A kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight.
Before I can reply in kind, he turns to his cousin. “I thought you wanted to join us for dinner.”
“I thought it would be more interesting,” Rafe replies.
“So you decided to bother her instead?”
“Bother? Come now, Jude. You wound me. I saw a pretty girl all alone and thought I’d keep her company. It’s not like you were volunteering. Watching, yes. Staring, a little.” With a dip of his chin, he leans closer. “A small word of advice? Selah doesn’t like staring.”
The torchlight along the path reflects in Jude’s eyes. They burn like fire. He stands there with his jaw clenched, his shoulders squared—a picture ofmeasured restraint. Controlled stillness. He’s a carefully coiled snake. Any sane person would sense the danger and dial it back.
But Rafe?
His smirk widens into a grin as he shifts his weight and bends toward my ear. “And Jude doesn’t like fun. Not even a little.”
I lean away from him.
“But he’s not without hobbies. He plays the piano beautifully. That prestigious boarding school of his instilled a proper appreciation of the arts, which I find sorely lacking among the youth these days.” Rafe lifts a finger. “Speaking of the arts. I’ve been meaning to show you a portrait. Painted by our most honored ancestor, Ezra.”
I gape. Ezra Vandenberg predates Amos, who rebuilt Foggy Hollow after the fire. Ezra was his father, and a town founder. “You have a painting by Ezra Vandenberg?”
“Not just any painting. This one was his magnum opus. The girl he captured was quite a beauty.” His attention moves down my body, then flits up to my face. “I think it would capture both your imaginations.”
I eye him warily.
He’s navigated this conversation into strange territory, and he was very clearly navigating. Intentionally steering the ship. Judging by the expression Jude wears, Rafe’s the only one who isn’t lost.
A loudboombursts through the night.
A cannon.
The signal that the lanterns have been launched.
“We better go find our seats.” With a wag of his dark eyebrows, Rafe gives the small stone in his hand another toss, then saunters away. Leaving me and Jude to stare after him, wondering what in the world he’s up to, and why.
9
A PUZZLING OBSESSION
Despair.
The word clangs like a gong as I scramble to make sense of my surroundings. I’m standing inside a house that’s gone blurry at the edges. Low, dulcet conversation seeps through the ceiling above me, too muffled to understand. Everything is a wisp. Corporeal in nature. Like if I tried touching something, my hand would sink straight through.
But the despair?
It’s as clear as crystal. As heavy as sandbags. Shrouding the hallway like a cold, suffocating blanket. Beside me, a young man sits on a bench with his face in his hands, a tricorn hat resting beside him. He wears a jacket, a waistcoat, and knee length breeches with stockings and shoes with square buckles. His shoulders heave as he weeps.
Somewhere farther away, a woman wails.
And that dread?
It grabs me by the throat.
I want to flee. Run. Sprint far and fast away. But the despair won’t let go. It drags me forward, into a room with sitting chairs, a paneled fireplace, and exposed wooden beams. And hanging from one of them is a young woman in a yellow taffeta dress. Her honey blond hair falls in ringlets around a face that has gone puffy and blue. Her eyes are open and bulging. Her neck bent at an unnatural angle as she swings from a rope.
A scream tears up my throat.
I turn to run, but someone grabs my wrist.
