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In the bitter, late-winter month of February, 1921, my mother remarried, to a man of honourable name and esteemed profession, James Allen Matheson III. He brought with him a daughter, Laurie, a timid young creature somewhat younger than I, whose radiant golden beauty outshone both sun and stars. How thrilled I was to at last have a sister—to be a sister. Someone to talk with, share secrets with, teach to ride! For riding horses I loved more than anything in the world, no one I’d rather spend my time with than my beautiful horse, Zusza. She was the love of my life. Until Laurie. Oh, my beloved Laurie, my poppet. How could I have known then what you would mean to me . . . what our innocent relationship would become. I could not have imagined the pain we would suffer—the silent misery and torment, binding our hearts in ways only you and I would come to know. For secrets such as ours must never be told. Not to another living soul. Even God has forsaken us. . . .

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forsaken sparrowsin the garden of winter

A Visionary Novel

KAREN R. THORNE

Visionary/Metaphysical Novels by Karen R. ThorneSome titles not yet released.

For a complete list and to order, visit the author’s website

www.krthorne.com

where you can also download free samples, read blog posts,and keep up with all the latest exciting offerings!

Paranormal ­ Alternate Reality SeriesGiving Up the Ghost: The Walk­In

BLUE thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk­InGREEN thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Hearing Voices: Walk­Ins WelcomeBLUE thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series

Hearing Voices: Coming HomeGREEN thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series

Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk­In ­ The EVPsmp3s – available at www.krthorne.com 

Marek: Diary of a Walk­In

Ghost Matter: The Story of OberonA Quantum­Visionary Timebending Exploration

MusicGilding a Darksome Heaven (The Orchid)

Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of Winter

The Devil’s Caprice

FantasyDartfoil

Dralácri (Tears of the Dragon)

Supernatural/Otherworldly BeingsReflections of a Vampire

A Visionary­Metaphysical Metaphor

Paradigm Swift

VISIONARY FICTION – FORGING NEW PATHS BY SHIFTING PARADIGMSAre you game?

forsaken sparrowsin the garden of winter

KAREN R. THORNE

Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of Winter

5TH EDITION ©2015

COPYRIGHT © 2010, 2015 Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means or in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts, without written permission from the publisher.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.ANY RESEMBLANCE TO PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

PUBLISHED BY

VISUALLUSIONS LIGHTSOURCE PUBLISHING

GOLDEN, CO

Printed in the United States of America

Visuallusions logo image: paperball, www.stock.xchng.comCover image: House Sparrow, by soikha http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1152362

(Real name Juha Soininen, http://www.elisanet.fi/j.soininen)Illustration frame: clipartbest.co­FreeVector­Antique­Frame 

(http://imgarcade.com/1/antique­window­clipart/)Outside Border created in GIMP by Karen R. Thorne

Photoshop brushes: spiritsighs_dividers3_03, 018, 021 and 029  http://spiritsighs­stock.deviantart.com/Cover design: Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)

Cover Created in GIMP

Dedicated toALM∞

A Note on the Extraordinary Nature of this Book

This is a story of hope.Of unfathomable sorrow, and tragedy, and triumph.This is a story of love.

This is a book I never intended to write.In   2010,   after   seven   straight   years   of   successfully   winning 

NaNoWriMo*, I had learned to listen to my Inner Muses, trusting what I am given, no matter how challenging. 

So I sat  up and took notice when, out of the blue—in mid­September, no less—the story you are about to read came to me, literally in a vision. NaNo was still six weeks away, but I knew the story couldn’t wait. What to do? Fascinated, I had to know more.

I had no idea what I was getting into.

By far this is the hardest story I have ever written. Yet in so many ways I feel this is my best work to date, conveying this precious, precious tale as compassionately as I knew how.

As   with   all   my   writing,   the   underlying   message   is   highly spiritual (not religious). I offer it to you as inspiration, and hope, however painfully raw its honesty, its brutal edge of truth.

It is my sincere wish the events herein will be seen in their true light: as a source of courage, nobleness, and dignity. In the fiery crucible of the most hideous circumstances can come the purest, most heartfelt love, rising above the pain, the wounding, and the scars to emerge triumphant . . . if we survive.

These are the lessons these young people taught me. May their message touch you, too, and transform your heart.

A final  note  is   included  in the Acknowledgements,  after   the story is done.

*National Novel Writing Month: Challenge to write a 50K­word novel in 30 days (http://www.nanowrimo.org)

In   keeping   with   the   story   locale,   British   English   is   used wherever   possible.   Punctuation,   for   the   most   part,   follows American customs.

Any oversights, omissions, or errors in British terminology (or otherwise)  are solely   the author’s  shortcomings,  and apologized for in advance.

1

In the bitter, late-winter month of February, 1921, my mother

remarried, to a man of honourable name and esteemed profession,

James Allen Matheson III. He brought with him a daughter, Laurie, a

timid young creature somewhat younger than I, whose radiant golden

beauty outshone both sun and stars, beside whom I was decidedly

plain, though I tried my best not to be jealous.

In truth, I was thrilled to at last have a sister—to be a sister. I’d

known more than my share of loneliness, nay despair, in my sixteen

long years as a singular child on a large isolated Kent estate in the

south of England. A place of woods and heaths and foxes and sparrows,

yet precious few companions with whom to while away the endless

hours.

Thus the arrival of my new step-sister opened up a whole new

vista: someone to talk with, share secrets with, teach to ride! For riding

horses I loved more than anything in the world, and there was no one

I’d rather spend my time with than my beautiful horse, Zusza. She was

the love of my life.

Until Laurie.

My new sibling was to me both a fascination and a mystery. Quiet,

utterly shy, reserved, speaking only when spoken to (with few

exceptions), and great liquid sorrowful eyes that reflected some deep

hidden pain she wanted no one to know. I could not imagine what

could possibly pain her so, as she was but fourteen and not much has

happened to a person by such a very young age. Even I, at sixteen, had

hardly seen more than the confines of Finchbrook Hall. My father had

spent all his time repairing and reconstructing it, my mother arranging

the same, which left the family little time for going on holiday.

2 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

PaPa’s untimely death was quite a blow. More so when my mother

remarried only nine months later.

My only consolation was my sweet Laurie, with whom I fell madly

in love the very first day. Well-mannered, unpretentious, sweet, kind,

generous . . . yet so reticent, so barely tolerant of me. For three months

I tried to draw her out, to little avail.

Gradually, however, as the weather became warmer, more

conducive to horseback rides, I managed to coax her into coming

along, an activity she did seem to enjoy.

And so it pained my heart sorely when one lovely Sunday

afternoon in late May, barely a week after my seventeenth birthday,

me all dressed in my pristine riding habit and mounted on my beloved

Zusza (as eager as I to be going), Laurie came striding back into the

stable, her polished tall-boots digging into the hard ground as she

dragged her gelding Samson to his stall.

The anger in her face alarmed me.

“Laurie . . .” I said in a gentle, questioning tone, “I thought you

were riding with me today. Are you all right?”

Deliberately she tended the huge black horse without looking at

me. “You shouldn’t have told.” Tight, the soft-spoken words.

My transgression was known.

“Oh, poppet, I’m sorry,” I said, “I never meant—”

“It wasn’t yours to tell!” Slender fingers tugged and jerked at the

snaffle bridle, unbuckling it, releasing the horse from its bit. “You

should not have told.”

Dismounting, I moved towards her. “Laurie, please—”

“Leave me alone,” she muttered, shrugging off my attempt at a

consoling hand.

“Would you just listen?” I insisted, stepping closer.

“I said leave me alone!” Horse still saddled and left standing

outside the stall, she stormed out.

For a moment I stood dumbstruck. So quiet she’d been, so

unassuming! Watching the petite form pounding across the open field,

Karen R. Thorne 3

riding skirts flying, I felt acutely the sting of her words, worse than any

hornet.

Immediately I set out after her. Such a little thing it had seemed at

the time. Why on earth should she be so put out that I had mentioned

her lovely singing voice to Father Morris? Pure and clear, like the

choirboys in Vienna. I was so proud of her, having overheard her

during the congregational hymns at services that morning—naturally

I’d commented to the good father on it. I’d no idea it would upset her

so.

Twenty paces in front of me, the diminutive figure was nearly at a

run. Tearing off the riding hat, she yanked at the wide nape-barrette,

freeing the length of her golden blonde hair. I felt a wee stab of envy:

what I’d give for such beauty. One of the angels, or the cherubim, a

seraph perhaps, with her soft brown eyes, smooth well-shaped

features, delicate hands, and that exquisite cascade of golden silk. Mine

was a coarser look, brown eyes a little too sharp (in more ways than

one), too much angle to my chin, dark unruly tresses the colour of dirt,

with far too much curl to behave properly—always a hassle to pin back

for dressage. Half a glance and anyone would know Laurie was not my

blood relative.

The fine, silken handfuls of that shining spun-gold lifted and fell as

a groomed show-horse’s mane, dancing past her shoulders with each

frustrated step, a determined increase of the distance between us. I ran

to catch up.

“Laurie—”

“What will you say?” she demanded, halting abruptly beside the

shallow rocky stream that flowed in from the wooded eastern

perimeter of the estate. “What can you possibly say that will make me

feel any better?”

Hazelnut trees shimmered above us in the slight spring breeze, a

handful of sparrows pecking about on the ground. “Perhaps nothing,” I

said softly, “if you refuse to hear it.”

4 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

“There is nothing,”—a small plunk as the flung stone she’d picked

up landed hard in the finger-deep water—“nothing you can say that

will make up for it. I trusted you!”

“What, and you cannot now?” Birds scattered; my own voice had

risen, the hot-headed fire that had always been my bane rushing to my

throat. “I meant not to say anything, it just slipped out.”

Laurie remained silent, her booted feet executing short paces

beside the stream, arms folded.

She had asked me not to tell—she didn’t want anyone to know. I’d

bungled it, but good.

Still, a little niggly nudged me. I frowned. “This isn’t about me, is

it,” I said, hand on one hip, jutting it out. “This is about you not being

able to decide whether you wish to be an artist or a religious aspirant.”

(She’d been wrestling with it for months.)

“No.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“I’m not!”

“Evelyn,”—using my formal name, Eve-lyn, long E like the sinning

wife of Adam in the Bible—“please keep your voice down. Sound

carries.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“No, it is not!”

“Is so!” I shot back, my fire fully riled. “A choice between the role

that’s been imposed upon you, or the role you’ve been God-given. And

you can’t decide.”

“Stop it, Evelyn—”

“I won’t.” Advancing upon her, I planted my feet firmly. “I don’t

care which you decide. You’re my sister now, and I love you. Can you

not see that?” Months of coddling her, coaxing her, like trying to hand-

feed one of these timid sparrows; my patience had run out. I took her

fragile bird-shoulders in my hands. “I won’t see you like this. I won’t

see you upset. Not because of me.” When she still didn’t answer I

stamped my foot. “All right, fine! Cut off all your hair and call yourself

Karen R. Thorne 5

Sister Benedicta Mary-Margaret George for all I care. What matters to

me is you.”

The little-bird shoulders stiffened, her angelic face turning away.

“You don’t understand,” she mumbled.

My nostrils flared. “No,” I let go of her, “perhaps I don’t. You have

your reasons, I suppose, even if it is not my business to know what they

are.” Boldly I stepped closer. “But it doesn’t change us.”

“Yes it does.” The soft, airy voice was forlorn, nearly despaired. “It

is futile—”

“Then we’ll run away!” Again I grasped her lean, firm arms,

strengthened from riding. “We can take Samson and Zusza and go

away together and be whomever we want. I’ve some money stashed

secretly,” I said, “in my trunk, money my father left me, enough to get

us far from here and make new lives for ourselves. . . .”

It was Laurie’s expression that halted me.

