The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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I have not spoken to Hanny about what Lucius revealed to me. She took my letter to Gabe and sent it off, now I have received his response. I am torn. This time I checked the envelope and it is different from the one I'm sure Gabe sent me. In the past, I had always assumed that Lizzie, Gabe's wife, had addressed his mail for him. Now I know better. I wish I could compare this handwriting to that of any of the nuns.
It is not that I require further proof; I only wish to identify the true Judas. I am loathed to believe it is Hanny, but I am not a stupid girl and I would be wise to keep my guard up with her. She is at least partially, if not entirely, my betrayer.
Which leads me to the business of finding someone to accompany me. Before all of this, I would have requested Hanny. I have no desire to see or speak to my cousin, Samantha. She was always a bit closer to Lora and, since my sister's death, has expressed her disdain for me to multiple well-known newspapers. As soon as I am equipped with the proper devices I will write to Gabe and inform him of my feelings.
Hanny is opposite me at the table. She has been chattering all morning, humming hymns and being far too cheerful for a Wednesday. Since it is midweek, it is St. Agatha cleaning day—what fun. We have been banished to the dining room where we now sit and shine what little silver the house possesses.
I have kept my mouth shut for days, only speaking when spoken to and never discussing what Lucius came to say. No one has mentioned my leaving to me; there were no outward expressions of how much I'd be missed, how the house might not feel the same without me in it. And Hanny has yet to mention my leaving, but I know her opinion already.
I know she spoke to the other nuns about it, for that was the reason for my writing so late this past entry. I had to sneak from my room and perch outside of the parlor door so that I could hear what was being said. Lucius had been right, the locks on my bedroom door was on the outside, but the workers here were forgetful and lazy, which often left me to my own devices if I could remain soft-footed and silent. Three years of sneaking downstairs and I'd only ever been caught four times—and two of those times I'd used the privy as my excuse and been pardoned.
On the night of Lucius' visit, I had donned my thickest stockings and made the treacherous decent down the curved staircase (There are prominent creaks on the second, fourth, seventh and thirteenth steps), down the hall and into the coat closet that resides adjacent to the parlor. This small room's purpose was once to safe keep the coats of visitors, but since those mythical beings are rare and often keep their visits brief, the closet has been repurposed to hold linen. This is a sad thing for poor St. Agatha's but a blessing for me.
Over the past three years, I have converted the lopsided stacks of never touched cotton into a nest from which I can hear every ounce of house gossip. Because of the location of the closet and the blessedly thin walls, I am able to hear everything that is said in the parlor, while the linen keeps my own sounds from being detected. It was here, buried in fabrics that smelt of mothballs and sour milk, that I overheard the nuns talking about my situation.
