What remained of her hope sank like a stone. Still, as the Corporal rose to go, regret heavy on his face, she believed that he would help if he could.
In the wake of his departure, Sophia stared out the window. Out back, Palmer closed the horses in the paddock, his braid glinting in the sun. What would he think if he knew the reality of Madam’s death? If he knew the Blossom’s future was in peril? Would he hate her for failing Irene, for withholding the truth?
Would they all hate her?
Squaring her shoulders, Sophia told herself it didn’t matter. She hadn’t come to Caribou Crossing to make friends. She’d come to forge a new, gold-filled life for herself, and that meant keeping the Blossom out of the Reverend’s hands, whatever that took.
Now, a battle was coming. She could taste it in the memories of Gray’s gun beneath her chin, in the echoing silence of the grieving house. And when strife landed on the Blossom’s doorstep, she’d need allies, people who cared as much about keeping the house as she did.
Sophia’s stomach turned over. As uneasy as the thought made her, it was time to tell the truth.
13. The Professor.
Palmer checked his pocket watch. 6:53pm.
Six hundred fifty-three—a beautiful number. Prime. One of his favorites, too, with its cobalt iridescence, exactly like a blue jay’s feathers in the sun.
He let the number fill his mind, its satin shine drowning out the stink of rotting hay, the squelch of muddy hooves, the miner shouting two blocks away. He let it eclipse Madam Irene’s funeral, too, which still felt all wrong, even though it was over.
The only sensation he didn’t silence was the tingle on his forearm, where she had touched him. That still glimmered, shining from his skin like a handprint made of light.
He snapped the watch shut. On the ground, Riley sat at his feet, gazing up.
Palmer reached down to pet the dog. He’d always been fond of animals. They never lied, the way people did. They never said one thing and meant another, and they didn’t expect you to guess their thoughts.
After delivering a good belly rub, Palmer headed through the back door. Crossing through the kitchen, he emerged into the parlor.
He froze. By the bar, all three women clustered, staring.
Sophia’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I’ve got something to tell you, Professor.”
He studied her. Madam had worn that same expression whenever the finances went bad or a girl fell ill.
Sophia was frowning, then. Frowning meant unhappy.
“I haven’t told you all how Madam really died,” Sophia said, “because I’d hoped the Mounties would help. But it looks like we’re on our own.”
Annie frowned, too. “What’re you saying? Madam fell, plain and simple. It was an accident. A godawful one, but just an accident. Right?”
Sophia waited seven seconds before answering. Palmer knew because the ticking clock on the mantel measured the delay.
Seven was prime, too—falling-snow white and just as quiet.
“Sometimes accidents are someone’s fault,” Sophia said.
Temperance crossed her arms. “Like whose?”
“Like the Reverend Gray’s. He was here the night Madam fell, and he’s the reason she died.”
Silence. Except it wasn’t silence, really. The clock ticked. Temperance’s cloak scratched against her dress. Footfalls sounded on the wooden sidewalk outside. The sounds all piled atop one another and Palmer retreated by focusing on his arm, where Annie had touched him atop Shinbone Hill. The spot still tingled, like the prickle left over days after a burn.
“No,” Temperance said. “The Reverend is a good man.”
Sophia laughed, but her face didn’t match the expression Palmer had cataloged as amusement. “No. Irene died because of him. And now he means to take our home away.”
***
Noise. Wailing, crying, everything so loud. The cacophony echoed the confusion inside him.
Blindly, Palmer fled toward the dead fireplace and counted, squaring three until the figure swelled into the millions. Bright numbers rushed by like river water through the sluice boxes, yet even the beautiful symmetry of mathematics couldn’t wash away his dread.
The Reverend meant to take the house.
The Scarlet Blossom was the only place he’d ever belonged, the only place he could be himself. The only place he could be close to her. Things had changed enough already—Madam’s death had broken his heart, left a hole in his life. If he lost his home, now, too…
Everything inside his skin went wrong, wrong, wrong. He started over.
