The Wood Wife by Terri Windling (the false prince TXT) 📕

“Tucson.”

“Tucson?”

“Why does everybody say it that way? It’s not the end of the earth.”

“No, but it’s surely next door to it. You must be a: Davis Cooper’s house. How long are you going to be there? When are you coming home?”

Home to Tat was London, just as to Nigel it was L.A. Neither could imagine anyone actually choosing to remain in any other place. For Maggie, it was the idea of “home” that was hard for her to imagine. Itchy feet, her granddaddy always said. She’d moved between half a dozen countries, trailing friends, lovers, possessions in her wake, and all of those places were home, and none of them. She wasn’t quite sure what “home” meant.

“I don’t know where I’m going next,” she told Tat, just as she’d told Nigel yesterday. “I expect I’ll be in Tucson for a while. Davis’s house is in the mountains, not the city—rather more isolated than I’d imagined. But I’ll have a nice warm winter here and plenty of work to keep me busy. If I’m going to give this book a go, there’s a hell of a lot of research ahead.”

“So gather up the papers and bring them to London. You’re going to have to travel anyway, aren’t you? To interview the people who knew him? Most of his old colleagues must be in New York or over here.”

“Or dead,” Maggie said with a sigh. “But I’m nowhere near the interview stage yet. First I’ve got five decades worth of papers to go through. And there’s something else,” Maggie added, struggling to find the words to express it. “He wrote those poems here, Tat. About this land. These mountains. I haven’t been here a full day yet, and I’ve already realized that everything I thought about his poetry is wrong. That thesis I wrote years ago is nonsense. I thought The Wood Wife was rooted in his memories of rural England. But he wrote it in a landscape that’s like nothing else I’ve ever seen. If I can’t understand this place, or what Cooper found so compelling here, then I’ll never really understand his work. Does that make sense to you?”

“It does,” Tat conceded. “Which is a pity, because I really wanted to talk you into coming over here. I miss you, girl. Well, maybe I’ll try to get over there instead. It will have to be after my show in November; I’ve still got too many prints to finish. London is horrid in the winter, anyway. It would be good to escape the rain. If I come to visit you in the wild west, do you promise me sunshine, art supply stores, and handsome western lads to go dancing with?”

“Will you settle for sunshine and art supplies? There’s a handsome western lad next door, but he’s too young, and probably too aware of just how handsome he is.”

“Ummmm, just my type. The ones that have ‘Trouble’ written all over them. You know I have a weakness for those sexy American accents.”

“You’re the only Brit I know who does. Everyone else winces when we open our mouths. Will you really come, Tat?”

“Girl, I’ll book the flight today. What do you want me to bring you?”

“Single malt from the Highlands and the latest on Di.”

“You’re on,” Tat said. “Now it’s back to the drawing board for me. Ring me if you get lonely. Cheers.”

Maggie hung up the phone slowly. She hadn’t felt particularly lonely before, but she suddenly felt so now. The house was too empty. The mountain was quiet but for an astonishing racket of birds. The sun was still just a glow on the hills but the sky had paled to lavender. The wash had dried out during the night, and now was just a broad expanse of sand.

She saw something lurking out in the yard, on the far side of the cottonwood tree. She stepped closer to the window. It was a coyote, standing motionless. She’d never seen one close up before. It was the size of a German shepherd, but tawny colored, bushy tailed, with the ears and pointed muzzle of a fox. The coyote was skinny, its ribs sticking out, and an eye was damaged, filmed over. It stared at her through its one good eye, and she stared back, feeling strangely moved. It was beautiful in its wildness. Then it turned silently and trotted away, heading through the trees to the bed of the wash. Maggie let out the breath she’d been holding as she watched it disappear.

She went outside onto the porch and sat down in a rocking chair. The air still held the nighttime’s chill and she was glad for her bathrobe’s warmth. It was one she had pinched off Nigel long ago, and still held the memories of their best days together. Now the robe’s flannel was faded and threadbare, but its touch was a familiar comfort in this unfamiliar place. In the pocket was Davis’s envelope. Maggie pulled it out, stared at it, then she broke the thick wax seal.

My dear Marguerita, if you find this note, then I fear that I have failed once more. I pray to God that I will not—but prayers are worth little on a gin-sodden tongue, and my God has long turned a deaf ear.

Yes, more secrets, even now. I dare not tell you more. Words have power, remember that, woman. Even written on a page. Letters. Runes. Alphabets. The stars, the stones, the very trees reveal the language of the earth.

I am leaving you my house, and everything that’s in it. My books. Anna’s paintings. My journals, and my notes for poems—do with them as you will. Did you guess that I’ve been writing poems? “The Saguaro Forest” is my last work. I wrote it for the mountain. Someday you’ll understand.

Until we meet again,

Davis Cooper

April the 16th,

the Night of the Dark Stone

Maggie read the letter over twice more. It made no more sense than the first time. She was right—he’d