“Running away won’t help,” she said, arms falling to her sides as I

slowly let go of them. The soft brown eyes perched on the verge of

tears. “Where would we go, Eva? What would we do? Saved-up money

would only last us so long, and then what? Besides, it doesn’t solve

anything.”

Irresistible, her quiet, unassuming vulnerability. It made me want

to take her up and cradle her like a newborn fawn. Nevertheless, a

grimace overtook my face. “You wouldn’t have to be someone you

don’t wish to be,” I said, my fierce brow knitting. “You could just be my

beloved sweet Laurie, beautiful and perfect.” Taking her pale angelic

face in my palms, I kissed the curved cheek.

“Miss Evelyn!”

Nearly did I jump out of my skin at the shocked voice of the

housekeeper, behind us.

My face twisted into a scowl. “Ansey, you scared me half to death!”

I let my voice sharpen with reprimand. “Kindly announce yourself next

time. I did not hear you come up.”

“I can well see you did not. Twice penance you shall have to do,

m’girl,” her ample figure bustled, red-faced and panting, to a halt

6 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

before me, “for engaging in such disgraceful behaviour. What is the

meaning of this? No, wait—perhaps I do not want to know.”

The dismissive gesture she gave was altogether nauseating.

“What,” I said, stepping to shield Laurie from Ansey’s disapproving

gaze, “I cannot kiss my own sister?”

“Why you saucy little—” Washing-up wrinkled hands balled into

fists.

Only then did I realise the angle from which she’d seen us. I

narrowed my eyes. “You think I was being impertinent, don’t you?

What nerve! Well, you are wrong.”

“I do not see what I do not wish to see. I only know I caught a

glimpse of something highly inappropriate. God Himself,” here a

righteous finger jabbed skyward, “is the One who knows. It is to Him

you must make penance.”

“Phuh! What melodrama. I shall do as I please. Now leave us.”

Turning, I gave her a dismissive wave.

“The Lady Ashcroft has sent me to fetch you, m’girl,” Ansey said

with that slightly sneering tone letting me know she would win this

one. “I would advise you make haste. You know your mother does not

like to wait. Already it has been fifteen minutes I have spent hunting

you down.”

Anselmae Wigginbottom. An utterly irritating name for an equally

irritating person. (That propriety required she should be called Mrs

Wigginbottom was all the more reason I refused to do so.) “Poff and

pooh,” I said, knotting my arms and spinning on my heel to head off in

the direction of the house. “Ansey,” I called over my shoulder, “you are

much too full of yourself.”

Heavy middle-aged footsteps joggled after me. “I could say the

same of you.”

Ignoring her, I cast a meaningful gaze back at Laurie, who still

stood beside the stream. Her expression was one of thinly veiled pain

and, I fancied, sadness, as if she did not want me to go.

Perhaps I was forgiven after all.

Karen R. Thorne 7

“Half an hour,” my mother enunciated in her precise King’s English,

“since I sent Mrs Wigginbottom to fetch you.” Delicate tinkling sounds

rose from the porcelain teacup she held, the polished silver spoon

stirring round. “What took you so long?”

“Laurie was a bit upset. I wanted to find out what was the matter.”

“And did you?”

I fidgeted. “More or less.”

One thin brow raised. “Well, did you or did you not?”

“I did. It was . . . a misunderstanding. I apologised.”

“I see.” Thin lips pressed together, matching the line of her brow.

“You’d do well to watch your tongue, Evelyn. The affections of others

are won or lost not only by what we say but also the manner in which

we say it.” She took a dainty sip of her tea.

“Yes, Mother. What was it you wanted me for?”

The hint of annoyance that crossed her stern face let me know she

was not fond of my swift change of subject. “The Rothschilds,” she said,

“Aunt Maribel and Uncle William and their six children are coming for

the summer to visit. I’ve set about Mrs Wigginbottom making the

preparations. How I regret your father—God rest his soul—had not the

time to finish the reconstruction on the four additional bedrooms.

What we have will have to do. The four girls can pair up, two to a

bedroom, and the two boys will obviously share quarters. Laurie’s to

move in with you.”

“But Mother—!”

“I will hear no argument. If you’d prefer, you may move your

things into Laurie’s room instead, but since yours is the larger it only

makes sense she would move in with you. It is only temporary,” she

gave a flick of her manicured hand, “until the Rothschilds leave.”

“Yes, of course, but. . . .” I halted, only because I could think of no

good rebuttal.

Ever since my mother had announced her engagement to her

highly successful solicitor—Mr James Allen Matheson III, Esquire, in case

8 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

you forgot (he would make sure you didn’t)—I’d made it a point to

share as much of my life and my belongings with his quiet, reserved

daughter as possible. Yet as much as I cherished my beloved new sister,

I also cherished having my own room, my own private space, where I

could retreat, alone, whenever I liked.

Now the prospect of multiple guests descending upon the house,

not to mention rattling our barely settled routine, was less than

thrilling. The house had a total of a dozen bedrooms, one of which was

occupied by my recently married mother and step-father, and a

bedroom each for Laurie and me. Four bedrooms, as Mother so

painfully pointed out, were in no condition to be occupied; two, in

slightly less disrepair, were being used for storage. Eight long-term

visitors could not be expected to crowd into the three suitable rooms

that remained.

“Evelyn. . . .”

I sighed. “Very well,” I said, feigning resignation, “what am I to

do?”

“Go and speak to Mrs Wigginbottom for boxes. You’ll need to put

some of your things in storage to make room for Laurie’s. Dennis and

John will be moving down the large bureau from the attic, so you

shouldn’t have to share more than a drawer or two. Help your sister

gather up the clothing on hangers. . . .”

As my mother droned on, I felt my eyes glaze over and my heart

sink. Where was my privacy? Where was my personal space? Certainly,

I’d nothing against my quiet sister, who would likely have more of a

problem with this situation than I. (More times than not, she was off in

her room, door closed.) Yet it wasn’t so much her encroaching on my

private retreat: it was these others. Eight strangers I hardly knew, my

mother’s somewhat estranged north-of-England sister and her

husband and their brood, barely glimpsed at a wedding reception four

months before.

Now coming to live with us.

For three months.

Maybe longer.

Karen R. Thorne 9

“Well?” I heard my mother say. Blinking, I looked up. “Are you just

going to stand there,” —her arched-brow gaze swept downward, as if

she expected to find my feet cemented to the floor— “or are you going

to get to work?”

“Apologies, Mother,” I mumbled, ungluing myself and my riding

boots from their riveted spot, heading off in the direction of my room.

Which, apparently, would soon no longer be my own.

The ensuing week sped by faster than I would’ve ever thought possible.

Barely had we time to rearrange everything, move the furniture,

prepare the house and somewhat situate ourselves before the

conveyance was coming up the drive, a horde of relatives spilling out,

the cacophony of effusive greetings filling the late afternoon spring

air. Except, of course, from my reserved sister, who stood by wide-eyed

and silent as far on the sidelines as possible, watching it all with an

expression that looked as if at any moment she would violently sick up.

“So this,” I heard my Aunt Maribel say above the din, “is young

Miss Evelyn?” Though she was not yet old, perhaps middle-fiftyish, it

seemed she did not remember me.

“Yes, Auntie,” I said, forcing a smile as I caught my mother’s

expression, “we met briefly at the wedding.”

My aunt frowned, regarding me. “Oh, yes, yes of course. Your hair

was different then, pinned up or something. Now I recall.”

Mother’s reaction was instantaneous—my rebellious hair was a

continuing source of embarrassment for her. I poked at the strands

that had escaped the ribbon, feeling my cheeks go warm.

Up close, Aunt Maribel did not seem as repulsive as I’d imagined

her; rather nice, in fact . . . if she’d ever drop her carefully trained

façade. She turned to my mother. “Your only daughter, if I recall?”

I waited to see if the inflection caused any further unruffling; my

singular-offspring status had likewise always been a sensitive subject.

10 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

“Yes,” Mother said smoothly, “my only natural child. Dear Edwin

was away a great deal on his travels, seeking accoutrements and building

materials for the house before he passed away.”

Aunt Maribel had the decency to assume a properly sympathetic

look. “I’m so sorry,” she said, placing a gracious hand gently on my

mother’s arm. Then she turned once more to me. “Lovely child. And

how old are you, my dear?”

“Nearly eighteen.” Immediately I flushed. “That is, I’ve recently

turned seventeen,” I said, hoping I did not sound impertinent, “so

eighteen is not so far away.”

“Indeed! Well, we shall have to throw a spectacular birthday party

for such an auspicious occasion, when it arrives.” The way her eyes lit

up, parties were her particular speciality. “And this lovely young lady,”

she moved towards my reticent sister, “must be Laurie.”

Almost audible, the gulp the poor girl forced down.

“Yes,” I said, stepping in, beaming, linking an arm in hers, “at last I

have a sibling! We’ve been having such a lovely time getting to know

one another these last four months.”

Beyond my tall aunt I could see my mother’s dour expression—

obviously not happy with my choice of words.

“Four months,” Aunt Maribel echoed, “yes. It is not such a long

time, is it?”

I blinked. I could almost swear the woman felt as I did, that it was

far too soon for such a family visit . . . among other things.

“Maribel,” Uncle William’s voice cut in, “hadn’t we better take the

conversation inside? Those clouds look as if any moment it might

begin to rain.”

“Yes, Father, let’s do,” the eldest girl Christina, who’d nearly

reached twenty, said, twirling her lace-trimmed parasol over her

dressed-to-the-nines shoulder. (The very latest fashion from Paris, no

doubt.) “I should hate to ruin my new frock.” Then without waiting for

an answer she flounced into the house.

The two brothers, Carl and Reginald, aged sixteen and eighteen

respectively, exchanged knowing looks.

Karen R. Thorne 11

Catherine, or Cate as she was called, cast her brothers a slight

frown. “You two don’t have to worry about water spots on satin,” she

said, her hazel eyes flashing, implying a long-standing argument. “It’s a

wonder Mamma lets you out in public, the way you two dress.” Second

eldest of the girls, she was a young lady of chestnut hair and refined

demeanour; a year younger than Reginald, if I recalled.

Her criticism of the boys, however, in no way applied to the

patently new fashionable clothing they each sported for their arrival.

Smart button-down shirts, prim ties and equally smart jackets, sharply

creased pants and high-polished shoes—two models straight from Old

Bond.

(My own attire was at least half a decade out of date, perhaps more.

Had I cared a whit for fashion, I should’ve been embarrassed indeed.)

Carl, with his slicked-back dark hair and winsome dimpled smile

(no doubt he’d break a few hearts before the summer was out) merely

grinned, unperturbed. The elder Reginald maintained a more neutral

expression. His demure looks, however, were no less keen: beneath the

smooth brow lurked intelligent eyes and a knack for observation,

evidenced by the gaze I caught focussed upon me until my steady

return gaze caused him to look away.

“My name’s Anna,” said the strawberry-blonde girl, aged fifteen as

I remembered, standing to my left. She extended a milk-white hand

that surely had never seen the light of day.

Taking it, I shook it firmly and nodded. “Nice to see you again,” I

said, repeating myself as Anna introduced her remaining sister

Elizabeth, the youngest of the lot at age twelve.

During all this Laurie hid behind me, forcing a smile at each of the

girls and nodding when necessary but saying little. From the boys she

nearly ran away.

At last the procession made its way inside, and I felt Laurie’s hand

grope for mine, her palm moist as she found my hand and gripped it

tightly.

Privately I smiled.

12 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

An hour and a half and the mêlée was more or less settled, great travelling

trunks and boxes brought in and stowed away in the upstairs rooms,

finery hung in closets and arranged in cedar armoires, jewellery cases

set out on prominent display, the whole of it amidst a fair bit of

squabbling over who got which room, and who felt the arrangement

was unfair. Ansey, who also served as our cook, and our one remaining

servant girl Nell (the rest were let go after PaPa’s death), with the help

of John and Dennis (butler and assistant butler, respectively) all

scuttled to get everything done in time for dinner.

