The May Queen Murders by Sarah Jude Page A

said.
    Which was true. Rook hadn’t been in class. August claimed what
    we’d found in the field had left him bone-sick. Looking at the sad
    hollows of Rook’s face, I saw August hadn’t lied.
    “What’s goin’ on, Rook?” I asked.
    He gestured to the horses. “Wanna ride?”
    I had reasons not to go: the danger of being outside at dusk, fear-
    ing what he might tell me — and what I might say, hurting Heather.
    But it was Rook asking me.
    I slipped inside the stable with him. Dust danced in the sunbeams
    where light poured through the barred windows. His boots scattered
    hay on the concrete floor while barn swallows nested. Rook lifted
    two bridles from the tack room, and it was all I could do not to pic-
    ture him sitting with his legs apart as Heather spun topless before
    him. Bile stung my throat.
    He slung the bridles over his shoulder. “I wanted to see you soon-
    er, but my pops said you needed space after . . .”
    His words trailed off as he handed me Whimsy’s bridle and I eased
    it over her head. If he saw how my hands shook, he didn’t let on.
    He followed with his blue roan gelding, Journey. We rode bareback
    down the Glen’s far northwestern edge, wandering near the riverbed.
    I listened to the horses’ hooves against the earth, their tails whisking
    in tandem.
    “My folks say if you dream of someone, they’re awake and pacing,”
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    Rook said as he negotiated Journey around a swath of bel adonna.
    “Do you have trouble sleeping, Ivy?”
    I slowed Whimsy’s gait. He dreamed of me?
    Heather, Heather, Heather . . .
    Yet I didn’t want to break the spell by saying her name.
    Rook steered Journey in a half circle to peer at me. “I shouldn’t
    have said anything.”
    “Why’d you come out here with me instead of Heather?” I asked.
    “Why would I be with Heather?” He seemed puzzled. “You’re the
    one I want to talk to.”
    He dug his heels into Journey’s sides. He wore new boots, not the
    ones with the scuffed toes. The horse sauntered onward. I kicked
    Whimsy forward and launched into a posting trot, my hips moving
    up and down with her rhythm.
    The wind blew my skirt even higher above my knees. I listened
    to the rush of the river and groan of Denial Mill turning. Behind
    us were more fields and barns succumbing to decay. A scarecrow
    leaned on a post, his overal s stuffed with hay and a tattered, leather
    hat hiding his sack face.
    Alone with me, Rook watched the dark river water sloshing over
    the rocky shore. His fists wound in Journey’s reins until the knuckles
    protruded white. “I’m tired, Ivy. Too damn many nightmares.”
    “T-tell me what you dream,” I said.
    I motioned to a sizable chunk of limestone half submerged in the
    water. It was big enough for the both of us to sit. We weren’t pre-
    pared, no blanket to protect against the rock’s scrape, no lantern to
    light the way once it grew dark. We’d made a stupid move coming out
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    alone when death roamed the Glen. Yet my blood tingled. Alive. So
    alive. Scared. So scared. Of what I’d hear. Of being with him.
    I dismounted Whimsy and took her to the water’s edge where she
    drank. Rook brought down Journey, and we unclipped the horses’
    reins and climbed onto the limestone. Rook’s legs dangled over the
    rock’s edge, his body deflated like his insides were no longer ripe
    with blood. The wind was cool, but his heat radiated against my
    arm. Questions rolled around my mind, and I couldn’t ruin the hush
    by speaking. Because I liked that moment. I couldn’t bear to think
    about its price.
    Rook cracked his knuckles, blurting out, “I’m thinkin’ ’bout leav-
    ing the Glen.”
    “What? No!” I felt as if kicked from behind and teetering on the
    rock’s edge. “Y-you can’t!”
    Before I could stop myself, I reached for him as if by latching our
    fingers, I could stop him from running. Heather had already pulled
    away. I couldn’t lose both of them. I squeezed his hand, tight