Chapter 18

Wolf barked from his spot near the window, his tail wagging and eyes following something outside.

"What is it?" Otis asked before cautiously peering out. Sadie was crossing the lawn and heading away from the mansion. Wolf

barked again, and she glanced over her shoulder and waved before ducking her head against the early morning rain and hurrying

on her way.

Otis scowled as she disappeared from sight. Leaving his chair, he went to the vast wall of books, pulled down a volume, fingered

through it, and replaced it. His mind was firing too rapidly for him to focus on the tiny print. Today the citizens of Monticello

and Blackwell would read his words in the newspaper. His hopes rested on someone knowing about an orphan named Elisabeth.

If the right person saw the query he'd written, he would be welcoming a niece into his home very soon.

Needing to busy himself, he walked the halls, stopping near the attic door. He'd gone up once since returning home but hadn't spent enough time in the rafters to know what all was there. With nothing better to do, he climbed the creaking stairs, shocked to realize the boards squawked in the same way they had when he was a boy. And further shocked that he remembered the pattern to walk if he wanted to go unnoticed. Wolf chose not to climb the steep stairs, leaving Otis to face the cobwebs and memories alone.

Dense dust covered the relics, giving everything a dull, muted look. A rocking horse with a small leather saddle sat against

the wall nearest him. He ran his fingers across the place he'd once sat, leaving a trail in the blanket of dust. Dim memories

of rocking back and forth as a boy floated to his recollection.

"What a fine rider you are." He heard his mother's voice in his mind. The same lilt and cadence he'd so often tried to recall. "Ottie, my boy, you're getting so big."

He pushed the horse head forward enough that it rocked back and forth as though it had a rider on its back. How small he'd

been when he'd first ridden this horse. Using his handkerchief, he wiped the dust from the once beloved toy, hoping his mother's

voice would again jump to his recollection.

The horse, now free of its dust, looked new again and ready for a rider. He moved it near the stairs. Elisabeth, he hoped,

would fit in the saddle as he once had. While she rode, he would speak to her gently, like his mother had, and he would fall

back on the lessons he'd learned from Sadie's stories of her father.

A traveling trunk he had no memory of, an abandoned broom most likely made at the Hoag factory years ago, and a chair with

a broken spindle all got pushed aside—they meant nothing to him. A chest beneath several milk crates, however, caught his

attention. He could not remember where it had been before coming to the attic, but something about it seemed familiar. The

hinges creaked as he pried them open, awakening them from a long slumber.

"Mama," he whispered. Her old dresses, folded neatly, came into view. They'd sat forgotten for years, and still his heart leapt at the sight. He rifled through the contents, unsure what he hoped to find. Dresses and more dresses. Despite having no use for them, he knew he'd found a treasure. Each dress had once touched the skin of his mother. They were no substitute for her presence, but somehow, they made her seem closer.

"I saw the door open."

He whipped his head around at the sound of Sadie's voice and searched her face, but there was no way of knowing where she'd

been by staring at the curve of her cheek and certainly no way of knowing what she'd been up to by admiring the pink of her

lips.

"I can go," she said when he only gaped at her.

"No, stay. I would have asked you to join me, but I saw you head out this morning."

"Are we looking for something?"

"I found my mother's old dresses." He moved to his right so she could see into the old chest.

"They're so fine." She ran her fingers across the lace of the top dress. "My mother sent me a dress of hers. That was what

was in my parcel... I haven't worn many pretty dresses. Never anything like these."

"Ah, we are the same."

"Are we?" she asked.

"I've not worn pretty dresses before either." He laughed at his own jest.

"I should hope not. Tell me, what was your mother like?"

Otis wiped the dust from a wobbly-legged chair. "Here." He offered it to her.

She sat and smoothed her brown skirt around her. Her clothes were dull, but it made no difference. He found her strikingly beautiful and sadly out of reach. No matter how often he reminded himself of Marvin, he couldn't seem to shake the way she made him feel. She'd never declared herself promised, and so telling her about his mother was hardly crossing a line.

"I came up here to pass the time, but when I touched that old horse, I could almost hear her voice. She was soft-spoken, but

I always wanted to listen to her." Restless, he began sifting through belongings while talking. "I would hurry home from school

each day and tell her everything that happened. I am sure what I told her was boring drivel, but she never let on."

"She sounds like a very good woman. Not enough people know how to really listen."

"She excelled at it." He moved a basket off an abandoned dresser and opened the top drawer. It was empty. "When she died,

her belongings disappeared. Or I thought they had. There are a few things here, and my brother had a photograph of her in

his bedroom. I could show you if you like."

"I'd love to see it."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her rise and walk across the room. She stopped in the crook of the steep roofed attic beside

the family's once cherished cradle, now covered in years of cobwebs.