Which proved a rather strained affair, by my account, though the

four adults seemed to enjoy it.

Not surprisingly, Laurie said not a word, whilst the six cousins

were lively enough for all. I contributed my part (mostly to divert

attention from the semi-horrified Laurie), banal talk as I could manage

it, nothing at all of any real interest, from anyone. Mostly I secretly

amused myself coming up with nicknames for each of them: Christina

the Priss, Anna the Coordinator, Carl the Likeable Debonair. Elizabeth

preferred to be called Eliza, she was quick to point out; she became

Miss Muffet after a confessed fear of spiders. Reginald—Reggie—was

her protector of sorts, though they all seemed to look after her. His

brief but detailed explanation of which local spiders posed a threat and

which were quite harmless merely reinforced my initial impression,

earning him the nickname Mr Spot-on. Cate was simply Cate, for lack

of any particular distinguishing characteristic.

“Well, a fine meal, a fine meal,” Uncle William announced finally,

pushing back his chair a bit and patting his amply round, almost-

sixtyish stomach, “simply delightful. Promises to be a lovely summer,

James, if your cook’s always this good.”

Aunt Maribel leaned forward. “Grace has always had a knack for

selecting those with exceptional culinary skills,” she said, affording her

sister a proud glance.

Karen R. Thorne 13

If only she’d been so discriminating when it came to a second husband, I

thought with some distaste. My new “father,” while nice enough I

supposed, was one of those sorts who always seemed to have some

secret hidden behind his pleasantries and smiles, never more apparent

than in present company. The entire meal he’d sat all but silent,

affording our guests at least a surface smile here and there, making

small inconsequential comments. Perhaps he felt his mere presence

was enough: a tall and slender man, with salt-and-pepper hair greying

at the temples and a matching moustache he kept trimmed at the sides

but rather bushy in the middle. (I’d never much cared for moustaches—

seemed rather unsanitary, somehow . . . and unpleasant for the man’s

wife, I’d imagine, like kissing a hairbrush.) Father’s eyes were grey as

well, piercing and intense, which no doubt came in quite handy in a

court of law when he needed to be intimidating.

More bustling suddenly, as everyone stood and began to talk at

once. Behind me I felt Laurie cringing; then I heard soft footfalls

hurrying away. Her sensitive nature simply could not handle so many

strangers at one time.

And so I took it upon myself to show the cousins the house and

grounds, to keep them away from my poor sister who obviously needed

to be alone.

“So here we have the sitting room,” I said, indicating the first room off

to the left after the front door. “Small but quaint, it makes for nice

reading, due to the light.” I gestured towards the broad window, with

its inviting deep-buttoned Georgian tub chair situated for just such a

purpose. I noticed Christina eyeing the chair with a raised brow.

Guiding the group to the slightly larger parlour across the hall, I

said, “This one we use for entertaining modest groups, perhaps twenty

or so.” I turned on the light for a better view.

14 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Scrutinising the modestly furnished room, Christina was clearly

unimpressed. “I assume you have a larger hall where you host the true

parties, balls and cotillions and such?”

I pursed my lips. “Well, actually, no. When PaPa bought the place,

it required extensive rebuilding and repair, due to having suffered a

fire. The main ballroom, I’m afraid, was destroyed.”

“Oh.”

I blinked. Such condescension, in a single word. “However,” I went

on, leading them briskly down the corridor, “we do have a very nice

library,” I slid open the heavy walnut doors, “with a substantial and

widely varied collection. I think you should have no trouble finding

something of interest in here.”

Immediately Cate brightened, but it was Reggie whose eyes really

lit up. “Is that an 1849 French Navy ordnance pistol?” he said, striding

across the room to where the weapon was mounted over the fireplace.

He stared in awe.

“Close,” I said. “A duelling pistol, Belgian in origin, as I understand

it, though I don’t know much of the details. I’m told my grandfather,

my father’s father, used it in a duel for the hand of my grandmother,

Pearl Agnes. Apparently the other fellow, one Randall Tate, upon

seeing my grandfather’s steady aim, turned tail and ran!”

Everyone laughed, which did much to put us all at ease.

Eliza’s eyes, however, grew wide. “Oh, Evelyn, would your

grandfather have really shot the man?”

“I doubt it,” I said with a smile, “though I can’t say for sure, as I

never knew him. My father said he loved my grandmother very much.

So perhaps he would have, for the woman he loved.”

“Evelyn,” Christina said, all but interrupting, “I could not help but

notice the lack of telephones. Have you cleverly hidden them, or isn’t

your family able to afford such luxury?”

Difficult not to bristle. “Certainly,” I said, doing my best to keep my

tone of voice calm, “but Father feels the device is best suited for

business purposes only, not mere entertainment.” I did not elaborate,

Karen R. Thorne 15

as I did not want her to know he had the service shut off purposely, as

it was, in his words, “a trifling waste of money.”

We continued our tour with a brief pointing-out of the study,

which was now my step-father’s exclusive domain, and finally the

music room, complete with grand piano, which thrilled young Eliza no

end.

“I play, you know,” she said, skipping over to run her small

graceful fingers lightly over the keys, doing a little bobbing motion on

her toes at the sound.

“Then you shall have to play for us,” I said with a nod, glad

someone would be using it. Mother had tried, unsuccessfully, to entice

me to learn to play. Turned out I had four left thumbs, as they say—

dreadful results.

Carl was disappointed the outdoor pool was in disrepair, though

the basketball court appealed to him. Reggie, having a more

intellectual bent, was content with the prospect of spending time in

the library, as was Cate, who had a penchant for poetry.

(Which I myself do not, despite the momentary alliteration.)

Anna was the only one who had not yet found an area of interest in

our modest abode. All that changed when we switched to the outdoors,

and I showed off to everyone my pride and joy, the stables, and in

particular, Zusza and Samson.

“Oh,” Anna sighed with barely contained delight, “how perfectly

lovely they are. How often do you ride?”

“Every day, when the weather’s nice. Sometimes even when it’s

not.”

She paused a moment. “Can you teach me? I mean, would you

mind?”

My brows raised. “Well, yes, of course. Teach you, that is. I’ve not

taught a lot of people,” (one to be exact—Laurie) “though I could

certainly try.”

“Oh, thank you!” Effusive, Anna threw her arms round me and

hugged me. “I promise to be a good student.”

Indeed, I thought, giving a weak smile.

16 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

By the time I returned to the house it was just after nightfall. Dragging

myself up to the room Laurie and I would now share, I felt as if

Finchbrook Hall had hosted a massive party with all of Canterbury in

attendance.

“How was it?” I heard Laurie say softly as I came in.

Shutting the door, I sighed. “Interminably long and dreadfully

boring,” I said to her over my shoulder, rolling my eyes. I began to

remove my pinafore, worn to keep my frock from soiling. “I showed

them round, though I could never tell were they pleased, or did they

think our modest place beneath them? Except Christina, whom I’m

sure wouldn’t be happy with anything less than Buckingham Palace.”

In answer Laurie merely said, “Hm.”

I stood upright again, only then noticing she was already dressed

for bed, beneath the covers and propped against the bolstered pillows,

as far to the left as possible. “Are you not feeling well?” I said,

wondering she’d retire so early.

She shrugged. “I find it quite exhausting, having so many people

around. Father and I had the flat to ourselves, you know.”

As if that explained everything.

“Yes, well,” I undid my frock buttons, all thirty-six of them,

“despite my propensity to chat, I am not fond of crowds much myself. I

don’t mind people, but I do prefer—”

An-na! Christina’s plaintive voice interrupted, have you seen my blue

nightgown? I can’t find it anywhere.

“—peace and quiet,” I finished with a frown. Then as I looked over

at Laurie, my frown deepened. The covers were pulled up over her face.

I don’t know where your blue nightgown is, Anna’s voice called out in

reply, the sound moving from one room to the next, but you can borrow

mine. . . .

Siblings, I decided, were good to a point—when there was only one

of them. Five seemed rather excessive.

Karen R. Thorne 17

As for my own sibling, her odd behaviour once more left me

puzzled: she still had not emerged from beneath the covers.

Continuing to undress, I watched and waited for the linens to move.

They did not.

I went to clean my teeth.

When I returned, Laurie was sitting up again, reading Pilgrim’s

Progress.

Surreptitiously I stole glances at her in the mirror as I took my hair

down, unpinning it from all hundred and fifty pins (or so it seemed),

then brushing it out. Not once did she look up. Finishing up, I went

over and climbed into bed, my expression set. “Laurie, are you sure

you’re all right? You seem terribly spooked.”

“I’m fine,” she said, not looking up, not moving. I sensed the

tension in her every extremity, a rabbit in a field of foxes.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, fluffing the covers. Then I frowned.

“Listen,” I turned to face her, “if you’re still angry with me for spilling

your secret, I can understand, though I hope you’ll give me a chance to

explain.”

“I’m not angry.”

I looked over. “All right, then, upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You were before.”

“Well, I’m not anymore.” She turned the page.

“No? What’s changed?”

“Evelyn, that was a week ago. Why bring it up now?”

Not once had she looked at me. And I wasn’t going for it. “Because

I’ve had the feeling all this time you haven’t quite forgiven me,” I said,

“that it still bothers you. Everything’s been so busy neither of us has

said anything—in fact we’ve hardly said anything at all—but I’ve felt it

just the same.”

“You were mistaken.” The room’s relative quiet registered another

soft turning of the page.

For some reason I wanted to tear the book from her hands and take

her up by the shoulders and shake her. Instead I drew my lips into a

18 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

pout. “Fine, then. If that’s how you wish to be.” Hunching down into

the pillow, I let out a forceful sigh. Then I folded my arms across my

middle and stared up at the ceiling.

“I can turn off the light if you’d rather sleep,” Laurie said, closing

the book and laying it aside.

“No, no, don’t let me keep you from your reading.” Snide, my tone,

though I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like this rift between us. Especially

now we had to share a room.

“Is that it?” I said, suddenly sitting up. “You’re upset we have to

share?”

Her large brown eyes slid warily towards me. “Are you?”

“I asked you first.”

She gave an audible gulp. “No,” she said slowly, her gaze falling to

the edge of the coverlet she now absently twiddled between her

slender fingers. “Of course I’d prefer my own room, as I know you

prefer to be alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. You’d rather have your own space, wouldn’t you.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “of course. But if I have to share,” I turned to

lay on my side, facing her, “I’d much rather share with you.”

Subtly she moved back, away from me. “What if I snore?”

“I don’t think you do.”

“But I might.”

“I’d’ve heard it if you did.”

“What if I steal all the covers?”

I shrugged. “I’ll get up and get another blanket.”

“What if . . . what if I talk in my sleep?” This last came out with

more than a hint of fear.

I couldn’t help a mischievous grin. “Then I shall write down every

word,” subtly I slid a hand towards her, “and use it against you!” I gave

her ribs a tickle.

Instantly she leapt from the bed. “Stop it!” she shouted.

I blinked. “What?”

Karen R. Thorne 19

She stood rigid, brow furrowed, hugging herself. “Don’t ever do

that,” she said, breath heaving in little gasps as she stared. “It’s not

funny.”

“Oh! Oh, poppet . . . I’m really sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Lots of things you don’t know,” she said, remaining very still

where she stood. Then after a minute or so she reluctantly crawled

back into bed, turning away from me, huddling at the far edge.

“Laurie, please. You haven’t enough room that way, and you’ll

likely fall off.”

She said nothing.

“All right then,” I said, likewise turning away, “suit yourself.”

Something told me, as I tried not to think about how distressing it

was having her angry with me, that this was not the last of the

conversation.

