I quietly slip my fingers back into the kid gloves, a lumpforming in my throat. I often hate being what I am. How I wish I were just anormal girl sitting here in his office, instead of the worst kind of thief, stealingprivacy and secrets.
Unaware of the turmoil in my head, Kelly praises Cordelia’sefforts. He doesn’t mention my re-gloved hands and says little to me, other thanthe names of the signs I’m learning. Goodnight, help, I am hungry, dinnerwas good, and I love you. Quite unexpected, that last phrase.
“I love you,” he says, making the sign against my palm. “Nowit’s your turn. Feel the shape I’ve made with my fingers, and repeat it back tome.”
I manage to copy the sign correctly. “Once again, Hester.Excellent.”
Thank you, I sign.
“Well done, minx. May come a day we won’t be able to shut youup.” Kelly rolls his chair behind the desk. “The hour’s over. Thank you, MissCollins. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
Cordelia and I practice signing the entire way home, and forsome reason this lifts my spirits. Each word is like a new discovery, and Icannot get enough of them. As soon as the wagon stops, I hike my skirt up to myankles and climb down without assistance. Cordie runs to catch up with me as Ihurry to the house, cane swinging before my feet.
I enter Mama’s room at a gallop with Cordie at my heels. “Haveyou no manners, Hester?” Mama exclaims. “You mustn’t rush about like that. It’sundignified.”
After giving her my best curtsy, I make the sign slowly, so sheis sure to see it—I love you, Mother.
“What’s she doing now, Cordelia?”
“She’s telling you she loves you, madam.”
“Really? Are you certain?”
I sign again. Yes.
My mother calls me, and I move into her embrace. “Thank you,”she whispers.
Pulling back, I hold my hand flat, palm up, and bring it towardmy stomach. “You’re welcome,” Cordelia replies as I mouth the phrase.
This small moment of understanding between my mother and mefuels my desire to learn more. I hope Kelly’s up to the challenge for I possessperfect recollection. Every vision—everything I have ever experienced down tothe smallest detail—is stored within my brain, waiting to be summoned for futurereference. There is much I wish I could forget, but it will remain with meforever.
Perhaps this time, memory will be a blessing rather than acurse.
Meet me at twelve. Throwing practice.
Tom’s words are direct and brief—in my mind one moment, gonethe next. He’s at the ranch shoeing a horse, an enterprise that requires hisfull attention, and can’t elaborate. It was a great relief when we reconciledfive days ago, after our quarrel over Dr. Kelly, and I am thrilled at theprospect of a midnight rendezvous.
Evening finally descends, and I meet Tom at the usual place bythe French doors. Tom helps me onto his horse, and we fly away to themountains. The night is so cold, I shiver despite my heavy, hooded cloak.
He insists that I exhaust both arms since I haven’t thrown innearly a week. When my muscles sing with exertion, he brings out a pair ofsaddlebags, hanging one on each of my shoulders.
What do you expect me to do with these?
“Walk around the circle. Fast as you can, vita mea.”
This is not as simple as Tom makes it sound, but I apply mycane and complete the course. What do you have in your saddlebags? Bricks?
“Rocks, actually. Try it again, but keep your posture straightand tuck in your belly.”
I don’t like you very much right now.
His laughter sounds genuine. “That wounds, lass, really itdoes. Off you go.”
Sweat films my face when I finish the next lap, but Tom has nomercy. He wants me to go twice more.
This dress will be ruined! I’ll never get the smell out.
“And there’s a hundred more just like it in your wardrobe. Pickup the pace.”
All right, but you owe me a replacement. A new pair ofglasses, too.
He kicks the dirt with his boot, cowboy language for the-hell-you-say.“I didn’t start that fight. Ask Noah for your glasses.”
Tom turns me to the course and pats my behind to get me moving.I promise myself that I’ll finish this round if it kills me. The next one is worse.I dry-heave, stub my toe, and trip a few feet from the finish. Tom squats downnext to me, and gives me a canteen. I gulp greedily for a few seconds and thenhe takes it away.
“Enough, love,” he murmurs. “You don’t want it coming rightback up again.”
Disregarding protocol entirely, I flop onto my back in thedirt. I have never in my life done anything so improper. Well, except forsneaking out of the house without permission, having a forbidden romance, andthrowing sharp things into the early hours of the morning.
Was that really necessary, Tom?
He sits down beside me. “You need to build muscle and stamina.If you get attacked again, it won’t be a drawing room musicale or a night atthe opera. You can’t fight like a lady—”
I’ve never been to an opera or a musicale, and you mustadmit, it’s a stretch to call me a lady.
Tom laughs, and I take in the sound like a thirsty flowerabsorbing water.
“Just my way of saying that the killer isn’t fooling. Fight himany way you can, Hettie. Knee him in the bollocks, gouge his eyes—whatever ittakes to have you walk away alive.”
I hold out my hand, and he accepts it, leaning down for a kiss.Tender, gentle. I touch his face when he releases me, and feel the dear,familiar lines of his jaw and brow.
Thank you for caring that I’m safe.
“Always, Hettie. Always and forever.”
We hold each other, warm where our bodies meet, and listen toan owl hooting in the pine trees.
“I have a present for you,” Tom says, reaching into his pocket.
He slips something over my head. I can barely feel the meagerweight of it resting against my bodice. Taking the cool, delicate chain betweenmy fingers, I find an oval attached in the center. A locket? You
