a giant specimen inside her house. Closing the door behind him, she took a breath and drew herself up to her full height. Garrett was chopping wood in the yard, and Helen was nearby. She had nothing to fear. Besides, he was a man of the church.
“You’ll have to forgive Garrett and Helen their manners,” Sophronia said, giving him an apologetic smile. “We don’t do much entertaining nowadays.”
That was an understatement. They had never done much entertaining, even when Nathaniel was alive. But ever since learning that the town was to have a new minister, she had felt her heart lightening, a flicker of hope growing in her chest. People left Pale Harbor, but few came, and even fewer of those were anybody other than a poor fisherman down on his luck. Here was a man who hailed from Concord, the epicenter of all the exciting new schools of thought. If anyone could bring fresh ideas to Pale Harbor and persuade the townspeople to leave off in their superstitious ways, it would be him.
The minister followed her mutely, obediently. It was a strange sensation to feel the presence of a body behind her, in her space. Strange, yet not altogether unpleasant.
She led him to the parlor, her favorite room, with its circular walls studded with paintings and plush furniture upholstered in golds and greens. The parlor was also the Safest room in the house, thanks to the charms Helen insisted on hiding around the threshold, and the salt she was always sprinkling. It occupied the ground floor of the turret, so it was cozy and had only one door leading in and out to the hall. Cozy, beautiful, Safe.
“Please, have a seat.” She turned to clear some papers she had been reading off the sofa. When she turned around, the minister was lowering himself into the large armchair. Nathaniel’s old chair.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Not that one!”
He shot up like a bullet. “Oh... I didn’t... I’m so sorry.”
His cheeks flamed red and he looked genuinely distressed. What was wrong with her? He couldn’t possibly know the rules, and here she was proving the townspeople right in their belief that she was a madwoman. She took a deep breath.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s just...that was my husband’s chair.” She paused, twining her fingers together. “No one sits there anymore.”
“Oh.” He flicked his gaze to the chair behind him and then cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize.”
She forced a tight smile. “Of course not. Here,” she said, pulling up another chair and patting the back. “This one is more comfortable.”
Sophronia seated herself on the sofa, compulsively smoothing out her skirts. It had been so long since anyone besides Helen or Fanny had sat in the parlor, let alone an attractive man around her own age. Her pulse fluttered like a butterfly, but she was determined to be cool and composed. He might be a great thinker, but she had always been an excellent conversationalist, given the chance.
But the minister was silent, clasping his hands on his knees and looking exceedingly uncomfortable. Goodness, she knew the townspeople would have painted her in an unfavorable light, but what exactly had they told him to make the poor man look as if he were about to have a leg amputated?
She would just have to draw him out. “I heard you were making the rounds through Pale Harbor,” she said. “I wondered when I would find you at my door.”
He had been looking at her with unmasked curiosity, but at this he dipped his head and dropped his gaze under the fringe of his golden-brown hair. “I should have called sooner, but—”
With a wave of the hand she stopped him from having to make some paper-thin excuse. “No matter. I am very glad to meet you now.” And then, because she couldn’t help herself, she gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I’m not what you were expecting, am I?”
His gaze shot back up to meet hers, his lips parting as if in surprise at her frankness. He had full, sensual lips. They softened some of the roughness of his demeanor, and Sophronia had to force herself not to stare. She rushed on before he had a chance to respond.
“You’re not what I was expecting either. For whatever you have heard of me, I confess that when I heard we were to have a new minister, I envisioned a man of quite advanced years, with a gray beard down to his watch fob.” She stole a glance at his work-roughened hands, his broad shoulders. “It seems we were both mistaken in our preconceptions, for you must have imagined me quite the specter if the people of this town are to be believed.”
The minister looked down at his hands, as if it pained him to admit the truth. “Yes,” he murmured. “Something like that.”
Satisfied, she sat back a little in the sofa. “Well, I assure you I don’t have a tail.”
At this, the corner of his full lips quirked up ever so slightly, and an unexpected jolt of warmth ran through her. His face lost some of its hardness and his hazel eyes shone warmly, his smile all the more rewarding because of his reserve. To make a man like this laugh, well, that would be a coup indeed.
Some of the tension from her blunder about the chair lifted, and she saw him relax in his seat as well, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He draped his hands on the chair arms, and she caught a glimpse of the cut on his hand that was so bad that he had supposedly needed medical attention. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling...it was tiny, hardly more than a scratch, and all at once she understood his game.
“Oh! Your cut. I nearly forgot,” she said, moving to the door. “I’ll ask Helen to bring some linen and hot water.”
“I really don’t need anything. It’s nothing.”
Sophronia blinked at him with big, innocent eyes. “Oh, but I thought you were injured?”
The tips of his ears pinkened. “It’s not so bad as all that,” he mumbled.
Just then Helen materialized in the door. “You called?”
“Yes,” Sophronia said, trying not to enjoy herself too much. “Our guest has quite the injury, and I was wondering if you would be a dear and fetch us some dressings for his wound?”
Helen’s sharp gaze darted to the minister and she scowled. But she dipped her head, murmuring, “As you wish.”
She stalked back out into the hallway, and Sophronia felt her cheeks flushing. Helen’s dislike of the minister was obvious, and terribly rude. “I apologize. She’s always been protective of me, but especially lately since—”
The minister’s gaze sharpened and Sophronia clamped her mouth shut. He didn’t need to know about the ravens, the feather, the sensation that she was being watched.
Sitting back down, Sophronia finally broached the subject that had been keeping her awake with excitement for the past week. “So, tell me about this new church.”
The minister opened his mouth and then closed it again. It might have been her imagination, but something like panic momentarily clouded his eyes and she thought he might leap out of his chair again. But then he cleared his throat and the look passed. “It’s... It will be transcendentalist. Similar to Unitarianism, if you are familiar with it?”
Transcendentalist! She had always admired the Unitarian school of thought, but the churches themselves were rather somber affairs. Transcendentalism, on the other hand, incorporated all the most progressive tenets of Unitarianism,
