“Your Honor, I’m just as much a murderer as I am an atheist.”
The judge laughed at that.
Sophia did, too—except her laughter sounded bleak and hopeless. He was an atheist. He’d told her as much.
She laughed, and laughed, and her heart broke, and Annie screamed.
“He ain’t even a real Reverend! Ask him!”
Weatherby’s patience snapped. “Out of my courtroom! Now!”
Annie struggled mightily, but the bailiff, burly-armed and stony-faced, simply picked her up and tossed her out the courtroom door. When he returned, Sophia submitted willingly.
Why not? They’d lost.
Outside, the street offered only mud and brutal sunshine. Annie sank to the ground, bereft, heedless of the muck on her skirts. “That goddamn serpent!” she cried as Palmer sank down beside her.
Temperance stood, strangely quiet, looking defeated. “What do we do?”
Sophia kept laughing, until she imagined she might destroy something with the sound. “I, for one, am going home and getting drunk. No matter how much whiskey it takes.”
Annie looked up from Palmer’s arms. “Damn. At least someone ‘round here had themselves a good idea.”
***
Sophia downed an entire bottle in seven minutes flat, not least of all to distract herself from the buckskin sack on the bar. It had been sitting there when they walked in, and she didn’t need to open it to know what it contained.
Ten thousand dollars, as promised. Enough to pick up and start a new life.
Except she didn’t want to start a new life. The Blossom felt like home. So did the strange, jagged mountains and the bizarre, jewel-box sky. And Annie and Temperance and Palmer. Those things felt like hers.
The Professor refilled her glass as fast as she drained it. Sophia felt like a volcano waiting to erupt, burning with rage and despair.
Another whiskey went down.
She still wasn’t drunk.
Annie was, though—she draped over a bar stool, boneless as a gutted fish. “Kills me to say so, but I’d actually started to hope. Thought maybe he’d turn out to be decent.”
Temperance swirled her tea, her voice flat. “Maybe he means to let us stay.”
“Sure. Maybe a con man stole our home cause he’s fixing to give it back to us.” Annie snorted. “You realize he killed someone, right? And Irene never killed nobody. Makes so much more sense now.”
Temperance sighed. “You never read the journal. If you had, you…I don’t know. I felt compassion. I forgave Irene. In a way, I don’t feel any differently now, knowing it was him.”
Silence. The air stank of regret. Even Riley was morose—after begging for a belly rub, he’d sniffed at the whiskey Annie’d offered and turned up his nose. Then he’d crawled beneath the settee with the beleaguered air of a dog who considered himself cheated.
Sophia stared into the depths of her glass. The amber liquid sparkled, bright as a promise, just a few shades darker than the Reverend’s hair.
Kendall’s hair, she corrected.
She hadn’t said his name aloud yet. The word would taste too strange—the curve of the syllables too gentle to match such a hard-edged man.
Suddenly, whiskey leapt from the glass, searing her eyes and blurring her vision. When the burn died and she scrubbed her face clean, a desiccated digit bobbed, wrinkled and shrunken.
Henry’s middle finger. Having finally peeled off the ceiling, it wobbled around in her whiskey like a giant, obscene gesture delivered by life.
“Very fucking funny,” she said.
At her whistle, Riley trotted out from his hiding place, his tail swishing furiously, his hope renewed. Sophia fished out the finger and tossed it to the carpet. Snatching the treat, the terrier streaked away. Moments later, vigorous crunching emanated from beneath the settee.
Annie chuckled, then snorted, then cackled so hard she slid straight off her stool and onto the carpet. Her laughter verged on desperation—half hilarity, half sob. “Holy buckets. That was about as cold as a banker’s heart. Christ, now I’ve seen everything.”
Sophia paid little attention. The wheels in her mind spun in ever-tightening circles, spiraling in toward an idea that, once arrived at, seemed inevitable.
The twin Colts waited upstairs, holstered in their beautiful vest. It would be easy enough to go get them. So very, very easy to pull the triggers.
