“Cate!” Maura calls after me, but Elena tells her to let me go.
I burst outside without grabbing my cloak. I’m almost running—I don’t know where—there’s nowhere to go. I stumble in my stupid heeled shoes
and wish I could kick them off and run barefoot like I used to. I’m tired of stays and petticoats and heels, of hairpins that bite into my scalp and tight braids that make my head ache. I’m exhausted with trying to be everything—an unassailably polite young lady, a stand-in mother, a clever daughter, an agreeable would-be wife and—
I don’t want to be any of those things! I just want to be me. Cate. Why isn’t that ever enough?
I come to the little meadow by our barn. I wish I could just hide away somewhere no one can find me.
Inspiration strikes. It’s not proper, but—bother proper.
I bend down, unbuckle my shoes, and kick them off. They land in the shade of the wide, gnarled old apple tree. It’s been years, and I’m not entirely
confident I can still manage this. I launch myself at the tree anyway, grasping the branch next to my head, clambering onto the thick, knotted lower limb. I’m not terribly graceful about it. My stockings tear straightaway, and I almost fall back down because of the weight of my skirts. For a minute I hug the tree, teetering unsteadily, but then I find my balance and turn around and climb higher. I sit astride the third limb on the right, five feet off the ground, legs and skirts dangling. My childhood self would laugh to see me settle for this when I used to climb twice as high.
I pull the pins out of my hair and toss them to the ground one by one. I tilt my head back and look up, up, up through the arching, apple-laden branches at the sky. It’s very blue today—there’s probably a word for this precise blue. Tess would know. I ought to spend less time trying to get a husband and more time studying the sky, learning the names for all the different blues. I laugh, a little giddy.
“Miss Cahill?” I lean forward, steadying myself with both hands on the limb in front of me, peering down through green leaves, right into Finn Belastra’s astonished face.
A lady wouldn’t be caught dead in this position. But a gentleman—wouldn’t a true gentleman ignore me and walk away, to spare me the embarrassment?
I give him a weak wave.
Finn chuckles. “Are you a tree sprite now?”
“I’m pretending to be twelve again.” I scrape frantically at my hair, wishing I hadn’t thrown all the pins away. I must look a fright. He’s always handsome, even covered in sawdust from the gazebo, with that ludicrous hair and his glasses all crooked.
He sets down the ladder he’s carrying. “Twelve wasn’t my best. Thought I knew everything. Got my arse kicked on a regular basis.”
“Twelve was heavenly!” I protest. “No responsibility. I could do anything I liked.”
“Such as?” Finn asks, leaning against the knobby trunk.
“Running through the fields. Climbing trees. Reading about pirates. Splashing around in the pond, pretending to be a mermaid!” I laugh, remembering.
“You’d make a very fetching mermaid.” His eyes are admiring. “Will you toss me an apple?”
I pluck an apple and throw it to him. He ducks.
“You were meant to catch it,” I point out, swinging one leg over the branch, scrambling to find my footing on the lower limb.
“You surprised me with your excellent aim. It’s—”
I glower at him. “If you say ‘good for a girl,’ I’ll never forgive you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. You terrify me,” he laughs.
“Don’t tease,” I protest, hugging the tree trunk again. “I’m mortified enough as it is.”
“Why? Do you need help? Do you want me to catch you?”
“Certainly not,” I say, chin in the air. I just don’t want him seeing up my skirts. Or to see me falling on my face, if it comes to that. “Avert your eyes, please.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Finn sounds worried.
“I won’t. This is hardly my first time climbing a tree. Now turn around.”
Finn obediently turns his back, hands shoved in his pockets. I hang on to the branch and let myself drop. The shock of landing sends pain shooting up both my legs. “Ouch,” I breathe.
Finn whirls around. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just—I’m so sorry.” I finger-comb leaves from my hair. My new dress is half ruined, a bit of lace has come loose from the hem, and my stockings are entirely shredded.
Finn leans over and plucks a leaf from my hair. “Why are you apologizing?”
I bury my face in my hands. An hour. I wanted one hour to be invisible, and I couldn’t even get that. “I—well. I’m a bit old to be climbing trees, aren’t I?”
“Are you? It’s your tree, isn’t it; I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t climb it if you like.” Finn sets up the ladder beneath the tree.
“I hardly think the Brothers would approve. I look like a vagrant.”
“You look beautiful,” he disagrees. This time his blush spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. “The Brotherhood would suck all the color and joy out of the world if we’d let them.”
I’m silent, fascinated. He rakes a hand through his tousled copper hair. “I—now it’s my turn to apologize. I shouldn’t have said that.”
The grass is cool against the soles of my feet. “But you did. Is that what you really think?” I ask, voice low.
Finn turns back to me, his brown eyes serious behind his glasses. “I don’t think the Lord wants us to be miserable, Miss Cahill. It’s not a prerequisite for our salvation. That’s what I think.”
Chapter 8
I’M NOT NERVOUS. NOT UNTIL I push open the heavy door to Belastras’ bookshop the next morning. Then I’m struck with the sudden, ridiculous urge to pick up my skirts and run. I glance back at the carriage, but having seen me safely inside—or close enough—John’s already driving away toward the general store. It would hardly be appropriate for me to run down the street after him.
I’m meant to be having a lesson in watercolors at home, but I informed Elena I wasn’t inspired by the basket of fruit and asked to paint the garden instead. When she agreed—landscapes are apparently all the fashion now—I sneaked over to the barn and asked John if I could ride along into town. There was one name, besides Zara’s, that came up again and again in Mother’s diary. One person she trusted with her secrets. Marianne Belastra.
“Could you shut the door, please?”
That’s Finn’s voice. Drat. I assumed he would be working on the gazebo.
I step all the way in.
Belastras’ is a fire warden’s nightmare. Labyrinthine bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling. The shelves always seem to be full, no matter how
many books are banned or censored by the Brothers. The place smells like Father’s study: sweet pipe smoke mingled with woodsy parchment. Dust motes sail in on sunbeams at the front, but the back of the shop hovers in shadow. I have never felt comfortable here. I can’t understand the way Maura and Father can linger for hours, stroking spines with loving fingers, paging reverently through old texts, mouths and eyes moving in silent worship.