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“Who?”

Miss Lambert points at the piece of paper with a short and clean fingernail. “Your reverend. It says here. School teacher, apply to Reverend Hans Haden.”

“Oh. There’s a house behind the church. He must be there.”

Miss Lambert stretches her long legs in front of her and nods at her shoes. “I bought these three days ago. They’re already scuffed. The dirt roads here are brutal.”

Jo’s face is on fire as she looks down at her bare feet, toes crusted with grime.

Miss Lambert follows her gaze and leaps to her feet. She pushes off her shoes, hikes up her skirt, unfastens her garter, rolls down her stockings, pulls them off, and wiggles her toes. “I think I should learn from you. No more shoes. Only on Sundays.” She giggles, and Jo cannot help it. She laughs, too, while wondering how this young woman ended up in Millville.

Miss Lambert sits down again, but this time she is much closer to Jo. Their hips are touching. Something warm and unfamiliar stirs deep in Jo’s belly. She never felt it with a woman before. What is this odd feeling? Their shoulders push against each other. Jo’s belly aches pleasantly, and she knows she must move away, but she hasn’t considered herself virtuous or proper for a long time. Not since she started pleasing herself at night, under her threadbare blanket, and sometimes by the river. Unlike her father, she doesn’t believe that there are some heavenly rewards for the good—and what is good really in Millville?—and some awful punishments for the wicked. And so she doesn’t move.

Miss Lambert pulls her legs to her chest, sets her elbows on her knees, chin in her hand, and says, “By the way, Miss Noll, everyone is welcome in my class. And I hope you’ll find time to come to my lessons.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you want to learn how to read?”

Jo inspects her calloused hands and her stained fingernails. Then she looks up at Miss Lambert, a picture-perfect postcard from a world that Jo will never see or experience. “Daddy won’t like me going to school.”

“Why not?” Miss Lambert is apparently not very good at knowing which questions not to ask. As if sensing Jo’s thoughts, the teacher grabs her hand. “I know I’m coming across too strongly. But I believe in the power of education.”

“Daddy needs my help. Around the mill. Around the house. Daddy’s a difficult man. He gets angry easily when things don’t go his way.” Jo doesn’t understand what’s happening, but in front of this woman, she doesn’t feel the need to pretend she loves her father with his red face and his angry fists.

“A difficult man,” Miss Lambert repeats slowly. “Mine was the same way. But then he left, and it was the best thing that happened to my mother and me. No man to tell us what he wants. No man to take what he can. And no man to keep us on a short leash.”

Jo’s heart skips a bit. No one has ever talked to her in such a direct way.

“Oh well. I got carried away.” Miss Lambert shakes her head and laughs. “I guess my manners are dying a slow death in this town.” She wiggles her toes. “Along with my shoes.”

“Daddy thinks books are a waste of time.”

Miss Lambert smirks. “Even the Bible? I wonder what your reverend would say to that.”

“I want to learn how to read.” As the words tumble out, Jo tries to define the nature of her sudden rebellion against her father. Against her life. Whatever she’s feeling, she cannot describe it. It’s not fear—of that, she’s certain. It’s something else entirely. The most exhilarating sensation she has ever experienced.

Miss Lambert cuts her gaze to Jo. Crinkles her nose. “Against your father’s wishes?”

Jo gazes at the grass under her feet.

“Miss Noll, educated women cannot be trusted.”

Jo gapes at the teacher, mouth half opened.

Miss Lambert laughs, shakes her head. Her dark curls flop over her smooth forehead. She looks so young, Jo’s convinced they must be the same age.

“No one ever told you that?” Miss Lambert laughs again, but her eyes burrow into Jo like she’s trying to see into Jo’s mind. “Well.” A small shrug. “Men don’t trust women in general. Doesn’t matter if we’re educated or not.” Her voice is soft, but her eyes harden with every word that leaves her rosebud mouth. “I’ll teach you how to read and write and maybe even do math.” She slides down on her back and closes her eyes. “That is if I ever find the strength to get up and go back to town.”

Suddenly Jo’s morning is perfect. The dread she felt when she came here is gone and is replaced with an unexpected joyfulness. “I won’t tell anyone,” Jo says, feeling like she’s a part of some secret game, and she’s the only one who got lucky enough to be a part of it. “My daddy doesn’t know, but I taught myself how to read. Just a bit. I used his Bible. But it’s hard, though, and I’m slow. The words run into each other, and by the time I get to the end of the sentence, I cannot remember what was at the beginning of it.”

“Praise the Lord.” Miss Lambert sits up. “You’re not just a brave soul but a rebellious one. A self-taught reader. How did you manage that?”

Jo digs her fingernails into the grass. “By keeping my father happy. I cook and clean, and then I sneak away to the river and read the Bible.”

“Men like to believe they’re in control. You’re doing the right thing. Feed him. Clean for him, and at some point, you become invisible.” She winks. “And invisibility is freedom.”

Jo ponders Miss Lambert’s words. Her father wants her to work. Every day he wants her to do more—more cooking, more cleaning, more laundry. Whatever she offers him is never enough. “I’m not a good cook,” Jo notes with a heavy sigh, her eyes tracing an ant climbing up Miss Lambert’s pale neck. “Daddy always says I use too much salt.” She brushes the ant away. “Sorry. There was an ant. They bite.”