It would be so incredibly easy to shoot Kendall Gray, and this time, she would do it.
***
Though the sun sank to its lowest point, light still bubbled over the horizon, painting the roots of the sky crimson. From her window, Sophia scanned Paradise Alley, on edge. She’d anticipated the Reverend’s arrival, expected him to flaunt his victory in person. But his absence somehow worsened everything. In the silence, she couldn’t ignore that the floorboards beneath her, the luscious wallpaper, the chilled panes of glass—everything belonged to him.
Her ears strained. The house never quieted this early, but Temperance had retired to the settee in the parlor, her nose in a Bible. The Professor had sequestered his spectacularly drunken wife in the bedroom beneath the stairs.
The stillness stretched, taking on the cold gray shapelessness of a freezing fog. Sophia pulled her Colts from their holsters, spun the barrels, then tucked them back into her vest.
She couldn’t stand to wait much longer. Was Temperance still downstairs? If so, there’d be no way to leave without being seen. But maybe Madam had gone up to her bedroom.
Making a snap decision, Sophia threw on her sealskin parka and belted it tight enough to hide her guns. She tiptoed into the hall, then set her ear against Temperance’s closed door.
Nothing.
“What are you doing?”
Sophia’s stomach took a flying leap and landed somewhere near the ceiling. She turned around.
Temperance peered down, her brows knitted. With her hair untamed, sorrow sharpened her beauty to a dagger’s point. She stole all the air in the hallway. “Are you going somewhere?”
Sophia tried to cage the fluttering bird in her chest. “Yes.”
“Should I ask where?”
“Probably not.”
A stubborn ember of hope flared in Temperance’s face, anyway. “To the Reverend?”
“I don’t know why you keep calling him that. He’s just an imposter.”
“To Kendall, then?”
Sophia frowned. That was even worse. “Maybe.”
Temperance’s eyes widened. “I know what you’re about to do.”
Sophia stepped back, coming flush against the cool wood of Temperance’s door. “Then don’t try to stop me.”
“I won’t. Not if this is what you really want.”
She blinked. That sounded like approval—but couldn’t be. “There’s no other way to settle this.”
“Of course there is,” Temperance said. “We could all leave. Back to the Outside.”
“And spend the rest of our lives working ourselves to the bone? Behaving, doing whatever men tell us to? No, thank you.”
Temperance inclined her head. “Just…don’t do this for us, honey. Unless it’s for yourself, it’s nothing but a sacrifice.”
Well. Sophia couldn’t argue with that. Shooting the Reverend meant spending the rest of her life behind bars—and after that, the Blossom still wouldn’t go to Temperance. But he deserved it. He’d tricked her into caring, then cut her heart out. He was Adrian all over again, only worse. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
“I’m happy for you, then. Congratulations.”
Sophia struggled to make sense of the conversation. Temperance couldn’t possibly be condoning murder. Which meant…
Holy hell. She thinks I’m going to marry him, and save the Blossom.
A cruel stab of mirthless amusement pierced her. As if Gray’s proposal had ever been real.
At least now, he wouldn’t bother to pretend. Having won the game, he’d be free to unveil his true
self, at last. “Madam Hyacinth, I’m not—”
Temperance leaned down and kissed her.
Shock. It burst like a firework and passed just as quickly, and still, lips pressed against hers.
And…Sophia kissed back. Fury and vengeance faded to a murmur, pacified by the gentle insistence of smooth lips, of fingers twining in her hair.
If kissing the Reverend brought on scorching madness, this was the opposite. Temperance tasted of high, clear skies and cool mountain streams and wholeness.
A low purr gathered in Sophia’s throat. Giving it voice, she let her hands come up to brush the side of Temperance’s neck. A warm shiver met her fingertips. Beneath satin-smooth skin, a pulse beat hot and fast.
Bliss. Serenity. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d kissed someone who didn’t want something from her, and the sensation unfolded like a gift. She leaned in, letting thought trickle away. A sublime sweetness waited, if she could only find it, somewhere amid the hushed serenade of joined breath and soft lips.
