Mrs. Cliffton returns to stirring the pot. Her hair shines as though it’s reflecting the pans hanging in a rainbow of copper behind her.
“I know some people think she was the Catalyst,” I say boldly. “Do you?”
Mrs. Cliffton doesn’t turn around. She just keeps stirring, for so long that I wonder if she heard me. “I think Juliet was a catalyst,” she says finally. “I don’t think that word always has to be a bad one.”
I’m silent. The steam whispers up from my mug.
When Mrs. Cliffton turns to face me, her eyes are bright.
“I’m glad you’ve come to Sterling, Aila. It’s too easy to vilify a person who no longer lives and breathes in front of you.” She reaches into her pocket and sets a glass globe of pearlescent Mind’s Eye on the table. “Don’t tell Malcolm I’ve given you this before you’re Of Age. But Juliet was a dear, lovely friend to me. She was a good mother.” Mrs. Cliffton pushes the Mind’s Eye to rest in front of me. “And I want you to remember her that way.”
There are so many secrets I’m keeping.
So many secrets between all of us, really. Big and little, silly and significant, weaving together into something that I want to believe is a safety net. But in some lights, it looks more like a web.
Every day I conceal from Will how I really feel about him.
There are other secrets, too.
The biggest are the ones I try to keep from myself.
I watch Miles from the second-floor window. He’s in the yard beyond the gardens, kicking a ball to himself, volleying it in short spurts on his knees and then chasing after it. Will has been working with him to practice, and he’s improved.
I want to ask him if he ever resents Mother sometimes, too. For lying. For leaving us. If he ever wonders whether Father could have fought the draft harder in order to stay with us.
If he ever wishes I were different than I am, the way I find myself wishing he was. Easier to be around.
Easier to love.
I watch him for a long time. Then I let myself out the back door, walk straight for him, and hug him without saying a word.
“What was that for?” he asks.
For being infuriatingly, inescapably mine, I want to tell him. For having echoes of Mother and Father pumping inside you even though they aren’t here. For knowing what it was like to have Juliet Quinn as a mother, and what it was like to lose her.
Instead I just shrug. “Sorry for fighting,” I say. “I know it’s been a hard year. I miss her, too.”
He juts his jaw. Blinks up at me a few times, as if he’s deciding something.
“Aila, I have something to show you.” The look on his face is fierce, but his lower lip betrays a twitch of nervousness. “Don’t be mad.”
My heart leaps when he motions for me to follow. Because suddenly I am sure what he is going to say.
He leads me along the garden path to the outer side of the stone wall. The sun is setting, and a light snow is beginning to fall. Miles kneels down and brushes off the few flakes that have collected like breadcrumbs along the top. Then he reaches his gloved hand into the crack, where it forms a perfect small shelf, enough to keep whatever is hidden there dry.
I close my eyes. We all have secrets from each other.
“I thought I missed her more. You don’t show it that much.” He takes a deep breath. “But I’m sorry for what I said. Because she loved you, too.”
And from the hidden crack in the wall, he draws it out:
Mother’s ring.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Date: 2/11/1943
Bird: The Great Gray Shrike