2

Over the next fortnight or so, Laurie and I did our best to be sociable to

the visiting cousins—each in our own way. Pleasantly exchanging

conversation, bringing them along on afternoon horseback rides (one

at a time, of course), engaging in mindless parlour games. Needless to

say, all this was easier for me than it was for Laurie.

It did not help matters that Carl and Reggie both seemed to have

taken a fancy to my reticent sister. Every time one of them noticed she

was alone, he’d sidle up and begin chatting, trying to draw her out. I

kept a wary eye so I could step in whenever possible, but sometimes I

was otherwise occupied and therefore unavailable. At such times I had

to resign myself to the idea that my barely-fourteen-years-old sister

was capable of managing things herself.

It did nothing to prevent me worrying.

(Thank goodness Laurie’s birthday was in March, before the

Rothschilds’ visit—it would’ve been no easy task, keeping Aunt Maribel

reined in on the birthday-party thing. Likely I would’ve had to clobber

these over-exuberant cousins who meant well but scared the living

shite out of my sister.)

Rescuing my poor Laurie, however, was not something I could

continue to do, as Anna held me to my promise of teaching her to ride

properly, and Cate proved to be an interesting companion, far more

intelligent than I’d initially given her credit for. Her knowledge of the

local flora and fauna—which I’d assumed would be unfamiliar to her,

seeing as the family hailed from Devon—surpassed even mine.

Christina was content to spend her time reading or badgering

Louise, our second-eldest maid who was also a fine seamstress. Miss

Priss was apparently convinced Louise was now her own private

seamstress, at her beck and call to make whatever stylish, fashionable

Karen R. Thorne 21

new frock Miss Priss-tina deemed necessary. (Or raising the hemlines

of the ones she already owned . . !)

Little Eliza stayed out of everyone’s way by either hanging upon

Ansey’s every word during meal preparations (it didn’t seem to bother

Eliza there was a difference between upstairs and downstairs), or

practising at the piano in the music room. And so it was by far easiest

for Laurie to warm to this little one, helping the younger girl with her

musical lessons, as Laurie—I was surprised to learn—had taken piano

lessons since she was four.

Naturally, all this led to an impromptu concert.

Laurie tried to decline, of course, insisting she’d been away from it

so long she was out of practise. (Not once had she even mentioned it

the whole of the time she’d been here.) But Eliza’s imploring,

beseeching eyes she could not refuse.

Seating herself at the piano, Laurie took a moment to compose

herself. The rest of us sat quietly in loose rows a few feet away, the

music room ample but not overly so. At Mother’s nod Ansey lowered

the lights, leaving only the small overhead lamp above the piano to

cast a radiant glow upon that magnificent shimmering of gold gathered

back into a neat black bow.

Placing her hands lightly on the keys, Laurie gave a soft sigh. Then,

the gentle, quiet, slow refrains of Chopin began wafting into the room.

My mouth fell open. No sheets of music before her, no other

musicians to lend accompaniment; just the bowed golden head slightly

swaying with the music, pale cheek in profile, the lovely undulating

melodies floating upon the air. Breathtaking . . . and sad and poignant

and marvellous and wonderful. Such bittersweetness in her playing, a

veil beneath which lay all the loveliness and the simple grandeur and

everything in between, though the veil kept it hidden. A million things

left unsaid, heartaches too profound for words. The music said it all,

yet revealed nothing. Nothing but the most fragile hints of wounded

depths too agonising to plumb.

It took everything I had not to weep.

22 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

I looked around. Several heads were nodding in time, nearly as

deeply touched as I. Mother’s face was as stone (to be expected; rarely

did she display the pleasanter emotions); Father sat beaming, as did

Eliza, who was likewise in awe of Laurie’s ability and longed to emulate

it. The three older girls ranged from impressed to aloof (one guess as to

whose expression that was). The boys, of course, were more than rapt—

I fully expected both to jump up at the end and propose marriage.

When the piece concluded, spontaneous applause broke out,

peppered with more than a few Bravos. (Bra-va from the purists, Cate

and Reggie.) Laurie appeared to come back to herself then, as if she’d

been someplace faraway. Realising the attention, she ducked her chin

and gave a slight bow, quite self-conscious.

“Now it’s Eliza’s turn,” she said, all too willing to turn the spotlight

over to the young student, who eagerly took the stage. Laurie slipped

into the seat next to me, in shadow.

Eliza was a good little pianist herself, making very few errors and

inflecting the music with surprising personality, flair, and not a little

technical ability. Of course, there was no comparison: the two

performers were neither the same age nor the same level of

experience. Still, I could hardly listen with the same ear, once I’d heard

my step-sister’s amazing, heretofore hidden talent.

Which she was more than anxious to downplay, politely thanking

everyone afterwards before making a swift retreat to our room.

I hurried to follow.

“That was wonderful!” I gushed as I came in the bedroom, closing

the door. “I’d no idea you were so talented.”

“I’m not,” she said, shaking her head with a shrug. Her tone begged

to drop the subject.

I plopped onto the end of the bed. “You are. You’ve talent enough

to be a concert pianist. Why do you dismiss it?”

At this her eyes went wide; she seemed too taken aback to speak.

“What? Surely it’s not the first time someone’s mentioned the

possibility.” When she didn’t answer, I grimaced. “I don’t understand

Karen R. Thorne 23

you. Clearly you love to play, and you’ve talent to spare. What are you

afraid of?”

“Nothing.” She went to the armoire, removing her light wrap and

hanging it up. “I just don’t want to be a concert pianist, that’s all.”

“You’d rather be an artist.”

The oddest expression crossed her face, as if suddenly reminded.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, shutting the armoire door.

The mischief in me rose. “Or is it that you’ve decided to be the

aspirant,” I said, unable to resist goading her just a little bit. “Sister

Mary Lucretia Pious.” I slid back against the pillows with a most wicked

grin.

“No,” she said flatly, “I do not wish to be that.”

I gave a relieved sigh. “The artist, then.”

“As I said, maybe.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” I said, leaning forward. “You could

always just marry a rich man,” my tone turned coquettish, “one of the

Rothschild boys, for instance.”

A throw pillow promptly impacted my head.

“Ay, what was that for?” I rubbed the spot.

“You’ve no right to tease me,” she said, delicate brow knotting.

“You know I don’t like their attentions.”

My feathers drooped. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” (Though it had been

fun.)

Laurie sank into the pillowless chair. “I’ve no wish to marry for

money,” she muttered, “or status. Should I ever decide to marry, it will

be for love and no other reason. If I marry at all.”

“If?” This made me sit up. “Why should you not?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure I want to.”

“It’s not that pious religious stuff again, is it?” Her religious views

were not a subject we had particularly discussed, but I had the feeling

they were rather staid, to put it nicely.

“No,” she said.

“Then what?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

24 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

“Why not?” I pressed.

“I just wouldn’t.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“Is so.”

“Is not!”

“Why do you care?” She gazed at me with veiled eyes. “It makes no

difference to you.”

“Yes it does. You’re my sister.”

“Step. Not sister.”

“All right, step-sister. I care for you all the same.”

“Anyway,” she reached across to the bed for the wayward throw

pillow, “it’s my own business, not yours.”

“Says who?”

“I do.” Sitting back in the chair, she hugged the pillow to her.

“Being your step-sister makes it my business.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“Eva, stop it!”

Fortunately no one came to the door. A bit awkward, if we’d had to

interrupt the conversation to explain the sudden shouting.

I heaved a sigh. “Look, Laurie, I don’t want to fight with you. I’m

just . . . I want to get to know you better, all right?” She seemed a bit

mollified, so I went on: “Before all these people showed up,” I made a

broad gesture, “you and I were just starting to be comfortable with

each other. Each learning who the other was, you and I. Now it’s all

muddled.”

For one brief moment I thought she would come hug me, or at least

sit next to me. Instead she quietly got to her feet, placing the pillow

back on the chair, her arms falling to hang limply to her sides. She

stood a moment, as if torn. Then, going to the armoire, she took out

her dressing gown, retrieving her nightgown from the bureau. “I won’t

be long,” she said. She did not look back as she went out and closed the

door.

I fell back against the pillows, wondering if I’d ever figure her out.

Karen R. Thorne 25

By turns the days grew warmer, then hotter, and the skies even bluer,

the long daylight hours dragging on with that endless, stifling summer

monotony that makes one long for crisp autumn evenings with a hint

of snow. A long way off, unfortunately, as it was now the middle of

June, and then July, when the humidity soared and every flying bug

and creepy-crawly seemed hell-bent on sucking the life juices out of

one’s skin. Even the horses suffered.

All the brilliant summer weather should have bolstered my sister’s

delicate constitution; instead, she grew more pale, insisting upon

staying indoors until the cool of the evening (such as it was), eating

little, and frequently asking to be excused because of a headache.

She wasn’t sleeping well, either.

One afternoon, after an obligatory game of croquet with the boys

and Cate, I came in to find Laurie seated in the small sitting room

downstairs, sketching. Dark circles lined the pale skin beneath her

eyes, yet I could almost swear today there was a slight hint of pleasure,

or contentment. Little had I witnessed her indulging her artistic

interests; I went to see what she was drawing.

“Sparrows,” she said by way of explanation, holding the sketch pad

a little sideways for me to see. “Just sparrows, on the lawn.” She didn’t

look up.

A pencil sketch, of four or five of the small birds, two together, the

rest scattered, pecking at titbits on the ground. Yet she’d captured the

scene perfectly: the walk, the lawn, the little birds, whose every tiny

feather was drawn in perfect detail.

Before I could comment I felt someone leaning over my shoulder.

“Rather common, aren’t they?” Christina said with that snooty lilt.

“The birds, I mean. Hardly worth drawing.” As if the subject matter was

so very beneath us.

I turned. “They’re lovely,” I said coolly, wishing she’d step away

before I smacked her one. She’d no cause to be so snotty—none of her

26 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

siblings were. “And I don’t recall anyone asking your opinion,” I said,

moving a little to shield Laurie.

“No,” Christina admitted, “but art is meant to be seen, to be

critiqued, is it not? Besides, I only meant perhaps it would be more

interesting if she drew peacocks, or swans perhaps. They’re such lovely

creatures, graceful and elegant. No one cares about any old common

sparrows.” In a flounce she twirled and glided away.

My gaze shifted to Laurie, still seated. “Don’t pay any attention to

her. She’s just jealous.” I gave a sniff. “She probably wishes she had

some talent, other than being the snippiest old thing this side of the

Channel.”

“Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings,” Laurie said quietly,

gazing at the sketch, “and not one of them is forgotten before God?”

Immediately I recognised the quote, from the Book of Luke in the

Bible. “Absolutely,” I said, kneeling before her, giving her a big smile.

“You draw anything you want, poppet. Sparrows are every bit as

important as any old peacock or swan, as important as any of God’s

creatures on this earth. Perhaps more so, for they’re mentioned by

name in the Good Book.”

She gazed down at the sketch a long moment, on her delicate brow

a tiny frown. Then she tore it from the pad and started crumpling the

page.

I snatched it from her, scowling. “Laurie!” I said, straightening out

the crinkled paper, giving her a pained look. “Why would you want to

ruin such beautiful art? After all the time you spent making it perfect.”

I held it up, wishing it weren’t rumpled but nonetheless appreciating

its simple beauty. “May I have it?” I said, hopeful. “I should very much

like to hang it in our room.”

Unsure, she hesitated, then nodded.

Karen R. Thorne 27

So much I wanted to tend to her, my ailing sister, to devote my time

exclusively to helping my increasingly fragile sibling in whatever

manner I could. But the cousins were still gambolling about in full

force, and I could not renege on my promise to teach Anna to ride—

which, in truth, proved quite enjoyable. Not merely the riding but the

teaching as well; more than once it crossed my mind to perhaps one

day pursue a career as an equestrian trainer. (If my mother did not

marry me off to some wealthy aristocrat first. Ha!)

