smile fades inside my mouth. He thinks I’m a puppet. I don’t know why I thought that someday maybe he would have looked at me the way other men look at Catherine. The way Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce look at Catherine. I feel cheap, used at his words. He’s right, which makes it hurt all the more.
“You came all the way here with the intention of charming your way into my good graces, into my family’s money. Go home, Cyrus.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, but I let it out now as he snatches his hat up. He stalks to the door, turning around and thrusting an accusing finger in my direction. “You’re a fool, Lydia. As if I would want anything to do with you or your sick family.” His look drips with contempt, but there’s a break in his voice, and I know that for the right price, he would change his tone in a heartbeat.
* * *
I can’t sleep that night. If I fall asleep the bad dreams will come again. Even when I’m awake there are footsteps, cold stares from invisible eyes, figures in the woods and in the garden. I’ve even hung a linen over the mirror, lest new words appear and stare back at me. I kick off the blankets and turn over trying to find a comfortable position, but no matter what I do my dry eyelids won’t stay shut. My skin is still crawling from where Cyrus touched me, and I can’t get his words out of my head. What other chances do you think you’ll have?
I punch my pillow down to make it fluffier, but punching it feels good so I do it a few more times. I imagine that it’s Cyrus’s smug face, his aquiline nose crooked and bloody. Shameless little opportunist. But suddenly the dark hair shifts to amber, the sharp chin broadens and the face becomes John Barrett, his melancholy, clear eyes looking at me from beneath gold lashes. I stop my fist in the air and slump back. Unlike Cyrus, he’s a good person. I saw it in the way he spoke to Emeline as if she were an adult, his equal. I saw it when he crouched down beside me and took an interest in what I was reading, even though Catherine was right there, watching him. But most of all, it’s just a feeling I get, a warmth he exudes despite his serious, sad demeanor. And if he notices Catherine’s beauty and sparkle, well, I can hardly fault him for that, can I?
When sleep finally comes, it’s hot and fitful. I drift between shallow dreams. An owl’s echoing question hangs on the night air. The footsteps and laughter of a child. Not Emeline’s carefree laugh, but that of a boy. The way Tommy Bishop used to laugh when he was pulling the wings off flies, mirthless and unsettling. I’m running, the laughter inescapable, following me at every turn. A chorus of You attract them! Are you ready? Prepare! Prepare! rings out. And then the willow from the pond comes, with its rustle of papery leaves, growing and growing until it’s a hurricane of swirling branches grabbing at me, pulling me down. I have no choice but to succumb to the blackness of its deafening roar.
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