“I need to send a telegram.” She handed me a pencil and a message form. I checked the posted fee schedule, laid out the coins Hettie had sent for Granny Ardith’s payment, and began.
Miss Agatha Pimsler, Care of Children’s Benevolence Society, NYC, New York
Must speak on matter both urgent and private. Take first train to Wheeler. Reply with anticipated arrival time. Please hurry, and keep confidential. Verity Pruitt.
The operator tapped out the message on the telegraph machine, her eyes flicking occasionally to the novel in her lap. “Is that a good book?” I asked, hoping the casual question would distract from the furtive nature of my telegram.
“It’s excellent,” the operator said, grinning. “The Brady Detectives series. You ought to try one. There’s a new mystery every week, and there’s always someone in peril who needs saving.” She handed me a receipt and went back to her book. “But they all end well, and that’s partly why I like them so much.”
“I’ll see if I can get my hands on a copy.” I pushed open the door and inhaled deeply, filling my chest with humid air and hope. “That sounds like just what I need right now.”
The fog-draped nights dragged on. For years she’d been conscious for each lonely second. Neither did she sleep in the day, when she played her role, smiling and putting on the mask to appear like everyone else. The old man who pretended to be her family knew the truth, as did the crone who’d done the working that trapped her. But no one else was the wiser. Fools, all of them.
She expected her spirit to wake as it always did to the blank nothingness. She expected to spend the seemingly endless hours ’til dawn alone. Always alone.
But tonight, a little girl sat cross-legged by the river.
She approached the child slowly, the hem of her gown dragging the black sand. The girl regarded her with recognition, unsurprised by her presence here. With a small hand, she skipped a rock over the obsidian water. It skittered to the far bank.
“I fell in the well, and I couldn’t breathe,” the little girl said.
She recalled the long-ago eventide when she herself had crashed through the surface of the water. She’d do it all so differently if she could. Every single thing. She would have stayed. And lived.
It was far, far too late now.
“I watched in the woods while some men with a ladder took me out of the well,” the child went on. “They couldn’t see me or hear me, because I’m dead now.”
Death had a way of making things so very matter-of-fact.
Over the girl’s shoulder, hovering high in the air, the gate appeared. It came each night, and it was always closed. She didn’t know precisely what lay beyond the gate, only that she should’ve passed into it.
The child lifted a small hand, pointing to the tightly closed wrought-iron panels. “Do you know how to open it?” Her dark brows drew together in a frown. “I’m supposed to go through it.”
She knelt beside the child, placing her arms around the thin shoulders. Until this moment she’d never considered that anyone else could join her here, in the Hollow. She looked to the bracelet on her wrist, with its woven strands of hair. Sparks of understanding flickered to life. Plans began to take shape in her mind.
It was too late to change the past and the decisions that led to this forsaken existence. But perhaps there was a way to make it right, at least in part. Perhaps she could take back something of what was owed to her after all.
“No, I can’t open it. But I’m glad you’re here with me now.” She stroked the child’s dark hair, thinking of another little girl. “What if I bring us someone else to play with?”
25
Della was waiting just outside of town in her carriage, Abel’s bottle of tonic in hand. In my tense encounter with the sheriff, I’d forgotten about it.
“I figured you’d have to head back this way eventually,” she said, scooting over to make room for me on the small seat. “Come on. You’ll never make it back before dark on foot.”
“Won’t your father be angry if he finds out?” I asked, hesitating.
“Oh, I’ll catch nine kinds of hell,” she said. “Now get in the buggy.”
I filled Della in on my message to Miss Pimsler as we rode back to the farm. “You don’t mind checking at the telegraph office for her reply, do you?”
“Not a bit. And I’m sorry about how awful Daddy was to you. I can’t believe he just ignored us.” She frowned, then added, “No, actually, I can.” Della stopped the surrey at the edge of the Weatheringtons’ yard. “Be careful, Verity.” She pressed me into a hug before driving away.