Taking Anna through her paces, and continuing Samson’s training

—with Laurie not riding as she had before, the horse had become all

but neglected—helped the hours pass quickly in an otherwise

interminable summer. We’d start in the morning, Anna and I, round

about seven or eight, and quickly lose track of time; every day Ansey or

John or Dennis would have to come fetch us for midday meal.

Yet the whole of the time, even as I thrilled at the sheer joy of

being in the saddle, at being out and away from the house on my

delightful Zusza, and sharing my love of horses with Anna and

revelling in the freedom, I very much missed Laurie. Our daily rides

together had been our bonding time, the time when the two of us went

off together into our own little world, trotting along in conversation or

galloping at top speed, in silence. Many a time we’d slow the horses to

a walk, still without speaking, and continue this way for an hour or

more. At such times we’d no need for words, just the silent

understanding slowly forming between us.

Only occasionally did that happen now, our wordless

communication, sometimes as Anna and I would pass by the house and

I’d catch a glimpse of Laurie in the upstairs window, looking down.

She’d wave at me and I’d wave back, and my heart would twang as a

plucked violin string, wishing she’d come along. Adamant, she always

said no.

“Why doesn’t she come?” Anna asked one day, glancing back at the

house over her shoulder as we headed east, towards the stream.

28 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Slowing Zusza, I shrugged. “I don’t know. She used to ride, all the

time. But that was . . . before.” Barely did I catch myself: I was about to

say before you people came.

“Before what?”

My lips compressed. “Before she fell ill.” Tugging at the reins, I

steered Zusza left, taking the steeper trail leading away.

Anna made a soft sound. “So what’s wrong with her?”

I looked back to make sure she didn’t let Samson falter. “The

doctor doesn’t know. He’s given her blood strengtheners and

prescribed a rich diet, but she eats so little it does no good.”

“Maybe he’s not a very good doctor,” Anna said, scrunching her

nose in a frown. “Maybe your parents should try someone else.”

I shook my head. “Father insists on Doctor Penrose. He’s been their

doctor since before Laurie was born.”

“Their doctor?”

“Mother and I had a doctor of our own—” I pulled up Zusza a bit, to

let Anna catch up, “before she married Father. But Doctor Wilkins is

getting old, and Father said Doctor Penrose is excellent, more than

adequate for the whole family.” Even as I said it, I felt a knot in my

middle . . . as if what Mother and I had wasn’t good enough.

“But still,” Anna said, fumbling a bit with the reins, “if Laurie isn’t

getting any better, maybe a second opinion wouldn’t hurt.”

You don’t know Father, I thought blackly.

Evening found Laurie propped up in bed again, reading as usual.

“How’s Cathy doing?” I said in a light tone, moving to the armoire

to stow my riding cap and gloves.

“Hm? Oh. I finished Wuthering Heights. Now I’m reading The Fall of

the House of Usher.”

Karen R. Thorne 29

I turned. “Short stories now? I thought you were so fond of longer

works.” I paused to straighten the framed sparrow sketch, which had

gone a bit crooked on the wall.

She shrugged, scooting away (her habitual reaction) as I came over

and sat down. “I felt like a bit of lighter fare,” she said, “poetry and

such.”

“Lighter? Poe?” My laughter bounced off the high ceiling,

somewhat louder than intended.

“What’s so funny?” She gave me a sideways scowl. “I only meant

lighter than novel-length. Nothing wrong with that.”

“No,” I laid a hand atop hers, “nothing at all, poppet. Don’t pay any

attention to me. I’m only being silly.” In truth I wanted to engage her,

to get her to laugh. She looked even paler than when I’d left that

morning.

I sat a moment, watching her read. Finally I couldn’t bear it.

“Laurie, my love,” I said, taking up her cool hand in mine, “what’s

wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, giving yet another of her offhand shrugs,

taking back her hand, eyes not leaving her book.

“Not nothing, look at you! You won’t eat, you won’t go out, you lie

in bed reading the hours away. You’re so pale you’re nearly the same

white as the sheets, and you’ve hardly skin on your bones.” To prove it,

I reached for her arm, extending it and pulling the nightgown sleeve

back.

I let out a gasp.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, pulling the sleeve back down.

“Where did you get those?” I demanded, shocked at the multiple

bruises and welts on her arm. “Is that what that Doctor Penrose has

been doing to you?”

“No!” she answered a little too quickly. Then she added, “Sort of,

yes, sometimes. He has to sample my blood, to test it. My levels or

something.”

“All of that?”

Visibly a knot came into her throat; she looked away.

30 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

My mouth set in a line. “I think perhaps Anna’s right. I think we

need a second opinion.” Getting to my feet, I strode for the door.

“Eva, no!”

Hand on the knob, I halted. “Why not?” I said, surprised at the

desperation—no, fear—in her voice.

Her lower lip trembled. “Doctor Penrose has been with us since

before I was born,” she said.

“I know. Father told me.”

“So he knows me best. I . . . I don’t want anyone else.”

No, love. That isn’t the reason. I knew it wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to

say so. “All right,” I said gently, coming over to her, “if Doctor Penrose

thinks this is best for you, so be it.” Leaning down, I lightly hugged her

bird-shoulders.

Yet even as she allowed it, I could feel her shrinking away. I sat

back. “Laurie,” I said as gently as I could, “why are you so afraid of

me?”

“I—I’m not afraid of you.”

“You are. I can feel it. Every time I come near you, every time I

climb into bed, I feel you pull away. I know you want me to have plenty

of room, to have space, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to it than

just that. Like you’re afraid for me to touch you or something.” I

waited, but she was silent. “Are you afraid it’s sinful, two sisters who

aren’t blood-related sleeping together?” I knew that wasn’t it, or it

wasn’t all of it, but I had to try to draw her out.

To this she shook her head.

“Well, what, then?”

“I—I can’t tell you. I don’t know.”

The second clearly a contradiction to the first. Though it seemed

pointless to continue to press the matter. I gave a dejected sigh. “All

right. Go back to your reading.” Getting to my feet, I hauled myself

over to the bureau, opening the drawer and taking out my nightgown.

“Aren’t you going to dinner?”

Without turning I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”

Karen R. Thorne 31

The book snapped shut behind me, followed by a thud on the

bedside table. When I looked, Laurie had lain down, covers drawn up,

eyes tightly closed.

Thus ends the conversation, I thought, moving to turn off the light.

Sometime well after midnight I woke, from a sound that in my dream-

stupor sounded like Laurie moaning.

Pulling myself to sitting, I tried to focus. No sound came from the

other side of the bed. The covers had fallen from her shoulders, and as I

reached to replace them my hand grazed her cheek—ice-cold.

“Laurie?” Quickly I placed a finger against the side of her throat;

my breath escaped when I found the pulse, steady if not exactly strong.

Unlike her cheek, the base of her throat was quite warm, overly so.

Fever, pulling the warmth from her face even as it heated her throat

area.

Rising from the bed, I tiptoed down to the kitchen, to the pantry

where Louise kept medicinal supplies. A bowl, a folded length of cloth

and a handful each of dried hyssop, licorice root, and thyme I took back

upstairs; these I made into a moist compress, pressing it gently against

Laurie’s throat. That seemed ineffective, though, so gingerly I undid

the first few buttons of her nightgown, so as to have a broader area on

which to place the compress. I suppressed a gasp—she had no bosom at

all.

Just then she uttered a small moan. Not wishing to upset her, I re-

buttoned the nightgown over the top of the compress, leaving it in

place (though it was a bit damp) as I lay back down beside her.

The full light of the moon shone in the window at my back, over

my shoulder and onto Laurie’s sleeping face. A slight sheen reflected

on her moist brow and upper lip, evidence of the compress working.

Damp tendrils of golden hair darkened about her face, clinging moistly

to her forehead and cheek; gently I brushed them away. For once she

did not flinch, unaware of my motions.

32 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Images of her bruised and welted arm came to mind; instantly my

anger flared. How dare that doctor do such a thing! Injuring a patient

for the sake of curing her? Nonsense! Next time I saw him, I’d let him

know just what I thought of it, I would.

Laurie moaned again then, her eyes fluttering open. “Eva?”

“Yes, Laurie, I’m here.”

“I don’t feel at all well. I think I shall be sick.”

“Oh—hold on.” Leaping from the bed, I grabbed up the small waste

bin under the night table; promptly she sicked up in it.

“I’m sorry,” she said weakly a few moments later, sinking back

down.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You just lie there and rest. Do you

feel you might be sick again, or are you all right for a few minutes so I

can tend to this?”

“I . . . I think I’m all right for now.” Gasping and winded, she lay

back on the pillow.

As quietly as I could manage, I slipped into the lavatory, hurriedly

cleaning the bin in case it was needed again. Something was not right

about this. She hadn’t even eaten dinner. If she sicked up again it’d

likely be dry heaves.

Yet it was more troublesome than that. Not the general

unpleasantness (that never much bothered me), but rather the mystery.

Or. . . .

“Eva?”

Hustling, I ran back to the room.

Laurie was sitting up, shaking visibly. “I’m . . . cold.”

“It’s the fever,” I said, setting the bin down and reaching to wrap

her in blankets. Still she shivered. “Is the compress still in place?”

Glancing down, I saw it wasn’t; I retrieved it from where it had fallen

onto the floor. The bowl with the herbal mixture I’d left on the night

table, easily accessible to refresh the compress as needed. Laurie

recoiled as I went to replace the pack beneath her gown, but I shook

my head. “You needn’t worry. I won’t look.”

“You . . . did this before?”

Karen R. Thorne 33

I nodded. “I didn’t look then, either.”

Modesty I could understand. This seemed a bit excessive.

Nevertheless, I respected her privacy and went to extreme lengths not

to embarrass her. After all, a lack in any womanly department held its

own shame.

The blankets were doing little good. I knew the fever needed to run

its own course, within reason. With a small sigh I came round onto the

bed and slid up next to her, taking her in my arms and rocking her

gently, murmuring soothingly in her ear. Her hair smelled like warm

chestnuts.

“Ev-a, you should sl-eep.” Her voice was becoming hoarse.

“Nonsense. Would you rather I fetch Ansey to look after you?”

She didn’t answer, but I knew she’d prefer anything to that. The

woman was about as comforting as a bee sting.

I continued to rock Laurie, murmuring soothingly to help her calm.

Gradually the chills began to lessen, coming less and less frequently. At

one point I thought perhaps I should release her, so she could lie down,

but another spasm prompted me to continue a little longer.

Then at some point I felt Laurie relax. At first I thought she’d fallen

asleep, until she shifted . . . towards me. Leaning her head against my

shoulder, a motion of trust. My heart leapt. The memory of my

imprudent words to the priest fluttered by . . . had I truly hurt her so?

Still the guilt weighed on me.

I sighed. Whether it was her mother’s tragic death (she would not

share the details), or having to leave her family home to come and live

here, or perhaps something else entirely, I did not know. I only knew

that something had affected her, deeply. More so than merely my

unthoughtful words. Wounded, she was, as a small bird by arrow-shot,

and the wound had never healed.

My arms wrapped closer round her. “I love you, my sweet Laurie,” I

whispered, “my poppet.”

In the darkness there was only the holding of breath.

34 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Anna’s lesson was short the next day.

“Aren’t we going to work on my Swedish oxers and combinations?”

she said, disappointed.

“Not today.” Bringing Zusza into the stable, I dismounted, leading

her to the water trough while I gathered some feed in a bag.

Likewise dismounting, Anna watched me a few moments. “Looks

like you’re going somewhere,” she said in a leading tone.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I’ve a friend I haven’t seen in

awhile, all summer, in fact. I thought I’d pay him a visit.”

