She gazed at him, not through him.
“You don’t have to,” Elias said. He paused near the bonfire and flinched when Josephine lifted the sack to his nose. “We haven’t even been introduced—”
“I don’t believe we meet people by accident,” Josephine whispered. “Perhaps I’m foolish, but I think sometimes . . . meeting is enough.” She glided her fingers across his jawline. Then, she stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him.
A release much like a sigh washed all fear from Elias’s body, and in that second, his world consisted of her hands on his face, her lips fused with his lips, an entire universe freeing him from his prison of shadows. The night was bright. He was seen.
And she was everything.
FOUR
JOSIE
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 8:21 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Elias Roch Is My New Boyfriend
Faith, I’m in love. Not really. But I fancy the idea of reading old letters and falling head over heels for their writer (especially if he looked like the guy in the painting). Elias Roch, the Regency babe magnet, seems my type—well, as far as I can tell from some letters and the first chapter of his manuscript. He moved to Cadwallader Manor centuries ago, after his father died. Strange coincidence, right? He wrote to a girl named Josephine De Clare. She also lost her father, and she wasn’t close with her mum. Another coincidence.
Elias wanted to correspond with Josephine about his tragic past, Cadwallader, and their so-called serendipitous meeting. Pretty sure he had a crush on her. I mean, he wrote a book about the two of them. Maybe the story was based on his life. Who knows? I typed his name into a search engine, and nothing came up. The internet has no idea he existed.
I also searched for information about Josephine De Clare, but she, too, seems a ghost. No census records or family trees. Not even a birth date.
Something must’ve happened, because Elias never posted the letters. Perhaps he didn’t learn Josephine’s address, or they reunited at a ball. I hope they ended up together. Someone deserves to find happiness, and nobody I know—excluding you and Noah—seems content.
Our beautiful Elias Roch went to boarding school like us. He detested his headmaster and did stupid stuff with his friends. Sound familiar? Ugh, I wish he wasn’t dead. We’d get along. In other news, Mum decided to lease the townhouse until I graduate from uni. She won’t sell it. (Your pyjamas are safe!) I’m relieved because I didn’t want to fight with her—again. We don’t see eye to eye on anything, at least anything we talk about. And we don’t talk much. Our conversations happen over text, and they’re usually about boring stuff like dentist appointments.
Not that I want phone calls. I prefer our mutual indifference. If she talked more, I’d have to talk back, and I really enjoy not talking. Like, I don’t hate Mum. I just don’t trust her. There’s a difference. Hate means I don’t want her in my life.
Distrust means I refuse to let her guide it.
My counsellor at Stonehill told me to let go of grudges. She was like, “Forgive and forget, Josie De Clare. That’s the Lord’s way.” I guess I was angry back then. Maybe I still am. It’s just . . . We can forgive but we can’t forget. Whoever says otherwise hasn’t known true pain. Hear me out. Hearts are muscles, and muscles have memory. So, of course our hearts can’t forget. They remember what hurts them. They remember so they can grow stronger. I think that’s why we must remember. If we forgot the moment we forgave, we wouldn’t receive the strength that comes from hurting. And something good must come from all the bad. Something. Anything.
Even the faintest good.
Mum was upset I didn’t call her after I broke up with Rashad. But she left Dad and me, so why should I give her information about my personal life? She didn’t take me bra shopping on my thirteenth birthday. I went with Dad, and yikes, that was a weird day. Mum didn’t even know about Rashad until I made the relationship Facebook official.
I haven’t forgotten all the years without her. Deep down, I must still be that thirteen-year-old girl, dying from embarrassment as her dad held bras to his chest. Whatever.
Screwed up is the new normal.
Tonight I did a bunch of oddball activities. What started as self-care turned into self-destruction. I made pizza pockets for dinner, then ate way too much of Martha’s sponge cake. (She brings food at least once a day.) Then I painted my toenails, which took less time than expected. I got bored, and nothing good happens when I’m bored.
I decided to dye my hair, but I didn’t feel like walking to the variety store. However, thanks to Dad’s toddler-esque diet, I found a pack of strawberry Kool-Aid in the cupboard. Yep. I did what you’re thinking. I soaked the ends of my hair in ancient pink Kool-Aid. Now I look like that Sindy doll my aunt gave me for Christmas six years ago.
Don’t worry. The colour will fade in the next week or so.
Norman said he’d find a contractor to help me with renovations. I want to preserve Cadwallader’s original features. Not sure how I’ll manage it. This place is a disaster zone. The wallpaper has sprouted mould. A previous owner covered the drawing room’s floor with shag carpet. And if that’s not bad enough, I found an unkindness of ravens in the attic.
Google recommends scarecrows or CDs to get rid of birds. I might stuff my tiger onesie with newspaper and see if it’ll de-raven the house. Say a prayer for me. I plan