I strode across the property with my back ramrod straight. It seemed the only way to compensate for the crumpled feeling in my chest.
I replayed the day’s events, and found them nearly impossible to comprehend. My sister’s guardian was capable of horrific violence. I was no closer to understanding the mysteries of the woods and how Miss Maeve was connected to them. And a hissing suspicion crawled through my thoughts. I’d always believed my mother had been a kind person. Often sad, but always gentle. Was I as wrong about her goodness as I’d been about Miss Maeve’s true darkness?
I wrapped my arms around myself and made for the barn, where I found Big Tom shoeing Lady May just outside the double doors. In the twilight, his hammer rang loud against the iron.
“Got some things to do before dark,” he said, gesturing toward the sinking sun and the large shovel leaning against the barn wall. He looked almost apologetic. “Hettie brought your work clothes out to the loft. You’ll want to change. The stalls need mucking out.”
Of course they did. I took to the ladder, pausing on the second step. “How’s Abel feeling? I got him something from Granny Ardith,” I said, holding out the bottle. A sharp, almost painful desire to see him jabbed at my chest.
Big Tom took the tonic, his bear paw of a hand engulfing mine. “Abel’s doing about as good as you can expect,” he said, giving Lady May a pat on the flank to indicate her shoeing was done. The mare ambled out into the melting sunset and joined Merlin.
Big Tom came slowly over to the ladder. I found myself eye level with the farmer for the first time. “He’s been talking about you.” He scuffed his brogans along the dusty ground. “He bragged on how calm you were when he got hurt.”
“That was good of him to say, but it’s not entirely true. I only looked calm on the surface.”
“Like a duck on a pond,” Big Tom said. At my confused expression, he added, “You see them floating along, all peaceful. But under the water, they’re paddling like crazy.”
I smiled. “That sounds familiar.”
He swept off his straw hat, leaving wispy white hairs standing up like a rooster’s tail. “I know this life ain’t what you wanted. But me and Het are glad you came. If you don’t find a way back north, I hope you’ll let this be your home. You’re welcome for as long as you want to stay.” He crammed the battered hat back on his head, smiling from behind the push-broom bristles of his mustache before lumbering out into the sunset shadows.
I mucked out the stalls by lantern light, thinking over what Big Tom had said. As I fell into a steady rhythm, my mind relaxed. There was something calming about the simple, repetitive action. The slight burn in my forearms from lifting the heavy shovel reminded me of my growing strength.
The good feelings faded when at last I stepped into the loft to find that when Hettie moved my things, my nightgown hadn’t made the trip. One of Abel’s work shirts hung from a peg on the wall. I fingered the cotton of one sleeve and considered sleeping in it. It smelled faintly of hay and the warm sunshine smell of Abel’s skin. The idea of his clothes against my bare body sent a jolt of heat through me.
I banged down the ladder and made for the farmhouse. A good, cold scrubbing in the washbasin was what I needed.
Laundry dried stiff from the day’s heat hung on the backyard clothesline. I pulled down my gown and went inside to wash and change. Big Tom had gone straight to bed after
leaving the barn, and Hettie was dousing the lamps, ready to follow him.
“I forgot to bring that to the barn, didn’t I?” Hettie said, nodding at the gown flung over my shoulder as she handed me a lit candle. “I’ve been jittery as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs today,” she said, her tired smile fading to seriousness. “Thank you for taking care of our Abel. He may never use that arm like normal again, but if it weren’t for you and Miss Maeve handling things like you did, it might’ve been a lot worse.”
I could only nod as Hettie turned to head off to bed, my throat constricted with fury at Miss Maeve’s attack on Abel.
It was only after I’d washed, dressed, and thrown the bathwater out onto the kitchen garden that I realized my comb was upstairs, in the room where Abel slept. I considered going to bed without retrieving it. But the wet tangle of waves that hung to my waist would be a bramble thicket in the morning if I didn’t comb them out tonight. Slipping a housecoat over my gown, I began slowly climbing the stairs to the attic room.