“Him . . . ?” From the lilt in her tone and the cock of her brow, Anna

read more into my answer than was there.

“Yes, him. I’ve known Quinn since I was little. Besides, he and his

mother know more about curing what ails a person than most

doctors.” Spinning on my heel, I pressed a finger to Anna’s lips. “Not a

word to anyone! Understand?”

Wide-eyed, she nodded.

“I can trust you, right? Though I guess I’ll have to, since you

already know.”

“Do you think your friend can help Laurie?” All eager, Anna trotted

along on my heels as I readied Zusza.

“I don’t know. But I have to try.” Hoisting myself once more into

the saddle, I assumed a stern expression. “Remember, keep hush!”

Then with a slight nudge to Zusza’s flanks, I headed off.

Quinn was surprised to see me, of course, but it was if no time had

passed.

“Been wond’rin when ye’d come around,” he said in his refreshing

Scottish accent, all grins as he opened the door of the modest cottage

he and his mother shared.

Karen R. Thorne 35

“Things have been busy.” Smiling, I threw my arms round his

sturdy form, appreciating his earthy strength and glad for something

familiar. “Though I come now not so much for a visit, but to ask your

help.” Briefly I explained Laurie’s condition.

“Hm,” Quinn murmured, sun-bleached brow furrowing. “Ye did the

right thing, makin’ that compress. But that’s only for the fever, not

what’s ailin’ her.” Extending a hand, he indicated we should sit at the

broad rustic table.

As he went round it I noticed how tall he’d got. All of eighteen, he

looked more like twenty going on twenty-five. His arms and chest had

filled out (more so than before), and as he muttered to himself I could

tell his voice had deepened, settling more into an adult tone. The

angled afternoon sun caught in the thick stubby scrub of solid whiskers

jutting from his chin at odd angles.

“You’ve grown up,” I said, unable to suppress a grin.

“Huh? Oh,” he gave his chin a self-conscious rub, “yeah, I guess ye

might say that. I dinna so much notice, but me mum sure did. Said I

grew three feet overnight—at long last!” He laughed his hearty laugh,

also deeper than before, yet no less infectious.

“What’s Aurelia think of it?”

Quinn’s left brow went up. “Aurelia? She’s old news.” He waved a

dismissive hand. “Mary Francis—she’s my one and only now.”

At this I couldn’t help but laugh. “One and only . . . for the week,

you mean.”

“No, no,” his Scottish brogue overtook him, “I’m tellin’ ye, Mary

Francis is a keeper.”

“Sure, right. So when’s the wedding?”

In answer he clouted my shoulder. Then his expression sobered.

“Enough o’ this banter. We need t’ be thinkin’ ‘bout helping your

sister.”

“Agreed. So what are you thinking? Nettles, maybe, for the welts,

tea packs for the bruises?”

He shook his head. “All that’s easy enough. What we’ve got t’ do is

figure out why she won’t eat, what causin’ her t’ be so weak.”

36 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

I thought a long moment. “Quinn, could you come up to the house

to see her? We could say we ran into each other and I invited you to

stop by, to meet the cousins. If you could see her in person, maybe you

could figure something out.”

“Hm. Least it’s worth a try. When should I come?”

Eager, I leaned forward in my seat. “This evening? If you’re not

busy.”

“I’ll be there.”

True to his word, Quinn stopped by around seven. Everyone had gone

off to their respective evening activities, so I casually took him round

to introduce him, playing up the story we’d concocted so he could

come visit. (Father was none too keen on Quinn for some reason,

though I suspected it was because his family status was “beneath” us.)

Socialities out of the way, Quinn and I went up the stairs. I cast him

a sideways glance. “I see you brought your shoulder pack,” I said,

eyeing the nondescript drawstring sack.

“Absolutely. Can’t go out without me bag of magic tricks.” Catching

my eye, he winked.

Laurie was surprised I’d brought a guest in to meet her, especially

as she’d remained ill in bed the whole day, until I explained in hushed

tones why Quinn had come.

A fearful scoonching-back against the pillows followed.

“You’ve nothing to be afraid of,” I said softly, so no one beyond the

room could hear. “Quinn is excellent with herbal folk remedies. Maybe

he can help you.” Then as an afterthought I added, “And he respects

people’s privacy.”

With great reluctance Laurie allowed the sleeve of her nightgown

to be pushed back, revealing the ugly marks and discolourations. Quinn

had the presence of mind not to react; he merely took a gentle hold of

her arm, turning it a little to assess the situation. Nodding, he slid the

Karen R. Thorne 37

shoulder pack off and untied it, taking out a small bottle and a few

cotton balls, with which he dabbed some of the brown liquid on the

wounds.

Laurie’s nose wrinkled at the pungent smell, and Quinn smiled.

“Aye, it smells like th’ Dickens, but it works wonders. I’ll leave th’ bottle

here so you can treat it some more tomorrow.”

His tone of voice was light, soothing, comforting—for Laurie’s

benefit. I knew from experience it was his way of not frightening his

patient.

Taking up the glass of water beside the bed, with his other hand he

extricated another small bottle from his bag, removing the cap and

droppering some into the water. The purplish liquid disappeared. “A

few sips of this,” he said to Laurie, “an’ ye’ll feel more relaxed.” He held

the glass while she drank.

“Will that help her throat?” I said, hopeful.

“Aye,” he said, setting the empty glass down, “the balm in it’s good

for calmin’ throats as well as nerves.

“Oh, good. She’s—” I stopped myself on the verge of mentioning

her singing voice, “her throat’s been sounding scratchy.”

Quinn made a soothing sound. “Therre now,” he said, Scottish

tongue rolling the words, “much better, eh? Ye just lie back and rest,

and tomorrow perhaps ye’ll feel so much better,” here his voice took on

a lilt, “ye’ll come visit me.” He gave her a broad smile, and she

managed a weak one in return.

Already her eyes were drooping.

As Quinn retied his shoulder pack, I studied his face for some clue.

Motioning, he indicated we should talk outside.

“All right,” I said when we’d gone a fair distance from the house,

“you’ve kept me on sticks and thorns long enough. What’s wrong with

her?”

38 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Frowning, he shook his head. “It’s a strange, strange case. Never

seen anythin’ like it. I cannae imagine wot that doctor’d be givin’ ‘er to

do all that. I know one thing, though: we need t’ get her away from

here a few days, t’ see if she improves. As long as that doctor’s comin’

round, pokin’ her arm like that, she’ll never get better.”

“But what can we do? Father insists on Doctor Penrose seeing her—

only Doctor Penrose.”

This titbit did not please Quinn. “Som’thin’s not right,” he said,

shaking his head. “That doctor’s up t’ som’thin’, I know he is. I just

don’t know what.”

I set my jaw. “We’ll see about that.”

3

Father was in the study when I found him. Over his gold-rimmed

glasses he looked up from his thick law book. “Yes, Evelyn?”

Without thinking my arms crossed. “I’m worried about Laurie.”

“As are we all.” Thoughtfully he turned the page. “Doctor Penrose

is handling the situation.”

“No he isn’t!” Catching myself, I lowered my voice. “What I mean

is, she isn’t getting any better, she’s getting worse. Last night she woke

in the middle of the night quite ill, vomiting and feverish.” One of

Father’s brows arched a bit, though he did not look up. “She’s so weak

she doesn’t feel like eating,” I went on, “and she hardly leaves the bed.”

I waited, but Father continued scrutinising the page. Perhaps he

was considering what I’d said.

“I’m afraid if this continues,” I said, urgency creeping into my

voice, “she might not make it.”

Absently his left-hand fingers stroked his moustache. “So what is it

you wish me to do?” he said at length, turning another page.

“I think we should have a second opinion.” Stated firmly, no room

for debate.

“Do you.”

My nostrils flared. “I do,” I said, not backing down, “with all haste. I

cannot bear to see her deteriorate like this. If it continues, she could

die.”

No reaction. Then he gave a long sigh; reaching up, he removed his

glasses, placing them on the secretary with exaggerated care. “I do not

recall,” he said, taking up the leather bookmark, placing it in the book,

“anyone putting you in charge. Not of this household, and certainly not

of your sister’s health.”

Watery grey eyes came to meet mine, a look of aged steel.

40 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

I felt myself swallow. “No,” I said more quietly, “no one has put me

in charge. Nor have I taken it upon myself. Yet I cannot simply stand by

and watch my sister waste away.” I itched to say more, but left it at

that.

“Very well,” Father said with an exhale of annoyed resignation,

tossing his pen on the table. “I shall enquire in Chatham tomorrow—”

“Doctor Wilkins could come,” I said. (Too hastily, but my anxiety

was getting the best of me.)

The arched brow raised even higher. “Evelyn—” already the word

was a reprimand, “we have previously discussed the abilities or the

lack thereof concerning the honourable Doctor Wilkins. For you and

your mother I am sure the man was an excellent physician, in his day.

Now he’s advanced in years, and I do not feel he is capable of meeting

the task.”

“Doctor Wilkins is a fine doctor,” I said with some vehemence, my

brow knitting. “Sixty-two is not that old. It’s . . . experienced.”

A full half-minute hung in the air.

“Very well,” Father said finally. He smoothed the greying hair at

his temples, likewise his moustache. “Tomorrow when I go into town I

will look up the good doctor and make an appointment for him to come

round.”

“Oh, thank you, Father,” I said, uncharacteristically hugging him.

(He was not fond of affectionate physical demonstrations.) “May I tell

Laurie?”

“Certainly,” he picked up his book, “do as you wish.”

I nearly skipped from the room.

To my delight, Laurie seemed pleased.

“I think I should very much like to hear what another physician

has to say,” she said hoarsely—despite Quinn’s elixir—her voice all but

Karen R. Thorne 41

gone. I held the refilled water glass I’d brought for her, as she sat up a

little to drink. Then she fell back, winded.

I frowned a little. Then, composing my face, I smiled. “You’ll like

Doctor Wilkins,” I said with a nod, keeping my enthusiasm in check

that she’d changed her mind. “He’s taken care of me since I was a baby,

and Mother before that. I think he used to be a slender man, but as he

got on in years he’s put on a bit of weight. In a red suit he’d look just

like Santa Claus!”

The tiniest of smiles creased the corners of her pale lips.

It struck me then how drawn and withered she looked. Having

been bedridden, she hadn’t bathed or washed her hair; small dried

tendrils stuck to her forehead. I imagined Ansey or Nell had been

sponging Laurie down, as she wasn’t . . . well, heavy perfume wasn’t

necessary. But real cleansing could only be accomplished by a proper

bath or shower, neither of which Laurie seemed capable of managing

herself.

Reaching over, I freed one of the stuck tendrils. “Perhaps you’d feel

better if I helped you have a bath,” I said gently.

Immediately she stiffened. “No,” she said, “I’m fine.”

“Now, Laurie, you can’t feel so very good when you haven’t bathed.

It would refresh you, help to renew your energy. Quinn says it’s

excellent for the constitution.”

Feebly she shook her head. “I’ll wait until I can do it myself.”

My brows lowered over my eyes. “You’re a stubborn little thing,

aren’t you.”

“No more than you,” she mumbled, eyes closing.

Not fair. Not fair at all, that she could still retain that ethereal,

almost heavenly beauty despite being unwashed and ill.

“Well, fine,” I said, assuming an aloof air, “let me know if you

change your mind.” Then, despite myself, I leaned down to kiss her

moist forehead, catching the muted fragrance of her chestnut-scented

hair, the golden tresses dulled from days of inactivity and nights of

sweating, fevers and chills, yet no less beautiful. A waft of envy went

through me; I lingered a moment at her cheek, unwilling to leave her.

42 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Then I got to my feet and headed outside for a walk, hoping the

night air would take away my urge to bury my face next to hers and

weep.

