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“Ants . . . Annoying.” Miss Lambert’s amber eyes glisten. She brushes away the lock of hair. Her moves are graceful. Almost hypnotic. “I cannot help you with cooking. I barely cook myself. But I’d be damned if I don’t help you with reading and math.”

Jo smiles. “You’ll do it against my daddy’s wishes?”

“Why, of course.” Miss Lambert shrugs casually, but the angle of her shoulders—tense and upright—says otherwise. “How else are we supposed to have all the fun?” The woman has no fear. “How about we meet here every morning? Before my classes start?”

Jo hesitates. Meeting in the morning is better than in the afternoon when she must start on her laundry. Her days are usually a blur of cleaning and washing and taking care of her father. Only early mornings are hers alone.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes.” Miss Lambert lays her warm hand over Jo’s, and something liquid and heavy pools inside Jo’s belly.

Neither of them says anything else.

The river churns.

Josephine. A ripple of water. A whisper from the bottom of the river. Josephine.

Jo pushes herself to her feet. “I must go now.” She brushes the grass and twigs from her skirt. The green streaks from the grass pockmark her skirt. She’ll have to launder it today. Brush her hair. If she cuts it just a bit, if she cleans herself up, in some subtle way, she might even resemble Miss Lambert. And she definitely must start wearing shoes.

Miss Lambert scrambles to her feet. “I must go too. Meet the reverend. See the school. Find my lodging.”

Josephine. The sound enters her body, burrows under her skin, digs into her bones. Pulls her into the abyss. She’s running out of time, but she doesn’t want to let go. Not this moment. Not this place.

“I love how clandestine we’re going to be.” Miss Lambert threads her fingers together as if in glee. She doesn’t smile, but her eyes are laughing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She leans forward and plants a kiss on Jo’s cheek.

The river is swirling in Jo’s mind, and Miss Lambert’s face is fading away, her words a bouncing echo against the waves.

The Other Realm

With great difficulty, Jo wrenches away from the darkness and toward the light. She plunges between the worlds—between now and then—through the thick wall of water and mud and rain and back into the courtyard.

When she resurfaces, she’s hollowed out by her memories. The well. The water. But mostly, she’s drowning in sorrow. It’s a heavy, liquid ache deep inside her. And somehow, when she drops to the ground, she feels not just empty but small.

“Josephine,” Millie says, watching Jo. “You didn’t want to come back. I started to worry.” She inspects Jo’s thin chemise, her bare feet, her face, and her wet hair. “You should come when called. The longer you allow yourself to stay, the greater the chance you won’t come back at all.”

Jo spits out water. “I needed a minute.” The smell of it reminds her of her hometown—the pungent stench of rot, mud, and death. How she loathes it. No, her feelings are much stronger. It’s pure, all-encompassing, scorching hatred.

Horace snorts, flames of hell burning in his big brown eyes. As if he knows. As if he’s judging. Always judging.

“How was it?” Millie drops the reins by her feet but doesn’t climb down from her wagon.

“Not what I expected.” Jo isn’t sure what she expected. There are certain moments in life that are carved into your bone marrow. Moments that never dull, never fade. Memories preserved like a photograph, carefully placed under the glass. For Jo, it’s the day when Miss Lambert stepped out from the shadow of the trees, her eyes shining, purse dangling by her hip. She buried that memory a long time ago—to avoid the pain, the longing that always comes with it—and she can’t allow herself to remember the moment that shaped her future. But, apparently, she had to relive it as a part of her penance. And she understands why—the memories fade with time, and the feeling of guilt dulls. To fully atone, she must face her secrets, all the wrongs and all the shame, everything that no one knows. Everything no one can ever know.

“It was a good memory,” Jo says begrudgingly because she only expects evil from the well. If only she could stop this madness. Stop these odd visits to the courtyard. The pain. This reminiscing that cuts through her soul and stirs madness to life. But to be fully free, she must comply with whatever the well has prepared for her.

“Not all memories in the well are bad.” The sunlight colors Millie’s brown hair in golden undertones. Like honey.

Jo spits the water out again, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Can we talk now?”

Horace nods. Millie smiles.

“I think someone in your family poisoned you. Can you tell me who was at home on the day of your death?” Jo says roughly.

“Everyone. Mother and Grace and my younger siblings. Ira and Finn were in the house in the morning. They didn’t stay long.”

Horace roars.

“Does Finn ever get violent with any of the children? Or Uncle Ira?”