"When I meet someone as an adult, it's hard for me to imagine them small, but you must have fit in this cradle."

"I have no memory of it, but my mother told me I was a very round baby with a head full of hair."

She chuckled. "I would have liked to see that. I'm told I was bald until I was four."

"And now you've a head of hair and I've none. Things have certainly changed."

"Indeed." She sneezed twice, apologized, and then sneezed again. "I'm sorry. Dust often sends me into a fit of sneezing. You should have heard me when I was in the old factory. I sneezed all the time. I would much rather be laughing at our changes since infancy, but—" Her nose scrunched up and she sneezed again.

"We can go. There's nothing up here that needs my attention."

"No, I'll be fine." She sneezed, covering her nose. "What's that?"

He followed her pointing finger toward another large chest. To get to it he had to move a crate of old medicine bottles. It'd

been years, and the sight of them shouldn't bother him, but it did. His hands shook as he placed them on the side of the crate.

His mother's voice had come to him soft and gentle, reminding him of long-ago love. Touching the crate of glass bottles with

labels full of lies had the opposite effect. His father's coarse voice, his demands, his anger... Otis tightened his grip

on the box. He wanted to be done with it all. He wanted it out of his head. He wanted to be free.

"Are you all right?" Sadie asked.

He trembled. The past was too strong and powerful. The chains tightened. The memories grew louder.

As a boy he'd been helpless. He'd submitted, letting his father torture him under the guise of health. Like a dagger the memory

cut into him, twisted and tore at him. And with it his pain shrieked, telling him to fight back. He growled, screaming like

a wild animal, and threw the box as hard as he could against the wall. Glass shattered and scattered across the floor.

He reached for a large broken piece and threw it. Then he grabbed another and another, caring nothing for the sharp edges

that cut his hands. All he felt was the long-ago hurt and the deep aching wound that had never fully healed.

When at last his rage died, he fell on his knees, weak and ashamed.

Somewhere behind him Sadie sneezed, and then her hand went to his back, slowly, tentatively, touching him.

"Just go," he growled, filled with embarrassment and hurt.

"It's all right," she said near his ear. Her voice was like honey, sweet and soothing. It seeped inside him, robbing the bitter

anger of its potency. "No one can hurt you now. He's dead. You're safe."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"You're on glass," she whispered back. Her hand moved under his arm. She pulled, urging him to his feet. "Let's go downstairs.

I'll clean you up."

He stood, his gaze remaining on the broken glass. She gasped. "Your hands."

"It's nothing." He clenched his hands and winced. "None of this is your problem."

"Wait." She sneezed again, and despite his storming emotions he nearly laughed. Never had he heard someone sneeze so many

times. "I believe, before we clean you up, we ought to celebrate."

"Celebrate?" He froze, confused. He'd made a fool of himself and exposed himself for the broken vessel he was. There was nothing

to celebrate, only a new memory to commiserate. "What is it you want to celebrate? My bloody hands or my temper?"

"Not your hands. We'll bandage those and they'll be better soon." She picked up a large piece of glass. "You broke them. If

these bottles were chains, then you are free. Otis, you're free."

Free. Could it be true?

"That's reason to celebrate." She brought her hand back and threw the piece of glass against the wall. It shattered into smaller

bits. Glistening fragments of glass covered the entire corner of the attic, a minefield of sharp edges and danger. Could she

be right? Could this carnage signify his freedom? Accepting it felt so sudden after so many years of carrying his pain and

anger. Too easy.

"I don't know," he mumbled.

When she sneezed again, he took a step away from the glass. She needed to get away from the dust. "I'll clean this up later,"

he said.

"I can help you."

"I think you'd best stay clear of the attic until I have time to dust everything. Come on." By the stairs he paused and looked

back at the mess he'd made. A ray of light from the small attic window caused the glass to sparkle like diamonds. He looked

at his hands and said, "After I bandage my hands, I'll come back for the horse. I thought Elisabeth might like it."

"Excellent idea." She wiped at her nose with her handkerchief. "Let me help you with your hands."

"It's not a job requirement. I can take care of it myself."

"Not everyone—" She stopped walking and looked at him directly, waiting to say more until he met her gaze. "Not everyone will

run. Your father was wrong, but you broke the bottles. Otis, you broke them. He sent you away, but you came back. You don't have to do everything by yourself just because he was embarrassed

of you."

He closed his eyes, not to hide from her but because she was saying the words he'd wanted to hear for so long. Night after

night as a youth and even as an adult, he'd imagined his father, his brother, anyone calling him home. And now here she stood,

unaware of the power her words carried. Could he trust what she'd said? Could he go on, even without an official welcome home?

"Otis." Sadie's hand touched his arm, and he opened his eyes with a start.

