Page 37 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

My father can’t know, a secret just for us. He won’t tell anyone, my Marcus. Each night, we meet behind the folly. There’s a grove there that conceals sight and sound. Cold, yes, but it’s worth it for the love of someone I can trust.

I flicked forward a few pages, but Al kept up with his theme weeks later.

Trust.

A strange word, but one that means everything. Trust of a word, in a kiss. A touch, innocent or not, what can be such a small thing and yet mean so much more. Marcus gives me hisattention, holds me when I can’t take my father’s anger or pride anymore. So much pride. I must never be like him. Ever.

Their affair lasted almost a year before their discovery. And then the downfall began.

Marcus is worried. His brother saw us kissing. Made a jibe about it. I don’t care. The word of a squire’s son means little to my kind. Ha. The monster I am inside. My father’s bad seed lives on in me. Who will I become, when I am his age? Who will I be in his place? A miserable crotchet who interferes with his offspring’s life, refusing to let them play out their given years in their own way? I wish I lived in a place where who and what I am—what Marcus and I are together—was accepted.

Instead, if we are discovered by more than his brother, a brother who does not hate us, thank God, he will be hanged and I will be ruined.

I am worried. I am scared.

By the time I read through to the end one final entry held my attention. I read it over and over but that didn’t make the words any less painful.

I am engaged.

Her name is Emelina Justine Alcloth. It’s not a good match, but one made in desperation that matches my mood. Perfection in desperation. Marcus is taken from me. My own father sent him away. How I hate that man. How I hate this life. Colorless. Senseless.

If I marry her I will become him. Thus, I must not.

I will find a way.

I closed my eyes on the last entry, the year date that matched with Al’s death etched on his portrait. My heart fractured for theman who took his own life to escape that which he could not live on his own terms.

“I understand,” I whispered. “My friend.”

The journal shifted beside me, an enormous pressure weighing over my shoulders. For a moment I thought it was the weight of his soul, his presence manifesting, but then it hit me—this was the insurmountable grief he felt then and now, ever present with him.

And so I bore it for him, and cried for the man who couldn’t cry for himself.

On the sixth day of my solitary incarceration with a ghost I decided enough was enough. I milked the cow, and strode up to the bedrooms with my broken heart displayed on my sleeve, bearing two mugs of still steaming coffee. Which was a skill considering how cold the castle had grown with the ongoing snowfall that never let up since Christmas.

“Lindy,” I called, knocking on her bedroom door with the toe of my boot. I’d been careful to avoid her as requested the entire week, but I couldn’t stand not talking to her any longer. Hell, I didn’t even have the woman’s phone number to apologize to her in that way. “Love?” I tapped the door again.

The handle turned and the door swung inward. Relief slammed me—right up until I noted the sterile lack of warm and neatness of the room.

She hasn’t been here in days.

Al opened the door.

Placing the mugs carefully on the floor by the fire, I raked my hands through my hair. “Lindy,” I called, striding deeper into the room, seeking contrary evidence.

Her bed was unslept in. in all the time I’d known her—one solid week at the most—she had never made that damn bed. The cupboard was bare of her clothes and her broken suitcase was gone.

Pressure lodged in the center of my chest and bulged outward.

“Lindy,” I called again, my voice hoarse as I turned on my heel and ran for the front of the castle. Then I checked every damn room in case she moved just because she wanted to.

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

The only place I could think of to check was that ledge where she painted. My chest constricted and every painting I passed rattled as Al got the gist. He arrived first and the door swung open. The portraits quietened.

The stonework stood silent, but the room wasn’t empty.

Her painting of blue skies stood in the middle of the area, buffeted by the winds that entered the ruined room. I strode across and gripped one corner, giving it a cursory glance and stopped.

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