Temperance broke away.
With reluctance, Sophia opened her eyes. She tried to hold fast to the peace hovering just beyond her grasp, but it slipped between her fingers as the hallway solidified.
“I’m sorry.” Temperance looked stricken. “I didn’t mean…”
Sophia waited. What? To kiss me?
Temperance never finished. She just stepped past in a whirlwind of claret-colored fabric and floral scent. “Forgive me,” she murmured, and disappeared into her bedroom.
Sophia stood in the hall for a long time, listening to silence. Whatever had just happened, it still permeated the air like vapor, evanescent, a dream half-remembered and already dissipating.
Eventually, the moment dwindled.
Many minutes later, Sophia convinced herself to go kill a man.
***
Across town, the rectory stood empty. Oil lamps burned low, flinging swaying shadows across the finery, and in the corner, the narrow bed lay in disarray. Margaret was the only sign of life, purring from the darkness.
The place smelled like Gray. Sophia had never noticed before, but now the scent of salt and polished wood and smoky lamp wick conjured an image so solid she could almost touch him.
Not that she wanted to.
She shed her parka and draped it over the sofa. An aura of waiting permeated the room, a sense like a pent-up breath. On the desk, a half-eaten crust of bread sat on a saucer amidst a scatter of crumbs, and by the door, a pair of polished shoes sat overturned, as if he’d cast them off in favor of something else, just before leaving.
She sank onto the tufted settee—the same one she’d kissed him on—and imagined how things would play out. He’d stride in, gloating. Even after he saw the guns, he wouldn’t expect her to shoot. He never did. But this time, a hole would appear, a tiny rosebud blossoming over his heart. Then he’d fall down and his blood would stain the fine Turkish carpets and he’d never look at her or croon her name or tell his silkily truthful lies ever again.
Nausea struck her like an assault, thick and disorienting. Was that really what she wanted? To drown the carpets with red? To extinguish those crystal-bright eyes?
Sitting there, surrounded by his things, by the reminders of his humanity, she had no answer.
***
A half hour passed before Sophia remembered the safe. It waited beside the sofa, draped in fabric, exactly as before.
Rising, she unveiled the cast-iron beast. Victorious Safe & Lock Co., the door proclaimed. Portland, Oregon.
Kendall grew up in a brothel in Oregon, Temperance had said, after reading the journal.
Oregon. Funny how Sophia had missed that before.
Of course, by now, Gray must’ve changed the combination. For all his flaws, he was no fool. And yet, as she reached into her memory and plucked out the numbers, a dim and desperate hope gathered in the pit of her stomach.
She spun the dial. If the safe opened, it would mean…what? That he trusted her? That she might find some way beyond this awful, gutting betrayal?
Thunk.
Her heart stopped. She swung the door wide.
Her pulse restarted, double-time. Inside the safe, glittering gold bars crowded her vision, packed tighter than seemed possible. Thousands of dollars. Hundreds of thousands. Every inch glistened with yellow—all but the center of the bottom shelf, where a slim, leather-bound journal lay. On top, a folded sheet of paper bore a few loops of cursive.
Sophia.
The room shrank to an airless sphere, just large enough to contain her and the safe.
Sophia scanned the paper three times, certain her name must be a trick of the light. But there it was. Each swoop and curve scorched her vision, and when she closed her eyes, the letters remained, incandescent against the darkness.
She opened her eyes and flipped the paper over. The handwriting there was the same.
Everything I have is yours.
Below that, unbelievably, the scraps of her postcard of St. Margaret sat glued to the paper, pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle—the very same ones she’d flung into the darkness, only minutes after meeting Kendall Gray. He must have spent half the night finding every last one.
A fierce cry sounded in Sophia’s blood. With shaking hands, she unfolded the sheet.
Inside was a deed, transferring the Scarlet Blossom to one Temperance Hyacinth.