I cracked the door and peered in, half expecting to see Abel awake and in awful pain.
Instead, he lay fast asleep, his good arm thrown over his eyes, lips slightly parted. Soft moonlight pooled over the rumpled bed, and only the gentle sound of his deep, even breaths filled the room. The injured arm in its heavy plaster cast rested on his bare stomach. I hadn’t thought about whether Abel slept in a nightshirt before. I watched the plane of his chest rise and fall, taken by a sudden, fierce longing to touch him.
I shook away the brazen feeling. With quick steps, I crossed to the little dressing table, dropped my comb into my housecoat pocket, and turned to go.
“Verity?”
For three thunderous heartbeats, I couldn’t move. When I turned around, Abel was sitting up, heavy-lidded and sleep-tousled, watching me. My eyes wandered of their own accord, taking in the length of his body. I wasn’t quick enough in tugging my gaze back to his face.
He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck, then visibly relaxed when he spied a shirt draped over the bedpost. He slid one arm into a sleeve, leaving the other to hang empty over his cast.
It gave me a little thrill, knowing that my presence flustered him. “What, no remarks about me sneaking into your room at night?” I asked, grinning. “And not a single joke about your corrupting influence on my morality. I’m disappointed.” I sat the candlestick on the top of the wardrobe, drew my hair over my shoulder, and began slowly working through the tangles.
Moonlight cascaded over Abel in a pale stream, grazing across the sharp line of his jaw, silvering the curls at his temples. “I’m sorry I woke you,” I said.
His eyes met mine. “I’m not.”
I pocketed the comb again and began twining my hair into a thick braid. The silence between us grew and changed, morphing into something charged and sparking with pent-up energy.
I should tell him good night and slip out the door. That would be the sensible thing to do. But I was sick to death of being sensible.
“And why is that?” I didn’t intend to walk forward, but I found myself at his bedside.
The blanket slid to the floor as he stood. “Because I feel better when you’re with me.” The blue of his eyes had gone black with the night. I faltered under their intensity and looked down. Our bare feet were only inches apart.
Slowly, carefully, he slipped my braid back over my shoulder. His fingers lingered against my neck. “When we’re together, it’s peaceful, like evening coming down after a long day’s work. But at the same time everything feels … brighter and newer.” He paused, searching my face. “I don’t want to feel any other way.”
I closed my eyes and rose onto my toes. Abel’s mouth was warm against mine, softer than I’d imagined, and sweet. I felt his startled breath slide over my lips, and for a dreadful second, I thought he’d pull away.
Then his hand pressed against the small of my back, pulling me close. Delicious heat started in my chest and spread through me. I wound my arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Our bodies aligned, as though we’d been designed to fit in each other’s arms, our lips made for this seeking, searching, intoxicating moment.
Abel stepped away, his breaths quick. The familiar grin I loved spread slowly across his face like sunrise.
I pressed my little finger against the cleft in his chin, feeling delirious at my own boldness and a little bashful, all at once. “I think I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you,” I confessed.
“Same here,” he said.
“Even when you thought I was a stuck-up Yankee girl with a chip on her shoulder?” My voice came out a bit shaky.
“Even then.”
I thought of all the things I needed to tell him, and hesitated. If he knew that Miss Maeve had hurt him as a warning for my benefit, he could decide being with me was too risky. Right now, the future blazed in my imagination like fireworks, bright and bold. I didn’t want to let anything darken this moment.
