bay, forcing other thoughts upon her in their place.
But nothing was easy anymore.
She sat along the edge of her mother's couch, staring at the fire crackling into the hearth. It cast a warm orange light that for a moment left shadows upon the walls, and she hugged her knees in close to the warmth that maybe could protect the chill from the thoughts churning in her mind inside.
Why am I here?
It was all something to think of. A question that came to her mind like some secret whisperer, saying again and again, that it did. Her father. Eliot. Secrets and a map and the letter knotted up with too huge for knowing. The lake itself was eerie. Something independent. Was she even looking at it? Or chasing shadows through the dark?
Half, between dubious periods that stretch up to breathe from the chest-level, uneven intervals. Always, till now, she had come to realize that she had not decided whether to run back to where she came from or work through the cracks or away towards safety, a place so remote almost no shadow could go and fetch truth. This half yearns for peace. A whole of a different other half finds itself drawn towards other shadow-whisked dug truths that wait around somewhere.
Her mother's voice broke into her thoughts, soft and steady.
"Scarlett, honey, you're quiet this morning. Something wrong?" She wasn't demanding; neither was her voice sharp. It was gentle, the kind of question that made Scarlett feel even more vulnerable.
I am all right, Scarlett said hastily, but her voice spoke the opposite in the sentence. She looked up to the fire and down to them again to still herself in thought.
Clive went into the sitting room but made the coffee over between them on the table. "You've been keyed up ever since you came here, dear," she said, sitting beside her but looking at the flames that licked at the hearth. You don't need to carry it all in your head, you know that. So do I.
Scarlett slowly exhaled, her voice tense. "It's not even like it's home anymore. It is. All things. I came back to find some answers. But now that I am here, nothing else makes sense because nothing makes sense to begin with."
Clara gazed at Scarlett for a little while before answering, "You're running away from something you fear finding, aren't you?
Scarlett said nothing. Her throat contracted, and the dying flame of the fire cast greater shadows across her mud-streaked head.
"I
Or maybe I do, but fear reaching it. I thought if I went back, I might somehow make an order out of patchwork. Now, however, I feel that I dig by candlelight and reveal only a trail of threads. There could only be an end further in. When sometimes I have attempted to ask does not a thread need to rip only to cease all in places even beyond these parts?
Her mother sat there for a second without saying anything. Instead, she and Scarlett filled their ears with the popping sound of the fire. "Scarlett," she spoke quietly, "secrets can enslave us. They just keep piling on no matter how long we just ignore them. But you cannot live your life avoiding fear and doubt. You must allow yourself to seek, no matter how sore it is to you. That's how you'll find peace.".
Her head pounded and she gazed into the fire. The words of her mother hurt, but it was not down when she spoke. On the contrary, she felt stronger.
Maybe she is wrong? Or maybe that's all the whole huge mistake?
She was moving through the words of Eliot and the patterns and the maps, and by the voice which had hailed her from the lake - follow the threads.
But what was that, exactly? How could she trust in herself when every step she took was more unsure than the last? Her fears were huge, impossible to grasp and she wondered whether she would even find strength to meet their answers-or lose herself first.
There was a weight of all of these unschooled parts pressing on her chest.
Clara reached out and touched Scarlett's skin against her shoulder with the inside of her palm to warm herself up by feeling the heat of the skin there. Her skin was level. "You can, sweetie. You can because you are stronger than you let anyone else give you credit for. Trust in yourself. Trust you're hunting for truth though it feels overwhelming."
Then, just when she let herself slide into it, she took herself by the shoulders and pressed down the doubt.
"Fine",
That wasn't much of a word, but that's all she had for a little steadiness.
She might try to believe. She would just listen to whatever lay beyond the hurt and the fright. If she could muster up the courage to listen.
The flames crackled anew and Scarlett concentrated on the feel, the noise, the rhythm of her mother being present there. That wasn't an answer but was sort of a beginning.