Page 26 of Sinister

15 March 1896

The sign comes a week later on my windowsill.

Just as I open my window to let in the night air, I find a small bundle resting on the sill. Frowning, I take it in my hands. It’s the shape of a book, wrapped carefully, and nestled inside is a letter. I hesitate. I live on the second floor. Who could have reached my window to leave this? Certainly no one in my family.

Curiosity gnaws at me. Quickly, I open the letter. The handwriting is crisp, masculine. I don’t even need to read past the first sentence to know who it’s from.

Once you read this, burn it. Leave no evidence behind.

Who else could it be but him? He knows the danger. He knows the cost of getting caught. And yet, he still sent this.

Before reading further, I stick my head out the window, scanning the grounds. The air is cold and clean. The silence is unnerving. There’s no sign of anyone. We have dogs—big, aggressive beasts trained to attack at the slightest provocation. No one dares to enter our property, not with those dogs, not with the armed guards stationed near the barn protecting us from the sinful outside world.

And yet, the dogs are silent. Asleep or undisturbed. If someone had been here, they would have barked. They would have raised the alarm. But they didn’t.

How did he get here? How did he reach my window? More questions pile up the longer I think about it. Not only did he avoid the dogs and the guards, but he knew exactly which window was mine. He knew I didn’t share my room. He knew I would be the one to find this.

He knew.

Just as he knew I had a fireplace to burn this letter.

His words from before echo in my mind.

I’ve been watching you. For a long time, I’ve been watching you.

I don’t know how to feel. Fear prickles at the edges of my thoughts. Someone has been watching me, lurking in the shadows, tracking my every move. It should terrify me. And yet . . . I am curious.

There it is again—that word. Curious.

Why me? What does he want? What is his goal?

Last week, in the church, we were alone. He could have done anything he wanted. He could have hurt me, and I would have been powerless to stop him. Worse, I would have been unable to say anything, for fear of being branded a harlot. A Jezebel.

But he didn’t hurt me. On the contrary, he helped me.

The ointment he gave me not only healed my busted lip and the scrapes on my body, but it soothed the pain. I’ve never had an injury heal so quickly.

For that alone, I don’t fear him.

Is that dangerous? Perhaps. Perhaps I am so starved for kindness, for knowledge, for anything beyond the rigid confines of my life, that I am willing to accept that a stranger has been watching me.

I glance at the book and the letter. Taking a deep breath, I continue reading.

I will not let you get caught. Not again. It was a mistake on my part not to foresee what could happen to you. Please accept my apologies. Or better yet—don’t. Not yet.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I recall our last meeting.

The letter continues.

I don’t want you to give up what you want most—knowledge. I don’t want you to abandon your curiosity out of fear.

Every night, I will leave a book on your windowsill. Every morning, I will take it back. Read to your heart’s content, and when you are done, return it to the windowsill.

Perhaps, in time, you will find it in your heart to forgive me—little by little.

Perhaps you will start to be curious about . . . me.

There is no signature at the bottom. Just one word.