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Authors: Andy Gavin
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her. She grabbed her riding boots and headed upstairs.
Papa’s renovations hadn’t yet brought plumbing to the second floor, so the washroom water was cold. She stripped down anyway and scrubbed herself head to toe. The water in the basin turned reddish-brown — ugh . She tossed it out the window.
Back in her room, prowler outfits were in short supply, but she made the best of what her wardrobe had to offer. When she glanced out the coast was clear, so she stuffed stockings into her riding boots and threw them down into the yard.
Then paused. She’d almost forgotten her nighttime prayers. Tonight, she could use all the help God was willing to offer.
Afterward, she swung one leg to straddle the sill. The wooden shingles prickled her bare sole. Her room was in the front of the house, far from Papa’s study, above the steep pediment of the porch. She gripped the window frame.
And looked down.
Anne and the boys would be waiting.
With a final silent prayer, she sprang across the small gap to the porch roof.
She made the leap easily but slapped the surface with a jarring full-body impact that knocked half the wind out of her. She slid down, scrabbling to grip the rough shingles, then rolled off the edge and fell six or seven feet onto the grass below.
She lay for a moment in the yard, her scraped hands and feet throbbing, then picked herself up and limped over to her boots.
Anne wasn’t waiting on Essex. Sarah gave her a few minutes, then made her way slowly to her friend’s house. All the lights were off, and a few pebbles tossed at her window got no response.
She sighed and began the thirty-minute trek to the Palaogoses’ old Victorian mansion. A splinter stabbed her in the foot, and she imagined blood filling her boot until it overflowed. She kept an eye out for a place to take her shoe off but the road was pitch dark.
By the time she pushed open Alex’s creaky iron gate and staggered to the barn she was in agony. Sam and Alex had set up portable oil lamps. Two canvas packs sat beside some shovels and a medieval-looking pike of sharpened wood.
“Where’s Anne?” Sam said. “We’re almost ready.”
“Not coming,” Sarah said. “She didn’t have the guts.”
“Anne turned yellow on us?” Sam said.
Sarah’s last sentence echoed in her head. She stepped back into the shadows as if hiding would take it back.
And bumped into something hard and metallic. A shiny black automobile half hidden behind a haphazard wall of hay-bales.
She pointed. “Can we take that?”
“We just bought it,” Alex said. “Dmitri’s teaching me how to drive next Sunday.”
Sarah sat on a hay-bale, tugged off her boot, and rolled down her stocking. She winced.
“If I don’t get this splinter out,” she said, “I don’t think I can walk anywhere. Alex, I hate to impose, but do you have a clean rag and some water?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Find out the time,” Sam called after him. He lowered his voice. “I can’t believe it. Anne always comes, even if just to complain.”
Sarah managed to get her fingernail underneath the shard impaled in the ball of her foot.
“It is a lot to swallow,” she said. “Maybe she just needs time to adjust.”
He stepped closer. “Anything I can do to help?”
As long as they’d been friends, Sarah couldn’t remember being alone with him.
“No thanks. I got the splinter out.”
Alex returned with a wet cloth and a jar.
“Three hours past midnight,” he said, then sat next to Sarah. “I brought salve. May I?”
She offered him her injured leg. The scrapes on her foot stung while he cleaned them, but his touch was gentle. The whole thing was awkward and improper, and Sam was staring, but she was too exhausted to do anything about it.
Then Alex opened the jar. The most repulsive odor assailed her nose, likely a blend of rare herbs, goat feces, and hundred-year-old frog guts.
“Jesus Christ on the cross!” Sam cried. “What’s in
Papa’s renovations hadn’t yet brought plumbing to the second floor, so the washroom water was cold. She stripped down anyway and scrubbed herself head to toe. The water in the basin turned reddish-brown — ugh . She tossed it out the window.
Back in her room, prowler outfits were in short supply, but she made the best of what her wardrobe had to offer. When she glanced out the coast was clear, so she stuffed stockings into her riding boots and threw them down into the yard.
Then paused. She’d almost forgotten her nighttime prayers. Tonight, she could use all the help God was willing to offer.
Afterward, she swung one leg to straddle the sill. The wooden shingles prickled her bare sole. Her room was in the front of the house, far from Papa’s study, above the steep pediment of the porch. She gripped the window frame.
And looked down.
Anne and the boys would be waiting.
With a final silent prayer, she sprang across the small gap to the porch roof.
She made the leap easily but slapped the surface with a jarring full-body impact that knocked half the wind out of her. She slid down, scrabbling to grip the rough shingles, then rolled off the edge and fell six or seven feet onto the grass below.
She lay for a moment in the yard, her scraped hands and feet throbbing, then picked herself up and limped over to her boots.
Anne wasn’t waiting on Essex. Sarah gave her a few minutes, then made her way slowly to her friend’s house. All the lights were off, and a few pebbles tossed at her window got no response.
She sighed and began the thirty-minute trek to the Palaogoses’ old Victorian mansion. A splinter stabbed her in the foot, and she imagined blood filling her boot until it overflowed. She kept an eye out for a place to take her shoe off but the road was pitch dark.
By the time she pushed open Alex’s creaky iron gate and staggered to the barn she was in agony. Sam and Alex had set up portable oil lamps. Two canvas packs sat beside some shovels and a medieval-looking pike of sharpened wood.
“Where’s Anne?” Sam said. “We’re almost ready.”
“Not coming,” Sarah said. “She didn’t have the guts.”
“Anne turned yellow on us?” Sam said.
Sarah’s last sentence echoed in her head. She stepped back into the shadows as if hiding would take it back.
And bumped into something hard and metallic. A shiny black automobile half hidden behind a haphazard wall of hay-bales.
She pointed. “Can we take that?”
“We just bought it,” Alex said. “Dmitri’s teaching me how to drive next Sunday.”
Sarah sat on a hay-bale, tugged off her boot, and rolled down her stocking. She winced.
“If I don’t get this splinter out,” she said, “I don’t think I can walk anywhere. Alex, I hate to impose, but do you have a clean rag and some water?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Find out the time,” Sam called after him. He lowered his voice. “I can’t believe it. Anne always comes, even if just to complain.”
Sarah managed to get her fingernail underneath the shard impaled in the ball of her foot.
“It is a lot to swallow,” she said. “Maybe she just needs time to adjust.”
He stepped closer. “Anything I can do to help?”
As long as they’d been friends, Sarah couldn’t remember being alone with him.
“No thanks. I got the splinter out.”
Alex returned with a wet cloth and a jar.
“Three hours past midnight,” he said, then sat next to Sarah. “I brought salve. May I?”
She offered him her injured leg. The scrapes on her foot stung while he cleaned them, but his touch was gentle. The whole thing was awkward and improper, and Sam was staring, but she was too exhausted to do anything about it.
Then Alex opened the jar. The most repulsive odor assailed her nose, likely a blend of rare herbs, goat feces, and hundred-year-old frog guts.
“Jesus Christ on the cross!” Sam cried. “What’s in
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