"I'm sorry. This house... there are so many memories." He took a step down the hall, pretending composure as best he could. Love, acceptance, abandonment, trust. He wanted to run from it all and in the same breath to make sense of the scattered pieces and find peace.

They stopped at the end of the hall. He dared a look at her. "You're red all over."

"I should be offended." She smiled her beautiful, bright smile, lighting up her red face. "But I'm not."

He winced dramatically, still teetering between his many emotions, unsure which pull to follow and which to fight against.

"Let's blame my years of isolation. I haven't spent much time around women—very little, in fact."

"And now you spend every day with me. It must be quite overwhelming." She put a hand on his arm. "Go sit in that chair and

I'll fetch water and bandages."

He obeyed, sitting on a chair in the landing, waiting for her to return. Aware that, despite their short acquaintance, he

dreaded her return to the factory and his return to solitude. There was one thought that made sense in his muddle of woes.

Sadie West made his days better. His plans to escape to the woods held less appeal when he was around her.

She returned, set her supplies beside her, and took his hand. "Someday you'll be used to having friends in your life again

to help you."

Friend . Impulsively he pulled his hand back. Her head popped up, questioning him. The title should have made his chest swell. He'd

not had a friend since his boyhood chums, but hearing her say it now left him hungry for something more. She had just been

beside him as he fought a vicious foe. Surely that linked their souls together beyond mere friendship. She'd seen his head,

his scars, his pain.

She broke her gaze and sneezed again. "Don't worry, none of these wounds are very deep. I don't expect these cuts will set

you back much. Come on, give me your hand."

Fine. He put his hand in hers. "What do you do to stop the sneezing?"

"A long walk in the fresh air or a bath. Something like that usually works."

He nodded. "I won't be joining you on account of my avoiding the public and, well... you understand..." He cleared his

throat. "Why I can't, well, bathing is a private matter." If pointing out her red face was uncouth, then commenting on a woman

bathing was surely against every rule of propriety. He looked away.

"Don't look so embarrassed. I find your unpolished ways charming." After cleaning his hands, she stood. "I'll freshen up and

find you later."

She paused, and when he said nothing, she walked away.

Alone, he turned left and then right, unsure what to do while he waited for her return. Mildred saved him from himself when

she insisted they work on his costume for the masquerade skate. It did not take long before he regretted her suggestion. Standing

with his arms out and his back straight while she pinned and tucked was not a diverting activity but a rather torturous one.

It left him counting the seconds in every minute.

"How many more hours must I stand here?"

"You've brought this misery upon yourself. There is a fine seamstress in town, but you insisted I not call for her. That leaves

me to fumble my way through the making of your costume."

"I don't know why I agreed to go anyway," he said like a sulky child while keeping his arms stretched out for Mildred. She

chuckled softly but didn't slow her work.

"You're going because MissSadie came up with the idea and because you know we might need help from the town with finding

Elisabeth. Besides, you must be curious about everyone. It's only right you go."

He groaned.

"Stop your fussing. You can still run off and leave this all behind if you want when the time comes."

When at last she set him free, he found himself wandering the house, secretly searching for Sadie—though he'd deny it if confronted.

"Do I look less red?" Sadie asked when he stepped into the parlor, where she stood with a duster in one hand and a cloth held

over her nose in the other hand.

"I've been told it is not polite to comment on the... er... redness of a woman's face." He looked her over. Her puffy

eyes and red skin had returned to normal. "Or lack of redness."

"You can be taught—that's important. I have also learned that when dusting, it's best if I cover my nose. I really ought to

sew a mask that covers my mouth and nose. It would not only be practical but may start a popular fashion. Can you imagine,

everyone walking around with masks over their faces?" She twirled the duster in her hand. "I can tell you which part of the

turkey each one of these feathers is from."

"No doubt a useful skill. Tell me, where did this feather come from?" He stepped closer and touched a shorter feather, brown

with only a small band at the top.

"That's a body feather."

"And this one—"

A pounding on the door startled them. His hand flew to his head. He'd taken off his hat when he was with Mildred and not replaced

it. How odd. He usually never forgot.

"Go—I'll answer it." Sadie shooed him away.

Like a coward he retreated, too timid to fight his own battle, but he did not go far, only to the hall where he could listen

unseen.

"Peter," Sadie said as soon as she opened the door. "What are you doing here? You must have turned around as soon as you got to the country."

"My second stop was your parents' home," he said, heaving for breath like a panting dog. "I took your letter to your family.

Your pa tried to get up when I knocked on the door. He fell. He was crying out in pain, and your mama decided he needed the

doctor again. They haven't wanted me to tell you how much pain he's always in, but he's not doing well."

"Are you going back there now?"

"Yes, I only came to tell you."

"Can you wait? I'd like to go with you if I can."

