“Watch the field,” he whispered.
Clare stepped back to check the ground surrounding them. She turned in a slow circle, scanning the forest’s edge, the stretch of dead grass, and the manor’s closest walls. She hunted for movement. She didn’t see any.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the hollows melted with the snow?
The idea made her smile. She’d become so used to associating the deformed creatures with the cold that this new, wet, dripping world somehow didn’t seem as threatening.
Dorran stood in the shed’s open door for a moment, staring inside. Then he pushed on the door. The hollows had forced it off its runners, and the door screeched as he tried to move it. They both flinched. Clare held her breath, listening for the chatter, listening for the sound of scratching claws. None came. Dorran pushed again, this time keeping the pressure up until the gap was an arm’s length wide. Then he beckoned to Clare.
The only light in the place came from the grimy windows. As she stepped inside, Clare’s stomach revolted. It reeked of hollows and mildew. The floor, swollen from melted snow, creaked with every movement. The lamps she and Dorran had carried the previous day were left discarded on the side table, burnt dry. Towards the back wall, the little black radio lay on the ground, its plastic fractured. Clare tried to turn it on and felt her heart drop as it remained unresponsive.
“Take the batteries out,” Dorran whispered. “We will bring it with us.”
Clare struggled with the back latch while Dorran moved towards the motor. Four batteries fell into her hand, and she tucked them into her pocket. The shed seemed too quiet. She could hear every drip, every squeak of wet wood, every rustle of Dorran’s jacket. He bent beside the motor, checking it and making sure all of the components were there. Then he nodded to Clare. She took one end of the sheet and helped lift.
The motor was heavier than she’d expected, and they staggered under the weight. Clare righted herself and led the way back to the door, straining to keep the pile of equipment steady. They shuffled through the shed, past the cracked skull that lay beneath the loft, and after briefly scanning the fields around them, they moved outside.
“On top of the sled,” Dorran said. They had packed the rest of their equipment flat, and Clare exhaled as the motor thudded into place. She was shaking and sweaty, and she unzipped her top jacket. The day wasn’t exactly warm, but their cautious dressing had left her wearing too many layers for comfort. She took off her outer jacket and tied it around her waist.
Dorran bundled the cloth over the motor to keep its components together then tied it down with the rope. His movements were sharp and full of energy.
He feels it too. Progress. A way forward. A way out.
They took the ropes and pulled. Their feet sunk into the muddy, over-saturated ground, and the sled refused to move as smoothly as it had on the snow. Its runners cut up strips of grass and caught in every stick and rock. They were both panting as they cut across the field, towards where the driveway disappeared into the trees.
To their left, Clare glimpsed the red-cloth dome they had brought on their previous trip to the forest. The fabric had been shredded, the wire dented. The hollows that had been frozen around it were gone. There was no room on their sled to take the dome, so they passed it without stopping.
The pines’ shadows stretched across the field like jagged knives. Clare shivered as she approached the forest. In a strange way, it felt more alive than ever before. The branches rocked in the chilled wind, groaning, and Clare couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. They got the sled back onto the dirt track. It moved a little more easily through the mud, but Clare still wasn’t looking forward to the hike between the trees.
She turned to give Winterbourne one final look. For a second, she thought she saw something in one of the upstairs windows. A curtain moved, gliding back into place, hiding the thin, pinched face. Clare swallowed.
For a while at least, it will be nothing but a home for the hollows.
She pictured them scuttling through the hallways. Intruding on the parts of the house Clare and Dorran called their own. Crouching on the kitchen bench, long fingers probing at the whorls in the wood that Clare herself had traced that morning. Sitting in their chairs. Climbing the same stairs she and Dorran were so familiar with. The garden’s door was bolted, at least, but Clare knew they could find a way in if they really wanted to. She tried not to think about it. Instead, she faced the forest.
Dorran didn’t look back. That seemed strange to Clare. She’d only been in Winterbourne for a fortnight, but already, she felt reluctant to leave it. Dorran had spent his whole life there. She doubted that he could leave it—possibly for the last time, if their journey went badly—without any feelings of regret.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Hm.” He nodded but didn’t turn his head, not even to look at her.
She was struck by the sense that maybe he didn’t look back because if he did, his steps would falter. Leaving their security was already hard enough for him. He couldn’t afford to let sentimentality creep through the growing cracks in his emotional armour. Clare moved so that she walked a little closer to him, wishing she could do more. But they were entering the forest, and as the trees engulphed them, it was wiser to keep silent.
In the distance, something chattered. The crackling, bestial
