Page 91 of The Maid's Secret

“I have something to tell you,” John said. “I got into university, on full scholarship, too. I leave this fall.”

“She told me, your aunt,” I said. “She was so proud of you. But why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, we weren’t really speaking. And I wasn’t sure you wanted to know. Flora, it should have been you. You should be going away to school.”

“There’s no one more deserving than you. You’re going to be auniversity scholar,” I said. My joy for him was genuine. “I have something to tell you, too,” I said. “I’m not marrying him. Algernon Braun is a liar and a cheat, and other things so much worse I can’t bear to name them. I just told my parents I’m not going through with it, but they refuse to accept the truth. My guess is that Algernon’s parents paid off the police to stop all the investigations against him. What kind of people would do that?”

It was a question neither of us could answer.

“I’ve been living in a fog,” I said, “bewitched by his family and my own. It took your aunt’s death for me to snap out of it. I’m so ashamed.” I started to cry again.

John wrapped me in his arms, and I fell against his comforting chest. “It’s okay,” he said. “She wouldn’t want you to feel ashamed. She was so proud of you. If she was here, do you know what she’d say?”

“Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end,” I said, quoting one of Mrs.Mead’s favorites.

“Exactly.”

“John,” I said, drawing away to meet his eyes. “There’s another reason I can’t marry Algernon.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“You. You’re the reason. I love you, and I’m a fool for not always realizing.”

His eyes were searching mine, incredulous. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Is what you’re saying really true?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in all my life,” I said.

“I may need you to repeat that. You might need to say it over and over for me to really believe you. Can you do that, Flora?”

“I can,” I said. “And I will. It would be my pleasure.”

“Flora Gray, I love you. I always have.”

John’s lips met mine, and our kiss was blissful. At long last, I had something I’d always wanted but thought I could never have. It felt warm and safe, thrilling and real. I don’t know how long that kisslasted, but eventually one of us pulled away. I leaned against him, feeling his heart beating, proof that life goes on despite the sorrow and loss.

“Do you remember at school when you asked me if I remembered this tree and the knothole when we were kids?” I asked him.

“You said you didn’t remember.”

“I lied,” I replied. “I do remember—that kind little boy with tousled brown hair and those eyes that belonged to a much older soul. You’ve always been you, John. You’ve always looked out for me. You cleaned up my storybook and you left it in the knothole for me to find,” I said, pointing to the hollow right above our heads.

“Must have been the fairies,” he said with a sly grin.

“No,” I replied. “The only real magic is you.”

I won’t go into details about what happened next, Molly, not because I’m hiding anything from you but because it was a moment so sacred that I struggle to capture it in words. Suffice it to say that what I learned that night as the sun set upon us is that love and loss, life and death exist in such close proximity. Sometimes the biggest losses lead to the greatest gains. Sometimes the darkest days end in the brightest nights.

We lay in each other’s arms all night long, with the moon full overhead and the grass dewy beneath our skin. It was tender and fulfilling; it was familiar yet entirely new. It was everything my heart had ever desired.Hewas everything my heart desired. It was as if we were picking up where we’d left off on the dance floor—falling into perfect step. We fit each other like lock and key. It had always been that way, and it will always be. I’d found it at last. This, Molly. This was love.

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Chapter 27

After meeting with the Bees, Detective Stark drops me off at home, and I spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning the apartment. I wash and wax the old parquet floors until they gleam and shine. I scour the rusty bathtub until I’m certain there’s not a germ in it. In the living room, I consider dusting Gran’s curio cabinet, but when my eyes land on her diary—the key lying beside it—I feel a sudden pang that hits me right in the heart, and I need to lie down.

I head to the bedroom, where I’m about to collapse in bed, but my feet have other ideas. They lead me to the closed door of the room I rarely enter, the space that Juan has been good enough to never suggest we turn into anything else than the shrine it has always been—Gran’s bedroom. The door squeaks as I enter. The room is just as she left it years ago—her ruffled blue bedspread perfectly smoothed across her mattress, two plump pillows on top. On her bedside table the brass, heart-shaped jewelry box I bought her for Christmas years ago shines brightly, a beacon in the dark.

A wave of grief rolls over me. “Oh, Gran,” I say out loud. I lie on her bed, hugging one of her pillows tight to my chest. “Gran, what shouldI do? Should I sell the egg or not?” I ask out loud. “What if someone really is out to get me? What if I’m in danger?”

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