Three. Nine. Twenty-seven. Eighty-one. Two-hundred-forty-three. Seven-hundred-twenty-nine. Two-thousand—
A hand landed on his elbow. Palmer almost pulled away, but Annie’s soft twang slid into his ear.
“Sugar?”
Numbers still flowed in a river of color and texture, but when her heart-shaped face came into focus, they changed. He counted Annie’s freckles and let his mind empty.
Her cornflower eyes widened. “What’re you doing with your hands?”
Palmer looked down. His fingers flapped at empty air, little fluttering wings with minds of their own. Something he hadn’t done in years. He forced them into stillness. “Sorry.”
“Why don’t we go on and get you somewhere quiet?”
***
Off the kitchen, in his bedroom beneath the stairs, Palmer watched as Annie gaped at the walls. He stretched out on his bed, his thoughts anchored around her.
“I ain’t never been in your room before,” she said. “Did you draw all these?”
“Yes.”
“Goodness.” She drifted, trailing her fingers over the sketches papering the walls. Pulling out the desk chair, she stepped up to inspect the pictures on the ceiling. Here and there, she lingered, studying a piece long enough that he counted her breaths. Her chest rose and fell against the shining taffeta of her dress.
Seventeen breaths, for one. Prime, seventeen filled his mind with a smooth wave of shining obsidian. Beautiful.
Nine, for another. Not prime, but a square of three—blood-red and velvety, nine felt like the petals of a new rose.
Annie paused on the portrait of Irene the longest. Twenty-two breaths, but Palmer detested twenty-two. It was beige and crumbly, like old cheese.
Still, the numbers soothed him.
“I hadn’t the faintest notion you were an artist.” Annie wandered toward the bed. “Ain’t you just full of surprises?”
He eased under the blankets; their weight calmed him.
“Why’d you draw everything on sheets of music?”
He thought about how best to answer. He could spend hours describing how the pencil lines melded with music’s mathematics and became one elegant flowering of numerical art—if only he could get the ideas from his mind to his mouth. But words never behaved the way he wanted them to. “Because they’re more beautiful that way.”
“I’ll say. Some of these animals, it’s like they might walk right off the page. And the cities, well they don’t rightly exist anywhere on this green Earth.”
“No.” He pulled the covers to his chin.
“Full of surprises,” she said again, her voice soft. She sat down on the mattress.
How easily he met her eyes. With anyone else, the decision had to be made consciously, but with her…
“I know this is an awful shock, sugar. And Sophia did us wrong by staying quiet. But we’re gonna do right by Madam. I promise you that.”
Palmer didn’t ask what that meant. If he didn’t think about the awful feelings piled up beyond the door, they would stay there, banished by the glittering blue of Annie’s lamp-lit eyes. “Are you angry at Sophia?” he asked. “I can’t tell.”
She reached out. Her hand stilled, poised above his skin. “Can I touch you?”
He could hardly breathe. “Yes.”
“Madam said you didn’t like it.”
“Only if it’s a stranger.�
�
Her fingertips found his cheek, then tucked a stray lock of hair back into his braid. Sizzling streams of light followed her touch, as if some unknowable prime number flowed from her very skin. When she leaned down, her breath fanned across his face, sweet as honey.
“I’m not angry at her, sugar,” she whispered. “I’m furious. More furious than I’ve ever been in my whole damn life. And you can bet I’m gonna do something about it.”
14. Sophia.
Sophia slid down the banister, then vaulted off in a neat tuck flip. When her feet hit the parlor’s purple carpet, the jangle of full pockets punctuated her resolve. She patted the front of her trousers, making sure she had everything needed for her new mission.
A voice sounded behind her. “I’d ask what in Sam hell I just saw, if I wasn’t about to knock you clear into next Tuesday. I can’t believe you waited all this damn time to tell us the truth.”
Guilt prickled; Sophia turned.
Annie barreled across the parlor, her blazing hair streaming out behind her. When she came close, she didn’t slow. Instead, she brought her fist up, lashing out with a right hook.
