Chapter 1
ALICE
By dark, the once riotous inn has settled into a quiet hum, marked by the incessant ticking of the mantle clock. Most of the guests have retired to their rooms, save for a few lingering over their evening meals in the dining room.
The stairs groan beneath my steps as I ascend to the observatory, where a brass telescope waits under the glass dome. I haven’t much time. Joseph’s just returned from a long stay at his family’s head office in Cincinnati, but maybe I can steal a few minutes with the stars before he notices I’m gone. I adjust the telescope, aligning it with Ursa Major—the constellation I’ve tracked for days. Its familiar pattern twinkles from the deep black, an old friend amid countless celestial bodies.
“Callisto,” I greet her. “So lovely to see you again.”
Since I was a girl, the sight of her has soothed me with a familiar calm. I reach for my clothbound notebook where it rests on the desk beside the flickering light of an oil lamp. Flipping to a fresh page, I sketch the constellation.
July 17th
I traced an imaginary line through Merak and arrived straight at Polaris, the ever-faithful North Star. This was the shoulder and flank of Ursa Major—the Great Bear—standing guard in the northern sky.
Heavenly Father, I pray for my own Great Bear: a protector who, like the bear’s bright stars, can guide me out of the darkness.
The scratch of my pen is the only sound in the otherwise silent room, the rhythm of ink on paper like a secret between me and the cosmos.
The evening’s observation concluded, I hurry downstairs and slip out of the inn through the back door. The short cobblestone path to our private residence crunches beneath my feet. Crickets chirp in the hedges, their shrill songs twisting my stomach tight. Joseph will be cross I’ve come home so late.
I rush up the porch to the front door, the beveled-glass pane revealing the gaslight from within. As soon as I enter, I’m struck with Joseph’s cigar smoke. It overpowers the pleasant lemon oil I’d used to clean and polish earlier.
“Late,” he barks from the parlor. Face buried in a ledger, he doesn’t so much as lift his head. I don’t answer, just step inside. The floorboards—wide-planked walnut, edges softened by braided rugs—gleam faintly under the chandelier.
Light flickers across the ivory wainscoting of the parlor walls, gold dancing over the rosewood settee with its worn cranberry velvet, faded along the back where guests lean too long. Joseph sits in his armchair beside the hearth, lamp light darkening the angles of his face.
“The guests required tending to, sir.”
“The guests always require tending to,” Joseph retorts, engrossed in his ledger. “It is hardly proper that a man of my stature should sit cooling his heels like a footman while his wife stargazes at her leisure. It’s this kind of disrespect that would see my brother succeed the family business, while I piddle away at a roadside country inn. Had I a proper wife, I’d be the one working in the city office, managing the luxury hotels.”
It was my father who handed me over to the Sherman family for the price of keeping his farm afloat. Signed me away like livestock to a man twice my age, then kissed my cheek and thanked me for my sacrifice. I doubt he imagined Joseph would spend the years since wishing for a refund.
“My sincerest apologies, sir.”
“Off to bed,” he orders with a flick of his wrist.
I exhale. “Yes, sir.”
I rush upstairs while he appears to be in a forgiving mood. Inside our bedroom, a carved mahogany four-poster bed sits against the far wall. I pull down the shades and shut the lace curtains.
Standing in front of the vanity, I study the reflection staring back at me. Tired—worn thin at the edges, like fabric pulled too tight for too long. My eyes search the face for something—resolve, perhaps, or recognition—but find only weariness.
Water splashes at the wash stand as I rinse away dust and sweat. With stiff fingers, I slip into my nightgown, folding the day’s clothes into a neat pile. I drag the brush through my hair—tug and release– smoothing the chestnut strands into order.
The bedroom door creaks open.
My hand freezes mid-stroke. In the mirror, I watch Joseph enter. He undresses without ceremony, letting his clothes drop where they please. His belly, his sloping shoulders—all briefly exposed before he pulls on his long, linen nightshirt. The bed creaks beneath his weight as he settles into it.
I pick up his clothes. Place them in the basket. My pulse begins to race, the way it always does when I prepare to lie beside him. He’s been away with his brother, Virgil. Something for the family business. Maybe travel has worn him out and tonight I will be spared.
His breath, hot and thick with cigar smoke, brushes my shoulder. The bristle of his mustache grazes the back of my neck.
“On your belly,” he commands. Not cruel, but expectant. The way a finishing school matron might correct a young woman’s posture.
I obey. A lump swells in my throat, and I swallow it down. It will not last long.
My mind slips away. I leave this room, this body, and drift toward the stars.
