PROLOGUE
SOPHIE
Not much had changed in my life. Of course I grew older, learned how to read and write, and was taught everything my mother deemed important. But aside from the onset of my monthly bleeding and the discovery of books, there hadn’t been any profound events in my life. Each day equaled the day before, and I had been okay with that.
Until the day everything changed for good.
The day that big black pickup appeared.
Would I have gotten into the vehicle if I’d known the consequences of my actions? If I’d known that this world—which has been so foreign for me—would hold not only adventures and joy but also suffering and endless grief? If I’d known how much it hurts to lose something, and that someone could die from a broken heart?
The answer is yes. I would have. Without hesitation.
ONE
SOPHIE
My mother clicks her tongue as she ties a bunch of basil, using the last bit of twine. "Get me another spool. I have to hurry, or I’ll be late."
Wordlessly, I head down to the basement to comply with her request. Down here, she stores everything she needs to process the herbs she sells at the farmers’ markets in the area. Vast quantities of jars, twine, wooden boxes, and baskets pile up on the shelves against the walls, causing the boards to bend under their weight.
After grabbing a spool of coarse twine from a box, I throw a glance at the old wardrobe, which stands in the corner of the room as if it’s long forgotten. It used to scare me, but now I get a tingle of anticipation as soon as I look at it. Because I don’t want to let my mother wait any longer, though, I turn away, switch off the light, and go back upstairs.
"Thanks," she says absentmindedly as I hand her the twine. "I want to be there before this awful Miss Morgan shows up and snatches away the best spot."
I suppress a shake of my head as she wrinkles her nose in obvious disgust, and refrain from saying anything back. Miss Morgan is a thorn in my mother’s side. And that’s not becauseshe snatches the best spot at the markets every now and then. It’s because she’s Black.
My mother isn’t a bad person. She just thinks everything used to be better back in the old days. And for her, the separation by skin color was one of thosebetter things. I refrain from contradicting her. But although my mother taught me according to her example, I believe that God doesn’t want such racial segregation. For Him, we are all equal. Speaking of Miss Morgan scaring away my mother’s clients… Well, I can’t testify to that because I’ve never attended one of these markets, but I assume my mother’s overreacting a little.
She interrupts my thoughts as she makes her way to the car with the first box of herbs. Sighing quietly, I grab a box and follow her. After loading everything into her car, she opens the door before turning around to me once more. "Remember, you only use the phone in an absolute emergency, and even then, you’re only allowed to call me. You won’t open the door for anyone and?—"
"I do not leave the house," I finish her sentence. "I know, Mother."
The rules in this house are very simple, and if I don’t follow them, I’ll get punished. Truth be told, I don’t know what that punishment entails because I’ve never dared to break these rules. They always made sense to me. After all, my mother drilled them into me for years. However, I no longer think they’re as meaningful. But whatever doubts may have blossomed in my mind over the past few months, one thing’s for sure: my mother won’t change her mind regarding her rules.
I use the morning to fulfill all my duties. I tidy up, do the laundry, and prepare dinner. As soon as I’m done, I head to my room and kneel on the wooden floor in front of my bed. Smiling softly, I lift the loose floorboard under the furniture and take out the book and the old rusty key tucked underneath. I then hurry downstairs to the basement, stand in front of the big old wardrobe, and slide the key into the lock. It jams a bit, as usual, but after a few tries, the quietclickof the lock reaches my ears, and I can finally open the doors.
My eyes land on multiple rows of books hidden inside the cabinet. Most of them are old, worn, and smell musty. Others are newer, with only a few dog-ears and dents in their covers. But they all have one thing in common: they’re novels—mere stories about adventures, friendship, and love.
They’re my greatest treasure.
When I accidentally found the key in the basement a few months ago, I didn’t know it would open the doors of this wardrobe. I tested it on all the dressers, chests, and caskets in the house until I thought of the closet in the basement. I had always avoided it before because it scared me. Moreover, it was locked, and my mother had no idea what was inside. When I asked her about it once, she said it had already been there when we moved in. That explains why it still stands here. If my mother knew what was right under my nose all those years, she would’ve chopped the wardrobe with an axe and burned it, along with all the books, in the oven.
There are other books besides the Bible. But those are just tales for fools, Sophie.That was her answer when I asked her years ago if the Bible was the only book that existed. And because I was little and considered my mother omniscient, I believed her.
But that quickly changed after I discovered that treasure of books in our basement.
I knew I had to hide the key and the books I took upstairs to my room, and the hollow space under the floorboard in my room seems more than perfect for that. Even if my mother found a book there, I could act as if I didn’t know about it and one of the previous occupants must have forgotten it there, just like the wardrobe in the basement.
Ever since I opened the first novel with my heart pounding in my chest and started reading it, I couldn’t stop. And so, over the past months, I got into the habit of doing my chores as quickly as possible so I could read until my mother returned in the afternoon.
Those are the best hours of my day. I immerse myself in foreign worlds while experiencing suspense, excitement, and sadness, and even find friends between the pages.
But the more I read, the more I questioned my mother’s beliefs.
In those books, the kids went to school rather than being homeschooled. They made friends and had mothersandfathers. The men weren’t all bad or as evil as my mother claimed. They were charming and humorous, accommodating, and even compassionate. Women fell in love, admirers wooed their beloved ones, and here and there, a boy stole an innocent kiss from a girl.
At first, it confused me. After all, my mother had told me for almost eighteen years that men were savage and I could only trust her.