Without thinking, Sophia stepped from the trajectory. Air brushed her cheek as the blow whistled past. “Whoa.” She threw her hands up in a gesture of peace. “I don’t want to fight.”
Annie’s fiery brows slashed downward as she recovered her balance. “Why not? ‘Cause you know I’ll win?”
More like…I’d hate to hurt you. “Umm…sure. That.”
“Well, it don’t matter to me if you participate, so long as you get what’s coming.”
Sophia backed away, edging around the parlor. In a way, Annie’s well-deserved anger actually brought some measure of relief. With the burden of her secret lifted, she could breathe easier. Still… “I know I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t want this to happen.”
“And what’s this, exactly?”
“You getting angry. And doing that scowling thing with your face.”
In response, Annie grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it. Sophia tucked into a somersault, then sprang up five feet away as wood shattered against the stage. Splintered shards stung her cheek and showered the carpet.
Annie flushed. “This circus shit’s getting old real quick. Will you hold still?”
“Not if you’re going to hit me.”
“Well, I ain’t stopping ‘til I do.” Annie advanced, her ample chest heaving. Droplets formed in the corners of her eyes, shining like jewels in the slanting light.
The naked pain behind those unshed tears struck Sophia like a fist, halting her mid-stride. Had her confession only made things worse?
Making a snap decision, she raised her chin. “Fine. Punch me, if it’ll make you feel better. Just once, though. You do it twice and you won’t like what happens.”
Annie paused, eyes narrowing. “What? This some kinda trick?”
“No tricks.” Sophia padded into the parlor’s center and waited there. “I only kept the truth from you because…well, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I’m sorry.”
“’Bout to be sorrier, in a second.” Annie stalked close, then paused, turning away. Changing her mind?
No. She wound up and swung, delivering a punch that carried her entire weight.
Lightning exploded in Sophia’s vision, followed by a thunderclap of pain. Reality skittered, skipped a few beats…
When she opened her eyes, the floor cradled her back. Glittering chandeliers dangled overhead, filling her view. She rubbed at her pounding jaw.
Holy hell. Someone taught this girl to hit.
A red blur streaked in. Annie charged, her fist raised for another haymaker.
Scrambling up, Sophia escaped the next swing by the width of a razorblade. She used the opening to sweep Annie’s feet sideways and send her crashing to the carpet. Catching hold of red hair, she pulled until Annie’s head wrenched back. “I said once. And I’m pretty sure you can count just fine.”
Laughing, Annie tried to buck, but for all her fire, her strength was limited. “I’m just getting started, sugar.”
Sophia pulled a Colt from inside her coat, pressing the steel barrel to Annie’s cheek. “How about now?”
Annie only laughed harder—except those tears overflowed now, too. Her entire body shook.
Frowning, Sophia scooted away. Anger she could handle—but hysterical grief? That was a different creature, one she was ill-equipped for.
Annie rolled onto her side as her laughter gave way to wrenching sobs. Red hair cascaded over the carpet, a fiery torrent mingling with glittering tears.
Sophia quavered. Not only had she let Irene die, but she’d made it worse at every turn. Withholding the truth, then telling—even letting Annie hit her had rectified nothing.
In her depths, an undertow of regret swirled. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Thankfully, salvation arrived. Temperance appeared on the landing above, brows drawn. After one glance, she took the stairs two at a time and knelt to rub at Annie’s shaking shoulders. “Shh. It’s all right, honey. I’m here.”
Annie stared at the wall, cheeks glistening, until her sobs quieted. “The thought of losing this place is tearing me up. Inside, I’m about as black as the devil’s riding boots right now. I just…I can’t go back to the Outside. I can’t. But Gray’s gonna take away the one place that’s ever kept me safe.”
Temperance’s eyes darkened. “We’re all frightened.”
Sophia probed at her cheek. Dull pain pulsed along her jaw, but it didn’t compare to the ache of her guilt.
“If the Reverend really means to do this,” Annie told the wall, “we gotta stop him.”
