Matt saw that his niece had a fearless nature, unusual in an Avery, but far from uncommon among the Sparrows. “These are the arrowheads shot at Rebecca Sparrow by some local boys. The Frost boys later admitted to it, and I think there may have been a Hap-good and one of the Whites involved, too. People said she didn’t feel pain, so these boys decided to put the theory to the test. Even if she didn’t react, it seems that she may have gotten peritonitis, because after being struck by these arrows, she walked with a limp.”
Jenny had followed, but she stayed on the far side of the threshold. She had always thought of the glass case as their personal museum of pain, keepsakes to remind them not to trust anyone, never to forgive. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
“That’s the thing those boys didn’t understand,” Matt told Stella. “Just because you don’t feel pain, doesn’t mean you don’t experience it.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the tenth arrowhead. He had been carrying it around with him for more than thirty years. He should have brought it back immediately, but he had feared getting Will in trouble, and so the arrowhead had served as his lucky piece for all this time. Not that it had ever brought him the slightest bit of good fortune. Not that it hadn’t made him think of Jenny each and every day. All the same, without the arrowhead he’d probably be lost for a while, but he’d felt like that before.
“I can’t believe it!” Stella let out a laugh. She’d noticed one of the arrowheads was missing, and had wondered what had happened. “Where did you get that?”
“It was misplaced,” Matt said. He’d found it in Will’s dresser drawer years ago. “Now it’s back.”
From where she stood in the doorway, Jenny recalled that she had left Will alone in this room on her thirteenth birthday. It had only been for a moment, long enough for her to argue with her mother, long enough for him to steal the arrowhead. If Jenny had been more cautious, she would have noted that Will had rubbed his fingers together that day, as though he were itchy, the sure sign of a thief.
“Rebecca’s story has mostly been written up by a fellow named Charles Hathaway. Pathetic guy, really. Had the first land grant, then lost almost all of it and wound up with his own son despising him.”
“Is that her hair?” Stella asked of the dark coiled plait. Rebecca, she thought. Show me a sign.
Matt nodded. “I’d say it is. This town treated her badly, Stella. If you want to know the details, come down to the library.”
“Sorry it’s been such a horrible dinner,” Jenny said when Matt had left Stella in the parlor, allowing the girl a bit of privacy as she carefully replaced the missing arrowhead.
“Not horrible. Not for me.” He would not have cared if she’d served lily pad soup and the nine-frogs stew Elisabeth Sparrow perfected. He would have eaten tree bark, leather, snowdrops sautéed and served on a platter of rice. Food wasn’t what he was hungry for.
“I’ll bet you hate casseroles, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Matt was standing near enough to be made light-headed by the scent of lake water. Was it on her skin? he wondered. Could this be the case with every Sparrow woman? Was it in their blood?
“What would you say?”
Jenny was a little too close to Matt Avery. She had grown reckless, that green sort of abandon spring brought on, even though it was no longer March. Could it be she was maddened by all the rain, daffodil rain, rose rain, fish rain, all of it pouring down in this part of the Commonwealth.
“I guess I would say I wish things had turned out differently.”
“Well, most people would say that, wouldn’t they?” Jenny felt itchy under her skin. It was the rosemary she’d sprinkled on the rolls, most probably. “Given the wrong turns a person can make, wouldn’t anyone feel the same?”
Elinor had come to call them to finish dinner, but she’d noticed something in the yard. She peered out through the glass panel beside the front door, then signaled to Jenny by tapping her cane on the hardwood floor. “There’s someone out there. Someone’s walking down the driveway.”
Jenny went to have a look. The glass was bumpy, riddled with air bubbles, difficult to see through. All she could make out were shadows and the hedge of laurel. “There’s no one.”
“Do you realize you never agree with me?” Elinor said. “If I said it was noon, you wouldn’t care if the sun was in the center of the sky. You’d tell me it was nighttime. You’d want to argue no matter what. He’s right there! Look!”