Doctor Wilkins did not come.

When I asked Father why, he said the elderly gentleman had been

taken ill, and was in hospital.

“Goodness!” Mother said, concerned. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“That I do not know,” Father said. “His assistant informed me of the

news, but did not elaborate on the details.”

You might have asked, I thought blackly.

“I’m so sorry to hear it.” Mother’s voice was tinged with what sounded

like real concern. Impressive, coming from her. She’d grown quite dour

since marrying Mister Aged-Steel. “Were you able to find anyone else,”

she said, “or will Doctor Penrose continue seeing the child?”

My mother’s choice of words bristled me; I tried not to let it show.

“As a matter of fact, Doctor Brudiger will be able to make a trip out

tomorrow.”

“Splendid!” Mother’s half-smiling eyes swung to me. “Perhaps he

will be able to add to the expertise of our good Doctor Penrose. Two

heads are most certainly better than one.”

This time I could scarce not roll my eyes at my mother’s lame

reliance on cliché to make her point. Outwardly I gave her a return

smile, taking solace in the fact that at least another doctor would be

tending my fading sister.

“No,” Laurie said when I gave her the update.

I moved to sit next to her. “But why not? You said you thought it a

good idea to get a second opinion.”

Karen R. Thorne 43

She shook her head. “Doctor Brudiger is just like Doctor Penrose.

They used to share a practise.”

“All right, but still he could offer another opinion—”

Again she shook her head.

I exhaled a sigh. “Well, there isn’t much we can do about it now.

Father said the doctor will be coming here tomorrow. Not likely I can

get him to cancel the appointment.”

“Nor should you,” Anna said, standing at the door. Hesitant, she

came a few steps inside. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but

the door was open.” With large eyes she looked over at Laurie. “How

are you feeling?”

“The same,” Laurie answered, though I knew otherwise.

“Well, I think it’s good this other doctor’s coming,” Anna said, her

enthusiasm infusing her tone. “About time someone did something for

you to really help.”

I flashed the girl a cautionary look. Our discussions of Doctor

Penrose’s ministrations—or the lack thereof—were meant to be

private.

Anna seemed not to notice. “I think it’s just awful,” she said to

Laurie, moving to take her hand, “that this Penrose is so inept. No

offence, Laurie, but he seems to have made you worse, not better.”

“Anna,” I interrupted, “didn’t Cate say she needed your help this

afternoon with memorising Yeats? Something about wanting to be

ready when you return to school. . . .”

“Oh! Yes, I’d nearly forgotten. Please forgive me,” she nodded to

Laurie, then trotted off.

A little waft of relief brushed over me. Anna was a sweet girl, and

an eager pupil, but right now I didn’t feel it was in Laurie’s best

interests to have her around. The girl blurted out whatever came to

mind (though I was fully guilty of the same), and Laurie’s delicate

health needed no more upsets. Especially from visiting cousins.

“Shouldn’t you also,” Laurie said, voice gravelled, expending great

effort just to turn onto her side, “be tending to matters elsewhere?”

44 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

I tried to read her question, unsuccessfully. “I’ve nothing more

important than tending you. Unless you don’t want me here?”

She gave a faint shake of her head. “If you’ve nothing else,” she

murmured, “I wish you’d stay.”

“Then stay I will.” Moving to pull over a chair, I sat down next to

the bed, leaning forward to take her cool hands. “Shall I read to you,” I

said, noticing her untouched book on the night table, “or would you

prefer to sleep?”

“I’ve done nothing but sleep,” she said, though her eyes drifted

closed. A moment or two passed. Then she said, “You can read to me if

you like.”

Releasing her hands, I took up the book and opened it to the

bookmarked page. “ ‘The loveliness of Eleonora’,” I read softly, “‘was that

of the Seraphim. . . .’ ” I read to the end of the page, now and again

glancing over to see if she’d fallen asleep.

“Go on,” she murmured, pulling the covers up.

“ ‘She had been made perfect in loveliness’,” I continued in the same

soft voice, “ ‘only to die.’ ” As I read, I wondered at the subject matter . . .

too morbid for her to hear right now?

“ ‘And she yielded up her innocent life’. . . ”

“I won’t be here when the doctor comes,” Laurie said quietly.

Instantly my stomach fell. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes slid open. “I don’t want to see him.”

“Laurie, we’ve been through this before. How do you expect to get

better?”

“I don’t want to get better!” she shouted hoarsely, voice breaking.

“I just want it to end.”

My heart turned to water. “Laurie, no,” I murmured, all but a

whisper, “you can’t say that.”

The vehemence of her outburst had taxed her; it was a moment or

two before she could speak. “I am tired of this,” she said, the words

drawn out, the resignation clear. “I am tired of . . . so much.”

“No,” I said, desperate, leaning forward, putting the book aside,

“you can’t be. I mean, you’re young and brilliant and beautiful. A

Karen R. Thorne 45

precious, precious life! Please,” my plaintiveness  surprised even me,

“you can’t leave. You can’t leave me now you’ve come.”

Staring at me with those great sad eyes, she shook her head. “You

don’t understand,” she said.

A rock came into my throat. “I want to understand. I want to know

all about you, to come to know this new thing called ‘sister,’ something

I never had. In all my younger years growing up in this house, it was

always too big, too indifferent, too empty. For all its servants and

Mother and the occasional friend who stopped by, I was always alone.”

This last came out bitter. “Sometimes I loved it,” I said, “the solitude.

Other times, I felt abandoned in the remotest corner of the world.” I

laid my palm against her pale cheek, staunchly not reacting to its chill.

“When you came,” my voice caught, “all that changed. My world has

been brighter ever since. Now . . . it all means something.”

I could not tell whether my words had any effect. In truth, until

that moment I was unaware it was how I felt.

My throat welled. “I love you, Laurie,” I heard myself say, “as I have

never loved anyone. Or ever will again.” I took up her frail hand and

pressed it to my cheek. “Please live. For me.”

Her features shifted. “Perhaps,” she said, “I do want to get better.”

This last held a flickering of renewed hope. “But doctors cannot help.”

I frowned. “Surely you don’t mean the church. . . .”

She was shaking her head. “Your friend Quinn,” she said. “I want to

see him.” Withdrawing her other hand from under the covers, she

reached over to squeeze mine. “Please,” she said, “take me to him.”

“Oh, Laurie, I don’t think you should travel, it wouldn’t be wise. I’ll

bring him—”

Again she shook her head. “I need to get out. As soon as possible.”

The rock still in my throat, I nodded.

46 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Quinn was hardly surprised and more than glad to see us, as I brought

the carriage to a halt in front of his vine-covered home the next

morning. “Ah,” he said in his inimitable accent, “I knew ye’d come.”

Together we helped Laurie down, and Quinn offered to carry her

into the house, but she insisted on walking. Even still, she clung

heavily to the both of us just to maintain balance.

I was relieved to see Quinn’s mother had returned from visiting her

sister, who’d just given birth to her fourth child. Mrs Fletcher, like her

son, had the forethought not to react to Laurie’s condition. “Let’s put

you in here,” the kindly woman said, moving towards the guest room

off to the left. “The bed is comfy and the window affords just the right

amount of light.” Together she and Quinn helped settle Laurie,

bolstering her with pillows so she could sit up without tiring.

“Are you hungry, my dear?” Mrs Fletcher said, tucking in the

covers with a gentle, practised hand. “Or perhaps thirsty?”

“Some water,” Laurie said, hoarser than before, “if it’s not too

much trouble.”

Quinn ran off to get it, while Mrs Fletcher moved about the room

making sure the window was open just a bit for fresh air and there

were enough blankets on the bed in case Laurie felt chilled. Everything

about the slender motherly woman said caretaker, from the way she

moved to her loosely tied back wheat-blonde hair as yet untouched by

the grey of age. Only the few small crow’s feet about her

compassionate eyes when she smiled said she’d matured; that, and the

quiet confidence of experience and wisdom that permeated her entire

being, not the least of which her skilled hands.

“There we are,” she said, plumping the pillows, “much better.” The

patient comfortably situated, mother and son set about assessing

Laurie’s condition, mostly by way of simple questions: Did anything

hurt? What symptoms was she feeling? Did this or that make them

worse, or better?

Karen R. Thorne 47

I admired the skilful way the questions were put so the answers

could be given with a nod or a shake of the head. Ever since I could

remember, I’d trusted Quinn and his wise-woman mother when it came

to one’s health; my faith was once more validated.

“All right, dear,” Mrs Fletcher said with a final smoothing of the

bed linens, “you just lie back and rest. You’re welcome to stay as long

as you like, and Quinn and I will do all we can to put you right as rain.”

Softer than Quinn’s, her accent, yet motherly-Scottish all the same.

I smiled.

Already Laurie looked better. Maybe it was the light, but her skin

didn’t look as sallow, and her eyes seemed a tad brighter. Then I noted

her gaze followed Quinn as he brought in an herbal tea and set it down;

it crossed my mind that perhaps she liked him. I hadn’t the heart to tell

her he was taken.

“Ye can drink the tea,” he said to her, giving the brew a stir, “or ye

can just breathe th’ aroma. Both are good for ye.”

“Thank you,” Laurie said, a thousand-times relief in her failing

voice. She took the tea up, holding the small cup with both hands as

she sipped; a small pleased sigh escaped her throat.

Mrs Fletcher subtly motioned for me to follow as she exited the

room. “Quinn will settle her,” she said to me in hushed tones as we

moved into the living room. “He has a way of soothing people like none

other.”

“How well I know,” I agreed, casting a glance towards the room

from which low murmuring issued. I’d not forgotten the time I myself

had come down with a high fever, on the verge of delirium, when

Quinn had stopped by. Had my mother or Ansey come to answer the

door, he never would’ve been admitted; instead, Nell (thirteen at the

time and easily charmed) had let him in to see me. His gentle soothing

words calmed my agitation, brought me back to myself, and the herbs

he’d brought with him, fresh off the heath, did me a world of benefit.

Else, I might have succumbed. “If anyone can help Laurie,” I said with a

nod, “Quinn can.”

Mrs Fletcher just smiled.

48 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

Leading me to the small parlour, she indicated I should sit. “I’ll

bring us some tea,” she said, going off.

After a few minutes Quinn joined us. “She’s resting now,” he said,

holding out a cup and saucer while his mother poured. “Terrible fearful

little thing, that girl,” he said, Scottish r’s rolled, his brow tightening.

“Whatever that doctor’s been doin’s got her all quakin’ with fright.

That, and an arm lookin’ like a railyard full o’ tracks.”

“You treated it with the tincture?” his mother said.

“Aye. Gave her some t’other day, too, when I was up t’ th’ house.

Though it’ll take more’n just daisy tincture to cure that.”

From his expression I could tell Quinn’s concerns stemmed more

from what was being done to Laurie than whatever ailment had taken

hold of her.

I felt Mrs Fletcher’s gaze.

“How long do you think she can stay?” she said to me.

My stomach knotted. “Not long, I’m sure. I only told Father that I

was going out for some fresh air, not that I was bringing her along.” I

glanced towards the clock on the mantel. “I should probably be

heading back.”

The looks Quinn and his mother exchanged let me know my

meaning was not lost on them. “Leave her here awhile,” Quinn said,

laying a warm hand on my arm, “an’ just tell your father she didn’t feel

well enough t’ return today. Ye can let him know my mother’s takin’

care of her, so he won’t worry.”

As if that were possible.

“If your father has any questions,” Mrs Fletcher said, “send him to

me.” Her expression said, And I’ll deal with it, period.

I looked from one to the other. “Thank you,” I said, taking each of

their hands and giving them a squeeze.

Quinn’s mother smiled, then pulled me to her and hugged me.

“Don’t you worry, lass. We’ll take good care of your sister.”