Stunned and moist-eyed, Sophia folded the parchment into her trouser pocket. Even the shimmering array of gold bars, worth more than the Blossom ten times over, didn’t mean as much as that spare sheet of paper.
He’d done this…for her.
She probed at the thought gingerly—like testing a sore tooth, only to find it painless. Instead of hurt, she found warmth and light and a deep, abiding hope.
There was no other explanation. The unchanged combination, the gold, the deed, the journal—his whole life offered into her hands. If she chose, she could bring the diary to the Mounties, accuse Kendall of murder, and see him locked up while she walked away unscathed.
But she wouldn’t. Not with the way her blood sang a perfect accompaniment to the percussion of her heart. As if a screeching cacophony of musical instruments had suddenly found tune with one other, a symphony swelled inside her.
But where was he?
Two thoughts occurred to her, then. One, the gold had no explanation. He’d claimed ignorance of the claims Henry and George had sold. So where had all the money come from? Two, his absence, at three in the morning, had an ominous overtone. The letter did, too, as if he’d wanted her to have everything, but hadn’t expected to tell her so himself.
A strident note of alarm mingled with the swelling music. What if he’d left town? What if he’d been taken?
Sophia scanned the room with new eyes. No signs of a struggle.
I’m being ridiculous.
She sat back. Wherever he was, she’d simply wait until he returned.
And she might as well pass the time wisely.
56. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.
Kitty told me everything she knows of Lord William Gray. Some, I already knew. Some came as a surprise.
My mother has loved Lord Gray since before I was born, Kitty said. So much that she dreams of becoming his wife. She’s even begged.
But Lord William has always kept her on a cruel string. “When I make my fortune,” he once said, “we’ll marry.” Well, he made his fortune. Then he told Mother to wait until his parents passed away, to spare them the indignity of their son marrying a whore. Well, dearest Mother and Father Gray died two years ago. Then Lord William demanded she wait until he saved for a proper wedding.
Well, he did save for a proper wedding. Except he married a debutante, some fragile beauty of proper breeding, not eight months back.
Poor, foolish Mother.
Despite myself, Kitty’s story touched a chord of sadness. I wanted to ask Mother—why waste precious years on someone who considers you of no consequence? Why debase yourself
for the affections of a man with cold eyes, who frequents a whorehouse behind his young wife’s back?
Except I didn’t. Mother hasn’t spoken to me since I killed Pliskin. She only glares at me in the hallway, or listens at doors when I strategize with the girls.
I ignore her, and remind myself of how thoroughly she abandoned me.
There’s no hope for amity anymore.
Now my plan against Lord William is set. It’s an inelegant thing, a simple and straightforward blackmail that bears no artistry at all. But I have a household to maintain, and mouths to feed, and such things bear significant expense. I simply don’t have time to weave something more clever.
So I’ve told Lord Gray he’s my father. Our coloring is enough alike, anyway. I cornered him in the hallway, dredged up a great display of emotion, and pretended I’d only just found out.
My intent was twofold. By convincing him I am his own flesh and blood, I might keep him from haunting my steps. And Lord Gray has agreed to a substantial payment in order to keep my accusation from his pretty new wife. A small fortune, if I might describe it as such. He arrives tonight to meet with Kitty and me.
And lest, dear diary, you think me unprepared to meet with treachery, I’ve hidden two girls away in a hotel in the city. Unless Kitty and I reach them safely after the exchange, they’ll call on Lord Gray’s darling wife in the morning, message in hand.
It’s as close to foolproof as I can manage.
Wish me luck.
57. Sophia.
From the first page, the journal pulverized her heart, then scattered the pieces.
At sixteen, a man had raped him. Threads of the past entwined, and Sophia suddenly understood how very true Kendall’s claim to virginity must have been. Except that wasn’t exactly what he’d said, was it?
I’ve never made love to a woman before.
To a woman. Such specific phrasing.
The room closed in as she sifted past the last entry. Nothing but empty pages. She tried to imagine what might have happened with Lord William. Something horrible. Something that had broken Kendall the way Irene had said.
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 30
