“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. For years, really. But once your father pulled you from church, kept you locked up, I couldn’t get to you. And now—” Her head swivels back toward the village, and I am left with an aching in my gut.
“What is it you’ve been wanting to tell me?”
When she turns, Clara’s eyes are as large as hazelnuts. A smile brightens the tired hollows of her cheeks. She squeezes my hand tighter.
“Liza and I are getting married. Our parents know, and everyone is thrilled, but—”
I cannot help the smile—a real, true, alive sort of thing—breaking across my lips. In this moment, I am twelve years old again, running through fields with Clara, drinking gingerbread tea and reading contraband romance novels before the fire while we giggle into our too-pink palms.
“Clara, I—”
She rushes a finger to my lips. “There’s trouble.”
And I see it there, in the crushed petal stains around her eyes, in the way her fingers twitch on the handle of her basket.
“What do you mean?”
Clara sighs, dropping her hand to fuss with the lace napkin concealing whatever is inside her basket. “It’s my father. He’s… Well, Liza and I are planning on running away, and I know he doesn’t want us to leave.”
I blink. “The bakery.”
It’s a trivial thing to be concerned over, when there are monsters in the woods and ghosts in the house, with the coach only days away. But for Clara, it is her life. And life is never trivial.
She shakes her head. “I do not want it. Liza and I, we want to start our own. In the Queen’s city. In Lysdin.” She takes my hand again, her eyes welling with tears. A smile takes root in the corners of her mouth. “Think of it, Adelaide. We’ve all heard tales of it, simply bursting with opportunity. It’s where Erybrus broke away from Ithrandril, where we can be closest to the warmth of all that is good and righteous. Wherewemay become good and righteous. Besides, Rixton is too small. And I want to see life out there, beyond Farmer Whitley’s fields, past the graveyard walls and the Avery Manor orchards. Places even grander than Blackbourne Castle.”
Breath hisses from my lungs at her last words. Ransom Black still sits at the edges of my mind, drifting there like a phantom. I can feel his soft hands on my ankle, pressing cotton against the cut on my heel.
“Adelaide.”
Clara’s kind voice draws me back, and I feel so small, wretched, and utterly insignificant. I pull my hands away, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I am happy for you.”
A silence settles over us, and Clara steps back. It isn’t entirely uncomfortable. I am used to the quiet, the way it fills the space between my bones like paste.
If I turn my chin over my shoulder, I dread the soul will still be there, waiting for me. Waiting for whatever it wantsofme. I whisper a silent thank you to whatever is listening that Clara does not seem to be able to see it.
She unfolds the cloth from inside the basket, revealing a smattering of browned scones, each one dusted with sugar and orange zest. Clara holds one out to me, and for a moment, all I seem to be able to do is stare stupidly at it. She nudges it closer.
“Take it, for me. It’s orange and rosemary.”
My cold fingers wrap around the pastry, and I tuck it into my pocket beside the bell. “I will save it for later.”
Clara nods. “Thank you for listening. I know it might seem silly—”
“It’s not silly,” I say before I can stop myself. “Love is quite a serious thing, I think. And I am happy you have found it with Liza. I wish you all the best.”
Her smile cracks like a robin’s egg, and before I can stop her, she is throwing her arms around me, and all I smell is yeast and sugar and something like lavender soap.
“Thank you, Adelaide,” she whispers into my hair. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long. Just, thank you.”
When she pulls away, her cheeks are stained rose, and her eyes are shiny and wet. The knot in my stomach tightens, and I curl my hands in, letting the pain of nails in my flesh ground me. Hold me steady. Give me space to breathe. I clear my throat, bob my head, stretch a weary smile.
“You’re welcome.”
Behind us, the church bell rings the hour, and Clara nearly jumps from her clutch of scarves and shawls and coat. “I’ve got to go. Liza will be waiting for me. We’re packing. The next coach from Rixton leaves soon.”
How could I forget?
