As fortune would have it, Camilla received an unlikely and not entirely welcome excuse to go see Henry that afternoon, courtesy of the Hampden Examiner.
"Henry's not answering his phone," she lied to Charles. "I'm going to go take this over to the library. I bet he's there."
Charles, who didn't feel like going to the library, shrugged. "The man's going to stay dead no matter what, Milly." He hated talking about it. He was agitated, visibly so.
"We know his name now. McRee."
Charles shivered. "God, don't say his name. I can't deal with this right now."
"You don't have to. I'm going to go give the article to Henry and let him deal with it. If there's anything that needs dealing with."
Charles nodded his assent, relieved to have the entire topic off his metaphorical plate, and Camilla put on her coat to rush over to Water Street, the clipping from the Examiner folded neatly and shoved in her pocket. Mutilated corpse of Harry Ray McRee found on McRee's own farm in Battenkill County.
She pounded on the door and waited to see if Henry would answer.
This time, Henry had no mystic forewarning of Camilla's visit. He was cooking when she knocked, broiling a chicken, and the scent of it pervaded the little kitchen.
He knew her knock, of course; each of the little group had their own, quite distinctive from all the others. He opened the door to find her looking pale, and when he saw the clipping in her hand, he knew why.
"Come in," he said, drawing her inside and shutting the door. He locked it, too.
She handed him the little rectangle of newsprint right off, before she even took off her coat. "I shouldn't have cut it out," she said, nervous, as she watched him unfold it. "I should have just brought the whole page over. It's more conspicuous cut out like that. Anyway. Well. They found him. We were on his land. That's like breaking and entering, around here."
She shifted balance from one foot to the other, standing as though she were ready to take flight at any moment.
Henry glanced at it, then pointedly ripped it. "It will be fine," he said. "There's absolutely nothing to connect us to him--if anything, we're some of the least likely suspects in Vermont. A small class of Greek students, who spend most of their time attending lectures? Even the most paranoid inspector would have no reason to look twice at us."
And it was true. Barring some horrible interference by Fate, there was almost no way it could be traced anywhere near them.
What he said was what she wanted to hear. It was also, probably, true. "Of course you're right," she said, a little of the tension bleeding out of her. "I just -- well. Seeing it on paper like that makes it seem more real. I was sort of hoping it would go away ..."
She'd known it couldn't, though. There were lots of things that wouldn't just go away.
He knew what she was hoping, and he knew it wasn't possible. "It won't go away," he said, leading her into the kitchen to check on his chicken. "But it doesn't have to come any closer, either. It will die down soon enough, I think, especially if something more interesting happens. Public interest never fixates on one thing for long, and with such a lack of clues the law might well give up, too."
The house was warm; she shucked her coat as she followed him, and held it folded over her arm. "I didn't dare tell Francis. He'd be in hysterics. Charles saw it before I did, and he's a mess now. He's at home. I told him I was going to the library to show you. I would have, if you were at the library, but I thought I'd check here first."
Half hoping he'd be here rather than the library. It wasn't usually until later in the evening that Henry would be at the library, anyway, but she'd bet Charles wouldn't remember that in his current worry, and she'd been right.
"It's not on our heads anymore anyway, though, is it? We did the purification." The piglet's blood in a steaming gout. It had almost made her sick. "We're not guilty anymore. So it did go away, in that sense." The smell of the cooking chicken should have made her sick, too. Carneia. A profusion of torn flesh. But it didn't. It reminded her of Nana and home.
No, he was usually home at this hour, and he wondered if Camilla had been counting on that.
"We did," he said, taking her coat and laying it on the spotless counter. "It's on neither our heads nor our hands. The only reason it's news now is that it's a mystery, and mysteries lose their interest if they're not solved quickly." Which he trusted this one would not be, as there was no evidence to link the crime to anyone at all.
Henry himself had not found the piglet's blood unduly sickening. It was purification. Cleansing. So far as he was concerned, the matter was well and truly settled, and he could soothe whatever fears the others might hold--the others, but especially Camilla.
She hadn't been counting on his being at home, exactly -- she wasn't positive when Henry was and wasn't necessarily at home, only when he was definitely going to be in public places where she'd seen him routinely before. But she'd been hopeful.
She let him take her coat, and stood back while he performed the startlingly domestic actions associated with cooking. She'd seen him deal with this kind of thing before, now and then. She was just seeing it in a different light, now -- seeing everything he did in a different light, really. He was good at everything, wasn't he? And precise. He even used a poultry thermometer. Camilla never bothered with that.
"We wait," Henry affirmed, taking the chicken out and setting it on a hotpad beside the sink. "Wait without fear. Fear is more our enemy than anything else." Fear was what could make them crack, if this dragged out; the panic that can come to a person when they think the noose is descending. It was a loss of control, and not in the sense they'd sought with the bacchanal.
He turned to her, setting aside his potholders. "We have to stay together," he said, wanting to reach out and touch her hair and not quite daring to. "We can keep it quiet and secret, but we all have to do our part."
That was a loaded question. There was what he wanted to do in general, and what he wanted to do right now, and while in a way they were connected, they were also very different things.
Henry reached out and touched her cheek, just a light brush of his fingers. "I want you not to worry," he said. "About anything."
Camilla, like a good little soldier, had been expecting some kind of concrete assignment. Even she wasn't sure what it would have been. Maybe he'd want her to go buy all the copies of that issue of the Hampden Examiner and burn them. Her reaction to his answer came in two waves: first surprise, then irritation.