Otis's stomach clenched. He didn't want her to go.

"I'll go and see if Tobias at the store has any new deliveries since I'm here. Then I'll come back. Pack quickly."

Otis could hear a shuffling sound. Then Peter's voice called out again. "I forgot. I went to the Bennett farm yesterday. Marvin

is back and he's read your letter. He wrote you one in return."

"Thank you, Peter. I'll read this later."

Drat these shadows. Otis wanted to see her face. Was this fool Marvin bringing a blush? A sigh? Or had she come to her senses

and realized what a clod Marvin was? Impatiently, he waited for the door to close and for her to reappear. The beast inside

him wanted to bark and scream and tell her no, that if she worked here, she needed to be here. He was justified. After all,

she'd agreed to work at the house, and he knew she needed money—

But then she stepped near him, and he saw her face. Her desire to go was written into her every feature.

"Otis—"

"Go. Go for as long as you need to." His words came out terse and strained, but he didn't take them back. "Be with your father."

She paused, stepped closer, and put a hand on his arm. "Thank you."

"He'll want you there."

She nodded. "You... you will tell me everything when I come back? I want to know about Elisabeth."

He nodded. "I'll tell you."

"And you'll practice? The masquerade is coming."

"I don't know." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm not sure I even want to go."

"The whole town is expecting you." She tightened her grasp on his arm. "They want to meet you, and when they do, they'll see

what I see."

Afraid that if she looked too closely, she would see his burning jealousy and hostile thoughts about Marvin, and his anguish

over her leaving, he looked away. "You best pack your things."

"I won't be gone long," she said as she backed from the room, her hand wrapped tightly around Marvin's letter.

Like a statue, he stared as she walked away. He might have stood there, motionless and aghast, until she left if Mildred had

not come looking for him.

"What do you know—Marvin is back," Mildred said, startling him.

"She told you?"

"I asked her what she was holding so tightly. Said she wasn't sure she could read it just yet but that Peter said it was a

note from Marvin about his return. Two years away at school and not a single promise to her. Poor girl doesn't know a thing

about the man's heart." She pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don't be like Marvin."

"I don't plan to attend college."

"That's not what I meant. You know that."

"I have written her," he said, puffing out his chest. But he hadn't ever written her as Otis Taylor. Would she want that?

"I'm talking about more than letters. Marvin left her wondering, and because of that he may lose her. I'm going to pack her

a basket of food. You're a smart man—make use of your time." She left him as quickly as she'd come, mumbling to herself as

she went about men being na?ve to what was right in front of them. He went to his study and attempted to do as he was advised,

though writing proved a difficult task to complete with bandaged hands. In the end he feared he had failed to say what he

truly felt, but there was no time to dawdle or rewrite. He folded his note and rushed back to the parlor.

"Goodbye, Leon," he heard Sadie say as she exited the kitchen. He rubbed his clammy palm on his pants and sat, then stood,

unsure how to look at ease when he felt nothing but nervous. She approached, carpetbag in one hand and a hat on her head.

He took a large step in front of her and held his arm straight out, the letter dangling from his fingers.

"Here." He practically shoved the paper into her hand.

"Is this for me?" She took his folded note, the first he'd ever placed in her hand. "You wouldn't look at me before. I thought

I might not get a glimpse of your blue eyes before I left."

"I was surprised, about your father, and... and I heard your friend say you had a letter from Marvin."

"It's an unusual day. News of my father and now two letters to read." She adjusted the bag on her arm. "I don't know what

to make of it all."

"I've no advice, only to be careful and... if you want to come back, you can."

"I left the dress my mother sent. I'll have to come back for that." Her playful smile gave him pause. He stood unnaturally still, and then she stepped closer. So close he didn't know what to do. He wanted to cut the difference in half. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her and beg her to stay, but he knew she needed to go. He cleared his throat. "Do you need money?"

"You've paid me all that you owe me." She stuck his note inside her bag without breaking her gaze from his. "We'll manage."

"You will tell me if you are in need?"

"I don't know." Her honesty endeared him further. So often he'd been lied to, but she spoke truth. "My family has always stood

on our own feet. We work hard. And then we work harder."

"Admirable. But is it wise? You bandaged my hands. You said everything I needed to hear. Why are you permitted to help me

but unable to accept help?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"You called us allies. That means if one of us is in need, the other can be relied upon for aid. Don't forget that."

"I have never had an ally like that," she said in a gentle voice. Her hand, her soft, beautiful, perfect hand, left her side,

and the tips of her fingers grazed his cheek. "Thank you."

No words would come. Nothing witty. Nothing wise or profound. Like a river in winter, he stood immovable, aware only of the

warmth of her fingertips. If they'd lingered, perhaps he would have thawed completely.

"I have to go," she said, stepping away from him at last.