The Girl Underground

Chapter 7: Choices Like Rivers

Chapter 7: Choices Like Rivers

Later that night, Malia paced the vacant servant's dining room. An empty cup was on the table, still steaming slightly from the warm milk she had chugged from it.

Everything was a mess.

Everyone was to bed except for her, she couldn't sleep, couldn't even think about it. Jane had asked more than once what had happened between her and the Magistrate and Malia had to lie... To her friend! It seemed as though every rational choice in this situation led to more problems.

And it had all started when Mrs. Boatwright had decided to ask her to deliver the Magistrate's invitation.

Malia thought of that a lot, about that particular day and the events of it. Had she left a little earlier or later, had the woman at the door not held her up with questions, had she not taken her time walking through the forest or stopped to observe the roses in his garden... Had she not gone at all... Would they have met? Would any of this be happening?

He said that he couldn't get her out of his mind. That was utterly absurd! She couldn't possibly fathom why she was even in his mind in the first place! She wasn't the sort of girl that poets wrote great lyrics about, least of all the sort that men fell to their knees in front of. Women like Abigail Quincy, or Matthew Quincy's wife, Anne, or Mrs. Boatwright, women of means and name and purpose, those were the women that men lost their hearts to. Not servants. Not women born out of wedlock.

Not a bastard.

Malia ran a hand over her face, trembling from head to foot as she thought about the Magistrate's words. He said that he couldn't stand the fact that Brandon had made her laugh during the ball, that other men touching her made him angry, that the invitation was still open to see him in his garden... And then do what? What did he want to say? What more was there to say?

And what about his family? Abigail, his daughters? That child that Malia had seen with him in the market earlier... Could she live with herself knowing that she was making that child's father a sinner? That he was making himself a sinner by associating himself with her?

But then what did she want? Malia didn't know. All her life she never really knew what she had wanted. To stay out of trouble, yes, and keep a low profile. So far it seemed as though she was not succeeding at that.

"Who's down here?" A male voice suddenly asked.

Malia jumped and skidded to a halt in her pacing, placing a hand over her heart. "It's me. Malia."

"Malia?" Brandon came into the dining room, a frown on his tired face. "What on Earth are you doing?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"So make yourself some warm milk and try again."

"I did, it didn't work," Malia sat down and ran a hand over her face. "What about you?"

"I heard some muttering and cursing, so I came to investigate."

Malia frowned. "I wasn't muttering and cursing."

"Then, perhaps, we have ourselves a ghost," Brandon grinned and sat across from her, watching her intently. "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing," Malia answered quickly. "Nothing at all."

"You're lying."

"I am not!" Malia protested, shaking her head. "Really, I'm fine. Untroubled, unperturbed, peaceful... Fine!"

"And who are you trying to convince of that?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, by your tone, I can infer many things," Brandon leaned forward. "Perhaps you really are fine and you're irritated that I don't believe you, which I don't, or you're not fine and you're trying to convince yourself that you are so you can convince me."