The Forest of Sleepers (Nowhere Book 2)

t w en t y - f o u r: b e d s i d e

No one knew why they were where they were that night.

Marigold didn't know why she was in her room, listening to her record player as worried tears trailed down her face when she still had three oil changes to finish by tomorrow.

Ophelia didn't know why she went and spilled everything to her mother--about Gwydyr, about Marshall, about everything--and was now crying in her lap.

For Birdie, she didn't know why she wasn't at home with them.

Usually, she wouldn't want to be anywhere else but her own living room with her parents and her sisters.

But for some reason, it felt suffocating tonight.

She couldn't comfort her sisters because none of them could say what they were all thinking because none of them knew what they were thinking.

Were they supposed to believe that it was truly Wyatt Best buried in that ancient cathedral? It was laughable.

Almost.

It was laughable if it weren't for the mysteries of the forest. If it weren't for the darkness that lurked there. If it weren't for the cruel irony of fate making it look so laughable that it wasn't laughable at all. It was terrifying.

Birdie sat in the armchair beside Evelyn Best's bed. The electric heater rattled in the corner, doing its best to ward off the chill that seeped up through the floorboards.

She didn't know why she was there.

Maybe some sixth sense had told her that Wyatt would go into the forest, leaving Evelyn alone for the night. Maybe she'd just needed to get out and her steps led her somewhere familiar.

Either way, caring for someone else helped Birdie get her mind off of things.

"The other blanket," Evelyn said, tossing her current quilt onto the floor disdainfully.

It took Birdie a moment to shuffle through the closet to pull out another blanket, which looked almost exactly like the quilt but was yellow instead of blue.

This seemed to be more to Evelyn's taste.

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Best?" Birdie asked, adjusting the pillow behind Evelyn's head. Birdie had given her hair a wash, and it sprawled out in curly gray tendrils across the faded material.

"I'm alright. You do it better than that boy." She caught herself thoughtfully. "No--no, he's a good boy."

Her wrinkled mouth formed a line that matched the crease between her eyebrows. "Wyatt," she said slowly as if saying his name for the first time.

"Wyatt," Birdie agreed, tucking her in. The name was unfamiliar on her tongue as if she were saying it for the first time as well.

Birdie dimmed the lantern beside the bed--an old kerosine lamp that Evelyn had insisted on using.

"Tell me something interesting," Evelyn said, staring up at the ceiling like a child waiting for the hushed tones of a story.

Birdie swallowed. If only Evelyn knew how many interesting things she could tell her. But the only one that came to mind was how her son was somehow an ancient king, buried in the ruins of a forest.

It didn't seem like the best thing to put her to sleep.

So, Birdie said, "Why don't you tell me a story instead?"

Evelyn shifted her eyes over to where Birdie sat. She had a protest on her lips, but she closed her mouth and grew thoughtful.

The sound of the grandfather clock downstairs chiming filled the space in-between.