Just like my mother.
Or, possibly, Elijah.
Was Molly the girl from my dream? I’ve read my journal entry a thousand times, but I haven’t shared it with Jude. Over the past eight days, as we’ve sifted through his family’s sweeping archives—letters and journals sorted by century but rarely in order—I’ve kept this morsel of information to myself. If he’s still operating under the assumption that the subject ofEzra’s Obsessionis one of my relatives from the past, he’s not going to accept the idea of me having dreams about tragedies long ago.
I twist the ribbon around my thumb.
Early evening sunlight filters through branches, casting shifting shadows along the cobbled path. Mushrooms and bloodroot bloom between the stones. But the thick tangle of weeds has been cleared away. Several days ago, the news became official. The Vandenberg Estate would hostthis year’s Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball. Upon the announcement, Dad acquired a three-man crew and they’ve been getting the grounds into tiptop shape ever since.
The smell of autumn weaves through the crisp evening air.
It’s the eve of October.
The best month of the year.
But I feel restless and out of sorts.
Jude and I have been carpooling to school. Eating lunch at the same table. Sitting next to one another in U.S. History. And I’ve discovered none of the adages hold true.
When it comes to Jude Vandenberg, proximity and exposure haven’t dulled his appeal.
The shine hasn’t worn off.
The magic hasn’t faded.
Familiarity has not bred contempt.
On the contrary, every moment with him is kindling, fueling a fire deep down in my abdomen that sometimes burns so hot, I feel like I might crawl out of my skin if he doesn’t touch me already. But he never does. He doesn’t even reach, leaving me to wonder if the things I feel are completely lopsided. But then, what about the wounded expression he wore when he dropped me off this afternoon? I failed to mention the significance of today, and he caught wind of it after school. Would he have looked so hurt if I was just some girl he was doing research with?
“What a sad little picture you make Selah Whitlock.”
I look up from the ribbon.
Rafe has stepped out of the shadows, impeccably dressed as always, twirling a small clover between his fingers. He sits next to me on the bench. “Clutching your ribbon like a love-struck maiden.”
I ignore him.
I wasn’t lying to Jude in The Cobbler last Sunday. When it comes to Rafe, this really is the best course of action.
He leans close. “Funny, isn’t it? You sitting here, thinking about him. Him somewhere in there, thinking about you.”
I stare resolutely at the pond.
“Wondering why he hasn’t swept you off your feet yet?”
My spine stiffens. How in the world could he possibly know what I’ve been thinking?
“He’s probably brooding about it. My poor, lonely cousin does love to brood. Tell me, sweetheart, do you think he’s being moody and mysterious, or is he just hot and bothered?”
I turn and glare. “What do you want?”
“I want to help. You’re pining. Jude’s pining. But you must remember, the poor boy has spent the last six years attending an all-boys boarding school.” Rafe shudders, like the very idea is torture. “I’m not convinced he knows what he’s doing. Which means you might have to make the firstmove. Or …” He crawls his fingers along the backrest of the bench and extends his arm long behind me. “We could help him along by making him jealous.”
He nips my ear.
Actuallynips my ear.
With his teeth.