Sophia leveraged up off the floor. Gold dust from the carpet clung to her trousers and she brushed it off, sending a glittering cloud into the air. “I was about to. Until you punched me.”
Temperance’s brows knitted. “I don’t want you getting involved. Or getting hurt.”
“I’m already involved. You would be, too, if you’d seen Irene fall.”
“I just can’t picture it.” Early twilight lanced through the red curtains, tinting Temperance’s dusky skin crimson. “I always thought the Reverend had the face of an angel.”
“He does,” Annie said. “That’s the problem. Everyone trusts him. How’re we gonna fight against that?”
Sophia blew out a frustrated breath. Holstering her revolver, she double-checked the extra ammunition in her pockets. “I had a plan. Still do.”
Annie raised up on her elbows. “What plan?”
“Simple. I march across town and threaten to decorate the wallpaper with the Reverend Gray’s brains. He can’t steal the Blossom if he’s dead.”
After a beat of silence, Annie broke into a slow grin. “That’s what you were fixing to do just now? Well, now you’re talking my language. After the godawful week we just had, I could use some fun, anyhow.”
Sophia shook her head. “You and that fist of yours can stay right here. I’m going alone.”
“Like hell you are. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna stay and rot while you play hero. Besides, this place means just as much to me as it does to you. More, I reckon.”
Temperance rose in one fluid motion. “Nobody’s going anywhere.”
Annoyance sparked in Sophia’s chest, illuminating the dark space her discarded heart had left behind. “If you think I’m going to stand around, waiting for Gray to steal our earnings—to steal our home—you’re mad.”
“I’m not letting you kill a man.”
“I’m not going to kill him.” Sophia crossed her arms, struggling to rein in her irritation. “I’m going to threaten him. I’ll only pull the trigger if he gets really cocky.”
From the floor, Annie giggled.
“No,” Temperance said.
Sophia stared. “Who left you in charge?”
“Madam Irene. And Proverbs twenty twenty-two tells us—”
“Dear Lord,” Annie interjected. “Here we g
o again.”
“—never to repay evil, but to wait for the Lord, for He will save us.”
“With all due respect,” Annie said, “you can take your Bible verses and stuff ‘em. Ain’t nobody coming to save us but ourselves.”
Sophia helped the redhead up, surprised to find an ally. She regarded Temperance, who had barricaded the door with her body. “So we do…nothing? That’s your plan?”
“Madam built this house as a place of unity. As a place of safety, for any woman who needed one. She wouldn’t want us waging war here.”
Irritation heated to an angry glow. “Irene would’ve wanted us to keep this place by any means necessary.”
“Damn right,” Annie said.
Temperance raised her chin. “Maybe so. But we don’t know what the Reverend truly intends, do we?”
Sophia ground her teeth. “He intends to take the Blossom for his own. He said so, to my face. Are you calling me a liar?”
“Of course not, honey. But even so, what do you think’ll happen if a fairy threatens a man of God in this town? You’ll spend months in jail. Years, maybe. And the rest of us’ll be run out of town, at best.”
Sophia paused. She hadn’t considered that.
Annie grumbled. “Are you saying we oughtta just stand by while he lays claim to this place? Sophia’s right. Look, you know I love you like a sister, but when Madam left you the Blossom, she damn well meant for you to protect it. So far, you ain’t done nothing to that effect.”
Temperance’s jaw worked. For a slim moment, she looked uncertain.
Annie kept going. “Irene wanted you to be our next Madam, but that means you gotta do something. Don’t just forbid us from defending ourselves. If you got a better idea, then say so, but don’t ask us to stand around here and wait for the Reverend to break us apart.”
At that, Temperance’s uncertainty grew, unmistakable now. “I’m only a fairy. I don’t know anything about running a brothel, much less defending one.”
“Sure you do. You’ve been here the longest. And with the Professor around to keep the books, you don’t gotta do much. Just lead us, like Madam always did. Keep the Blossom in one piece. That’s what she would’ve wanted.”
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 8
