Paper rustles before Harper continues, “Today, I experienced a terrible panic.”
I can’t move. I can only receive the blows as they fall.
“I was busy harvesting cabbage in the garden when I caught Isobel’s voice in the distance. She wasn’t alone. She never is. There’s always someone lending strength to her voice. This time, it was Harper.” She pauses for effect, and I whirl, catching sight of my journal in Harper’s hand, her toothy grin as she relishes my mounting distress.
“I tried focusing on my work,” she continues, “but it was impossible. She called my name, and I remembered all the times I’d been humiliated, an object of others’ laughter and scorn. Idiot. Pig. Pathetic. My breath shortened, and the world grew dark.”
I sense the change to my skin, how I long to retreat inward, into the very marrow of my bones. Zephyrus glances between us. Did he see her stealing the journal from my pack? Perhaps he turned a blind eye to the transgression.
“Give it back.” The whisper emerges limp and threadbare.
Harper merely returns to reading. “Now here I am,” she whispers, still smirking. “Chest tight. Sheltering in bed. Door locked for the first and only time since I arrived at the abbey.”
I remember that day. I remember feeling so overwhelmed I thought I might vomit. The darkness, Isobel’s callous laughter as she cornered me. I could not bear it, and fled to the dormitory.
I wish I’d done things differently. I wish I’d stood up to Isobel. I wish I’d drawn an uncrossable line. But I’d yielded to the weakness in me.
“That’s enough,” I croak. “Give me my journal.” I stride forward haltingly, hand outstretched.
“If you want it,” she says, “you’ll have to take it from me.”
Reaching over, Zephyrus presses a hand across the pages, temporarily shielding the cramped, scrawling ink. “Return what is not yours.” Though he speaks to my companion, his gaze rests on me.
Her nostrils flare. “If she didn’t want me reading it, she shouldn’t have left it lying around.”
“It was in my bag,” I snap. “You went through my things.”
Zephyrus flips the cover shut, for which I’m grateful. Snatching it from Harper’s possession, I shelter it against my chest. How much more did she read? Is this her first offense, or has she rifled through my belongings before, while I’ve been sleeping? My chest pinches fiercely, and I can’t breathe, I can’tbreathe.
As if sensing my affliction, Zephyrus begins to push to his feet. “Brielle—”
I run.
The River Twee glimmers in pockets between the trees, a bright line drenched in the afternoon sun. Its eastern branch widens, transitioning into multiple tranquil pools lined with smooth rocks. Brush and boulders fringe the largest basin.
Placing my belongings between two rocks, I peel away my clothes, the chemise momentarily sticking to my chest. I bite back a hiss as the skin tugs painfully.
The water’s reflection reveals my pale, round face and freckled skin. Above my breastband, a thin scratch where the beast’s claws caught me draws my attention. Two days ago, it was pink. Now yellow-green ooze seeps from the puckered scab. Gently, I press the pads of my fingers around the area. Its slight heat melts into a burn that carves deep.
My hand drops away. I’m panting, seized by that vicious pain, or is it the shame of having been stripped bare by Harper’s cruel game?
After tossing aside my soiled garments, I lower myself into the cool water with a groan. It’s shallow enough to stand, my toes gripping the slippery, pebbled bottom. I sink lower until the water encloses my skull. Let these thoughts empty out: Zephyrus, Harper, this unsettling awareness of their togetherness, the memory of his hand on her leg.
Forgive me, Father.
The night Zephyrus slipped into my room, I’d unbuttoned my gown and exposed my naked back to his hands. In that moment, the thought of a man’s touch did not disgust me.
My head breaks the surface of the water, and I wipe my face, slick back my heavy russet hair.
The West Wind stands at the pool’s edge.
I scream, recoiling against the far side of the basin, my face redder than an overripe tomato. “I’m bathing!” I send a splash toward him for good measure.
Grinning, he crouches on the balls of his feet. The water shimmers with dew-drop clarity, and I worry that the paleness of my skin against the dark rock will draw attention to my shape, the curves of my breasts, stomach, and thighs.
I tighten my arms over my chest. How much of my body has he seen?
“You forgot your soap.” He holds up the bar of tallow soap.
