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on the way.
“What are you doing?” Cora asked.
Minnie waved in the direction of the tree. “Go see for yourself.”
Without waiting to find out what her sister did, Minnie
stomped into the house. If she were Arthur and she didn’t want to
be found . . .
She took the back stairs, then opened a door in the hall to the
narrow, hidden set of stairs that led to the attic. Bypassing Arthur’s
room, the only finished one up there, she turned and crawled
through a narrow space into the open, empty expanse of the rest of
the attic.
Arthur was leaning against the wall next to the window, pro-
file illuminated.
Minnie’s heart hurt her so much she didn’t know what to do
with it, other than pull it straight out and beg him to take it
from her.
“You’re not my brother,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Arthur looked up at her, his expression troubled and
distant.
“Why did you let me think you were my brother?”
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. She
thought she caught a moment of hope, of joy in his face, but it
was quickly replaced with sadness. Then, finally, he said, “It was
easier.”
“For who? It wasn’t easier for me! All this time I’ve hated
myself for how I feel about you! I’ve felt so wicked and so vile, and
still I loved you! But it wasn’t — it isn’t — we could . . .” She
trailed off, the air between them desperate and heavy with the
words she wanted him to say.
“We can’t.”
