All at once her entire demeanor changed, the cool mask of repose slipping back into place. Fear settled over my heart. “I am sure you won’t be so flippant when I tell you Harry will not be coming home over the Christmas holidays.”
My mouth opened in protest, but Aunt Agnes continued. “I promised your mother I would give Harry the very best upbringing I could. Turn him into a gentleman—something your father never was. You can hardly expect me to bring him home for Christmas, where he will be subject to your unladylike behavior. That kind of influence would only undermine my efforts.”
Suddenly I was fourteen again and Harry a boy of four. I had invited Harry downstairs to take tea, thinking it would be fun to act as if he were a proper little gentleman, but in a moment of excitement he had spilled his tea on Aunt Agnes’s cream-colored settee. I still remembered the look on her face when she’d come in and caught me by surprise before I’d had opportunity to remedy the situation—the absolute disdain, the malice as she walked toward him.
In that moment I had vowed not to ever let her lay a finger on Harry. So I had done the only thing I could. Stepped forward and claimed the fault as my own. That was the first time she had slapped me, and I’d never forget how hard my head whipped to the side, how long the sting on my cheek lasted.
My heart pricked from memories of the past. “Aunt Agnes, please—”
She raised a hand, cutting me off. “I shall brook no protests. Perhaps you will be more amenable to discussing your behavior after the gravity of your actions has sunk in. Good night, Juliet.”
A loud click sounded as the door fully shut. My breaths came in quick little bursts as I tried desperately to think of what to do. But protecting Harry was no longer as simple as stepping forward and admitting culpability. Aunt Agnes had new ways of hurting us both, and until he was safely within my care come my twenty-first birthday, she would.
I turned back around, staring at myself in the mirror, my pulse pounding in my throat. Harry. I’ve hurt Harry. And I was powerless to help him. Indeed, I was only a chess piece moved at the convenience of others. Control of my own life, of Harry’s, lay just out of reach.
A furious desperation grew within me, straining against all that held me bound, pushing for release. I grabbed the only thing within reach—my wooden mountain goat—and hurled it across the room. It ricocheted off the edge of the mantel and landed in the embers of the dying fire. Regret pummeled me at once. I rushed to the hearth and reached in, desperate to save the only remaining possession that connected me to my father. The low flames licked my hand as I picked it up, and the wooden figure itself seared my palm. I cried out in pain, dropping the trinket on the hearth beside me.
My hand throbbed, and I cradled it against my chest, grinding my teeth together to keep from crying out again. The pain mounted with every passing moment. I glanced around, desperate for relief. The window. I ran across the room, pulled back the curtains with my good hand, and pressed my burned palm to the windowpane. The chilled glass from the cold outside air brought sweet relief. The temperature must have plummeted since this afternoon’s picnic. I exhaled, never more grateful for autumn’s cooler temperatures.
But in less than a minute the pane warmed under the heat of my burn. I drew my hand back for a moment and examined it. My fingers were a deep red, but my palm had sustained most of the damage. Three angry blisters sweltered under my crimson skin. I berated myself as I inspected my burn. My temper had gotten the better of me, and now Harry would pay for my outburst. The burned flesh of my hand seemed almost a fitting punishment. Air hissed between my teeth, and my hand began to tremble. The insistent pain demanded reprieve. I needed something else, something stronger.
I rushed over to retrieve the basin of water Betsy had left out for me and brought it over to the window seat. After plunging my hand into the cool water, I pushed open the window with my good hand and let the near-freezing air blast against my palm.
I repeated the process again and again, my mind turning numb through the ritual. The room grew cold from the night air, overpowering the dying fire. I pulled the coverlet from my bed and wrapped it around me before returning to my spot in the window seat.
After almost an hour I began to force my hand away from the window for a few seconds at a time. Fatigue and pain fought for precedence, and exhaustion finally began to win out. I pulled in the window and left it open only a crack. Sinking back against the wall, I rested my hand near the cool air of the windowsill. My eyes grew heavy, and I pulled the coverlet up around my shoulders, giving in to sleep as the strength of my exhaustion overpowered the throbbing of my burn.
When I awoke, my hand was stiff. It screamed with pain when I tried to open my palm and examine my burn in the light of day. Two of the blisters had burst, leaving my hand raw and bleeding. My eyes pricked with tears. I rang for Betsy.
She came in, a severe look on her face. “You know I am supposed to attend to your aunt first.”
“I know, but first I need something for my hand.” I held it out to show her. “Do you think you could find something for it belowstairs?”
All severity disappeared, and her mouth gathered in worry. “What happened, miss? That’s not a burn from a cup