"I can't not worry," she said. The unexpected little caress to her cheek only added to her agitation by heightening her awareness of him, that keen over-awareness she'd been at such pains to repress during the morning's classes. She reached to take his hand away, except once she'd done that, she couldn't let go. For a moment she stood there and stared at him, his fingers clutched in hers. Then something broke inside her, and she let go only to throw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, drinking in the scent of him this close.
There was no concrete thing he could assign her just yet--nothing that wouldn't look suspicious. They all just had to lay low and keep their noses clean, so to speak, which might be harder than anything for Camilla.
Her gesture surprised him, but only for a very brief moment. Henry wrapped his arms around her in turn, holding her in an embrace that was more soothing than anything else. He really didn't know how to comfort, but he could be there for her, at least--something real, something familiar, even if one aspect of that familiarity had changed. He was still Henry, no matter what.
Camilla would have liked to be soothed. In an odd way she did find Henry's embrace was soothing to some extent: his presence staved off the specters that haunted her imagination, the cops and the search dogs and the wages of sin. But as solid as he was, he couldn't steady her. He couldn't offer a solution when he was part of the problem -- when her nerves sang taut and shrill because of him.
Cool small fingers found the back of his neck and crept up into his hair, and Camilla raised her head a little from its nest in his shoulder, but she didn't speak.
Henry was not insensible to it--not insensible to that current, that subdermal electricity that seemed to crackle through him when she touched him.
He looked at her, also silent. He wanted to comfort her, if he could, and whatever she wanted he would give. Lightly his thumb stroked along her cheek, and he bent his head to place a light kiss on her forehead.
"Henry's not answering his phone," she lied to Charles. "I'm going to go take this over to the library. I bet he's there."
Charles, who didn't feel like going to the library, shrugged. "The man's going to stay dead no matter what, Milly." He hated talking about it. He was agitated, visibly so.
"We know his name now. McRee."
Charles shivered. "God, don't say his name. I can't deal with this right now."
"You don't have to. I'm going to go give the article to Henry and let him deal with it. If there's anything that needs dealing with."
Charles nodded his assent, relieved to have the entire topic off his metaphorical plate, and Camilla put on her coat to rush over to Water Street, the clipping from the Examiner folded neatly and shoved in her pocket. Mutilated corpse of Harry Ray McRee found on McRee's own farm in Battenkill County.
She pounded on the door and waited to see if Henry would answer.
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He knew her knock, of course; each of the little group had their own, quite distinctive from all the others. He opened the door to find her looking pale, and when he saw the clipping in her hand, he knew why.
"Come in," he said, drawing her inside and shutting the door. He locked it, too.
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She shifted balance from one foot to the other, standing as though she were ready to take flight at any moment.
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And it was true. Barring some horrible interference by Fate, there was almost no way it could be traced anywhere near them.
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She'd known it couldn't, though. There were lots of things that wouldn't just go away.
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Half hoping he'd be here rather than the library. It wasn't usually until later in the evening that Henry would be at the library, anyway, but she'd bet Charles wouldn't remember that in his current worry, and she'd been right.
"It's not on our heads anymore anyway, though, is it? We did the purification." The piglet's blood in a steaming gout. It had almost made her sick. "We're not guilty anymore. So it did go away, in that sense." The smell of the cooking chicken should have made her sick, too. Carneia. A profusion of torn flesh. But it didn't. It reminded her of Nana and home.
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"We did," he said, taking her coat and laying it on the spotless counter. "It's on neither our heads nor our hands. The only reason it's news now is that it's a mystery, and mysteries lose their interest if they're not solved quickly." Which he trusted this one would not be, as there was no evidence to link the crime to anyone at all.
Henry himself had not found the piglet's blood unduly sickening. It was purification. Cleansing. So far as he was concerned, the matter was well and truly settled, and he could soothe whatever fears the others might hold--the others, but especially Camilla.
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She let him take her coat, and stood back while he performed the startlingly domestic actions associated with cooking. She'd seen him deal with this kind of thing before, now and then. She was just seeing it in a different light, now -- seeing everything he did in a different light, really. He was good at everything, wasn't he? And precise. He even used a poultry thermometer. Camilla never bothered with that.
"So we just have to wait," she said.
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He turned to her, setting aside his potholders. "We have to stay together," he said, wanting to reach out and touch her hair and not quite daring to. "We can keep it quiet and secret, but we all have to do our part."
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A loaded question, perhaps, though she didn't realize it could be taken as such.
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Henry reached out and touched her cheek, just a light brush of his fingers. "I want you not to worry," he said. "About anything."
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"I can't not worry," she said. The unexpected little caress to her cheek only added to her agitation by heightening her awareness of him, that keen over-awareness she'd been at such pains to repress during the morning's classes. She reached to take his hand away, except once she'd done that, she couldn't let go. For a moment she stood there and stared at him, his fingers clutched in hers. Then something broke inside her, and she let go only to throw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, drinking in the scent of him this close.
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Her gesture surprised him, but only for a very brief moment. Henry wrapped his arms around her in turn, holding her in an embrace that was more soothing than anything else. He really didn't know how to comfort, but he could be there for her, at least--something real, something familiar, even if one aspect of that familiarity had changed. He was still Henry, no matter what.
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Cool small fingers found the back of his neck and crept up into his hair, and Camilla raised her head a little from its nest in his shoulder, but she didn't speak.
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He looked at her, also silent. He wanted to comfort her, if he could, and whatever she wanted he would give. Lightly his thumb stroked along her cheek, and he bent his head to place a light kiss on her forehead.
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