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Chapter Twelve
Brax awakened before dawn with the softly snoring Raven curled against his side. The memories of last night’s intimate encounter would stay with him for some time. He glanced down at her sleeping form. Everything about her made him want to awaken each morning for the rest of his life with her beside him in just this way. Would it be what she’d want, too, he wondered. If so, how would such a thing work? He now understood why the family had turned to crime and for the most part he’d set aside the moral judgments he’d once held so firmly. Which left how to overcome her firm beliefs that their differing economic statuses made them incompatible because they were unevenly yoked. It was a question he kept coming back to in his private moments, and he sensed she might be struggling with the same question. The answers, however, waited to be explored and resolved.
Hoping not to wake her, he eased carefullyfrom the bed. Leaning down, he placed a kiss on her cheek and left the bedroom to begin his day.
Outside, once the torches were lit so he could see, he began. He could easily chop enough wood and store it away so he wouldn’t have to do it daily, but found he enjoyed the solitude and feeding the muscles that kept his body fit.
“Are you Braxton?”
Startled, he looked up to see a woman walking into the torchlight. He could see that she was Black and wearing a cape against the predawn chill. Her hair was wrapped, but from where she stood he was unable to get a firm look at her features. Unsure how to respond to being addressed by his given name when he was supposed to be posing as Evan Miller, he replied, “Who’s asking?”
“Cousin Hazel sent something for Raven.”
“Then yes, I’m Braxton. Raven is still asleep.”
“Give her this, please.” She handed over a small burlap bag closed tight by a drawstring cord. The movement in the bag was so surprising he almost dropped it.
“Be careful. The mice she wanted are inside. There’s three of them and they’re alive as you can see.”
He held the bag at a distance. “I can.” The bag was roiling as the little beasts tried to escape.
When he looked up, the woman was gone. Surprised, he searched the darkness but saw no one. Another mysterious Moreau. Carefullyholding the bag by the top so he didn’t accidentally get bitten, he walked the bag to the door and went inside.
She was up and dressed. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Your mice.”
Her face brightened. “You caught some?”
“No. A young woman delivered them just now. She said your mother sent her.”
“Hand it here.”
He gave it over gladly.
She glanced at the moving bag and then at the old clock on the wall. “If I act quickly I can put them in her room while she’s washing up. I’ve learned her routine, and right now, she’s in her washroom.”
“You need to be careful you aren’t bitten.”
“I know. I’ll take some kitchen shears with me. That way I can hold the bag upside down and when I cut off the top, they’ll fall straight to the floor. She’ll never know I was there.”
He watched her think over her plan.
“It might be better if I turn them out in her bed and cover them with the quilt. The darkness might make the mice think they’re safe. And when she comes out of the washroom and gets in bed to wait for breakfast?”
He grinned. “You have a very devious mind, Mrs. Miller.”
“Yes, indeed. I’ll go and slip these little guests into her room, then go to the kitchen to beginbreakfast. When you hear screaming, come running.”
He gave her a crisp salute. “Aye! Aye!”
“And thanks for the good night’s sleep. I slept like a babe.”
He bowed. “Always at your service.”
Smiling, he watched her leave holding the bag of protesting mice at arm’s length.
Raven entered Mrs. Stipe’s dimly lit, empty room and realized her plan to dump the mice in the bed wouldn’t work. The quilt was thrown back and it would certainly be noticed if it was covering the sheet when she returned. Hastily searching her mind for an alternative solution, her choices were to go with her original idea and simply let the mice out of the bag and hope they’d be discovered in a timely manner. Or... She spotted the wig on the nightstand. Moving quickly, she picked it up. Holding the bag upside down, she cut the top beneath the drawstring, the mice tumbled out into the wig, and before they could celebrate freedom, she flipped the wig over with them inside. Praying the darkness would calm them, she stuffed the bag and shears in the front pocket of her apron and hastily moved back to the door. She opened it and heard behind her, “Mrs. Miller?”