But keeping these truths from Abel would spread like an inkblot until it blackened every interaction between us. And so I spilled the story of Maeve’s past and my father’s misdeeds, and the mysteries of the woods. He listened with wide, worried eyes, his lips pressed into a firm line. Then my eyes dropped to his cast. This was the truth I’d wanted most to conceal. And that made it the most crucial one to set free. “Abel, this morning at Miss Maeve’s house, when you tried to crank the car—”
He pressed a hand to my cheek. I looked up at him, falling silent. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I’d just told Miss Maeve I knew her secret, and she wanted to prove she’d do whatever was necessary to keep me quiet.” The misery in my chest made it hard to breathe. “I am so sorry, Abel. If I hadn’t confronted her, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Abel flexed his bruised, swollen fingers. “You were trying to help bring a family back together. Miss Maeve is the one who caused intentional hurt,” he said. “This isn’t your fault.”
Tears began to slip down my face in earnest. “Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around him, resting my cheek against the smooth line of his jaw. But the smallest of doubts crept in to mar the moment. Abel’s recovery would be a long, agonizing one. Would he feel so merciful in a week? A month?
“You’re going to hurt my feelings,” he said, his breath stirring my hair. “Crying your eyes out right after our first kiss. I didn’t think I did such a terrible job.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “You didn’t do terribly at all,” I said. “To the contrary, I think we’re both quite good at it.” My cheek still pressed to his, I felt his smile bloom.
“We’ll need to test that out, just to make sure,” he said.
I sighed dramatically. “Oh, if we must.”
When at last we stepped apart, I forced myself to say good night. Gathering my candle, I turned to look back at him, golden in its warm glow. I wanted to hang on to that moment, to tuck it away like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, precious and safe. “Good night, Abel.”
His eyes shone. “Sleep well, Verity. I’ll see you in the morning.”
26
I wandered back to the barn in a blissful daze. Skimming up the ladder, I flung myself down in a patch of moonlight filtering through the window. My thoughts were a giddy kaleidoscope. They spun with hope when I thought of Abel, then fractured into dark shards when Miss Maeve’s treachery and worries for Lilah whirled by.
My attention came to rest on Abel’s tree-stump nightstand. A new candle and an open book sat on the rough wood surface. Curious to see what Abel had been reading, I found a match and lit the candle.
The page was open to a poem, “Eros Turanos.” I knew enough Latin to parse the title: “The Tyrant Love.”
It was a mournful piece about a woman who chooses to stay with an unworthy man. Their love, even after it had soured and caused nothing but pain, felt inescapable.
… like a s
tairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven.
I closed the book and stared uneasily into the candle flame. The fire shuddered, as though blown by a sharp wind, leaning sideways for a long moment, then shooting back upright.
I blinked hard. Again, the flame tilted, this time stretching toward me. A third time it repeated its mad dance, sending shadows lurching into the corners, reaching for me before righting itself. Certain my eyes were playing tricks in the late hour, I leaned forward to blow it out.
With a roar, the fire shot up, exploding into a whirlwind of flames. I flung myself backward as it leapt for me, hungry and alive. A spark landed in my braid. Screaming, I beat it out. In an instant, rivers of burning wax began pouring down the candle sides. One landed on Abel’s book. The pages burst into flame.
A shower of sparks rained onto the straw-littered floor, igniting on contact. I snatched a quilt and flung it over the burning book, stomping to quell the blaze. The fire pounced like a hungry beast. I felt the flesh on the soles of my feet sear.
Shrieking, I leapt away as the inferno grew around me. My cries mixed with the loud crackle of flames. Fire forced me away from the opening in the floor that led to the ladder and safety. Sweat poured into my eyes. I blinked singed lashes and turned away from the unbearable heat.
Through black smoke, a small, unreachable window taunted me from far above. Darkness bloomed across my vision. Coughing, I sank to the floor.
Then a soft lowing carried over the crackling fire.
Edward.
I staggered upright and faced the firestorm. I wouldn’t lie down and wait for death, and I wouldn’t leave Edward shut in his stall on the ground floor to burn. I lowered my head and sprinted toward the wall of fire.
I burst through the other side and clattered down the ladder, gritting my teeth as the taut, burned skin on my feet tore. Hobbling to Edward’s stall, I flung open the gate. Without waiting to see if he followed, I fled toward the house.
Eventide Page 18