Karen R. Thorne 49

“I know you will. I’ll just go let Laurie know I’m leaving.”

Returning home without my beloved sibling proved harder than I

thought. So used to checking on her, I felt my stomach drop when I

came into our room and she was not there, despite I knew full well

where she was. Then it hit me: What would it be like if she were gone?

Aching, the emptiness that descended upon me. As if all the air had

been sucked from my lungs, a vast hole left in the middle of my chest.

How close we’d become in so short a time; her moving in to share a

room had only hastened the process. Her quiet demeanour, her pensive

moods, her ability to listen to me ramble on at length about anything

at all—everything I loved about her all came into vivid relief in her

absence.

Father was out, most likely gone to town, so my having to account

for Laurie’s whereabouts enjoyed a momentary reprieve. Time enough

to mull over what we’d done, the coup we’d pulled off, and how I was

going to explain so Father would not be upset. Though there was little

chance of avoiding that.

Especially when Doctor Brudiger arrived.

“Just up here,” I heard my father say, coming up the stairs.

“Fine, fine,” answered a robust doctorly voice, along with footsteps

approaching.

Quickly I wiped at my face, scrubbing at it and grabbing a

handkerchief to blow my nose. I composed a hasty smile.

“Oh Father,” I said, going to meet them at the bedroom door, “I am

so sorry! I forgot all about the good doctor coming today. Laurie isn’t

here just now.”

Never had I seen someone’s eyes “about to pop.”

“Not here?” Father said, with emphasis.

I shook my head. “Regrettably, no. She was feeling very closed in,

suffocated even, so I decided to take her with me when I went out for

50 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

air. In the carriage,” I added hastily, “quite leisurely, so as not to tax

her. It was such a lovely day,” as you rehearsed it, Eva, “we went all the

way out to Westbere, and since we were in the neighbourhood we

stopped by to see Quinn. She met him a few  days ago. Then Laurie felt

tired, so Mrs Fletcher suggested she rest there awhile. She’s taking care

of her.”

A long explanation, too long perhaps. I waited to see Father’s

reaction.

“Well,” he pulled himself up, “this is most embarrassing. I’m afraid

we’ve had you come all this way for nothing, Doctor Brudiger. I do

apologise.”

“Nonsense,” the doctor said, “ ’twas no trouble at all, none

whatsoever. I quite enjoy getting out of the city awhile and taking in a

bit of country air. Good for the lungs and the sinuses.” He inhaled a

long breath and let it out, for emphasis.

My insides unknotted ever so slightly; there was still Father to

contend with. Not for one second did I believe his composed façade.

“Still,” Father said, “I did so hope you could take a look at the girl.”

He guided the doctor back towards the stairs. “Her condition is most

baffling. . . .”

Not if you’d stop that hacksaw from chopping up her arm, I thought,

screwing my face into a grimace behind his back. And whatever else the

quack may be doing to her.

To be polite, I followed them down, listening as Father went to

ridiculous lengths to apologise to the doctor. What must the man think

of him, making such a fuss?

“Well, again, thank you for coming all this way,” Father said at the

door. “Perhaps if my daughter feels like travelling into town, we can

stop by your office, if you’ve time.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Doctor Brudiger said, nodding until his jowls

jiggled. “Glad to do it, happy to. Any time. Good-bye.”

As the medic’s gaze met mine I smiled, hoping my true feelings

were not apparent.

The smile faded, however, as soon as the door closed.

Karen R. Thorne 51

“Out for air?” Father said, teeth gritted as he turned to me. A swift

backhand impacted my cheek before I could reply.

Stars, the room darkening. I swayed, then somehow caught my

balance, the light slowly returning. Along with a pulsating sting in my

cheekbone.

“Never,” my father said in my face, “leave here with my daughter

without informing me first. Understand?”

I think I managed a nod.

“See that you do.”

Footsteps retreating told me he moved away.

I didn’t go to dinner.

Mother was surprised but did not argue when I complained of a

headache—migraine, brought on by worry over my ill sister—and

needed to lie down in the quiet dark.

And so I did.

Hours after everyone had gone to bed, I lay in the blackness of my

room staring at the ceiling, the pale moonlight dancing patterns on the

walls. My eyes were hot and dry from staring; my cheek still throbbed a

little, despite the ice Nell had brought. (For the “migraine,” of course.)

I’d known Father would be displeased, but his actions shocked me.

So much so, I’d said nothing. Not one word when he’d smacked me . . .

not even a breath of indignation. Oh, he’d always been protective of

Laurie, doting on her every eyeblink as if she were the princess of the

land, treating her as if she were made of the most delicate glass. Not a

move she made was he inattentive to—fetching servants at the

slightest inkling she needed anything, coddling her, fawning over the

poor little thing at every turn. It surprised me he had not called in

every last doctor within a hundred miles to try to diagnose her

52 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

condition; though I suppose he felt Doctor Penrose was the very best

available, considering the physician’s intimate firsthand knowledge of

his patient.

Turning over onto my side, I forcibly blinked my burning dry eyes,

gazing at the empty pillow beside me. A hollow, sinking feeling filled

my chest. I let my hot eyes close; to Laurie I sent encouraging thoughts.

Was she sleeping now? Resting well? Getting better? Perhaps even

missing me, as I missed her?

Squinting at the clock, I could barely discern the hands: ten past

two. I hadn’t slept.

Then I guess I did, because it was morning and Anna was shaking me.

“Evelyn, wake up. Evelyn, can you hear me?”

“Hm?” Groggily I half-opened one eye. “What time is it?”

“Half past nine. You’ve missed breakfast.”

That got my attention. “How’d I manage that,” I said, sitting up,

“when Ansey never lets me sleep in?”

“She did this morning. Said she didn’t give a whit and a fly if you

ate or not.” The inflection in Anna’s voice as she imitated the head

maid nearly made me laugh. “I sneaked a scone for you, though, in case

you were hungry.” Reaching into her frock pocket, she brought out a

small wrapped bundle. “Don’t worry,” she said as she handed it to me,

“the handkerchief’s clean.”

With a smile I took it, glad to have a cohort (in the food

department, at least). “Thank you,” I said, unwrapping and biting off

the corner of the scone. Honey and cinnamon permeated the light,

crumbly texture. Too bad she couldn’t have also purloined some tea to

go with it.

“So are we still having our lesson this morning?” Anna said,

perching herself on the edge of the bed, eyes as eager as her schoolgirl

voice.

Karen R. Thorne 53

“Of course,” I said, jostling bits of scone in my full mouth not to

spew crumbs. Swallowing, I said, “Let me just finish this and I’ll get

dressed.”

Twenty minutes later I was moderately put together (praying Mother

didn’t catch a glimpse of my haphazard manner of dress, my half-

pinned mane bunched loosely in a snood), and heading for the stable.

Anna was already saddled up and ready to go.

“Nice job,” I said, noting her preparations had improved. All her

tack was neatly in place, including boots, wraps, and the running

martingale.

“Thanks,” she said, modesty showing. “You promised to teach me

to jump today, remember?”

“I remember.” Only because she’d reminded me—in truth I hadn’t

given riding much thought, being so wrapped up in Laurie. “We’ll get

the horses good and warmed up first, before we attempt anything

more vigorous. Last thing we need is a pulled flank muscle.”

Zusza was moderately patient as I saddled her up and prepared her

for the morning’s lesson. Alert and ready to get out and stretch her

legs, she whinnied at me a couple times; I was slower on the take. Part

of me still felt dreadfully tired, not having slept. My limbs I could swear

were clogged with river muck.

And so the lesson with Anna proved long and tedious, at least for

my part. I kept forgetting to mention key points until after the fact;

twice Anna nearly fell from her horse as a result.

“Lean into it,” I reminded her again, as she came round for another

jump. The small dip was not deep, but could break a horse’s ankle if

missed. This time Anna remembered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Evelyn,” she said finally, coming up alongside, “would you rather

call it a morning? You don’t seem quite all here.”

54 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

I couldn’t help but notice her eye went to my slightly swelled

cheek. “I’m not,” I said, dismayed at how the clipped words flew from

my mouth. “I mean, I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m a bit tired.”

With an understanding smile, the girl nodded.

Heading back, I was glad Anna remained quiet, not engaging in idle

chitchat as had been her habit on leisurely rides.

Especially as we neared the stable and I saw Quinn standing there,

face sober, arms at his sides.

Jabbing my heels into Zusza’s flanks, I galloped the remaining

distance at nearly a full run, pulling her up at the last second to

dismount. “What is it? What’s wrong?” I said, barely able to breathe.

“Nothin’,” he said, aware that Anna was bringing up the rear. “I

just thought ye might like t’ know how Laurie’s doin’ this mornin’.”

Anna joined us, and I introduced Quinn (she’d been off someplace

when he’d come before), briefly explaining about Laurie.

“Oh, yes,” Anna said, “I remember Evelyn mentioning you, and

your healing skills—” She clapped a hand to her mouth.

“It’s all right,” I said, glad she remembered her promise. “No one’s

around.”

“So how’s Laurie doing?” Anna wanted to know.

“Much better,” he said, assuming that charming smile of his that

always reassured (even when the news was grim). “She slept well, an’

Mother’s gettin’ her to eat. Scottish porridge goes down easy an’ sticks

to th’ bones, ‘specially when it’s Mother’s special recipe!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Anna said, relieved. As was I, though I knew

there was more; I could read it in Quinn’s carefully composed

expression. “Will she be coming back today?” Anna said.

He shrugged. “Per’aps, if she feels up to it. The air’s a bit diff’rent,

where I live. There’s a lake nearby, an’ the wind th’t comes off it is

moist and fresh. Just what she needs.” This last was accompanied by a

subtle sideways slide of the eyes towards me.

Immediately I gathered his meaning. “Well, that’s fine, then,” I

said, joining the game. “Seems wise for her to perhaps stay a little

Karen R. Thorne 55

longer, then, if it’s all right with your mother.” My tone was leading,

mostly for Anna’s benefit, and purposely light.

“Aye, t’be sure. Mother’s callin’ in this world is carin’ for the waifs

and weathered.”

“Anna,” I said, all casual-like, “go and put Samson away, would

you? I’d like to talk to Quinn a few minutes.” I gave a small smile.

Again the girl’s astuteness was a blessing: with a nod she bade

farewell to Quinn and went off to tend the horse.

I turned. “All right, the truth. And don’t sugar-coat it. You know I’ll

know.”

My good friend’s mouth pressed into a line, his glance on the

stables. “She’s better, as I said.” Subtly he began to stroll in the

opposite direction, away from the stables as I followed alongside.

“Eatin’s helped, as did the quiet and rest.”

“You’re stalling.”

Now it was his eyes that indicated his reluctance to speak. The

vague expressions that crossed his face implied he was searching just

the right words.

“Is it hopeless?” I blurted out.

Quinn shook his head. “No, not at all. Though of course that’s up to

her, whether she wants t’ get better or not.”

I recalled Laurie’s words, her morbid thoughts.

“She doesn’t want to come back,” Quinn said suddenly. “She’s

afraid of comin’ back here again, afraid this doctor,” the word came out

sarcastic, “will ruin her health, past the point of no return.”

Forcibly I inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly. “Well, I

thought as much,” I said quietly, though the notion had never come

clear in my mind until now. “But she has to. She has no choice. Father

will never allow her to leave.”

Quinn did not appear to be listening. His gaze had fixed on my

swelled cheekbone.

Instinctively my hand went to cover it, feigning something in my

eye. “Father was none too happy she wasn’t here yesterday,” I said,

56 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

increasing my pace a little to gain ground ahead of him. “He’d brought

in another doctor, from Chatham—”

“Was that before or after he cracked ye across th’ face?”

I halted. Flat, his tone; he brooked no mincing about. Frowning, I

lowered my head in answer.

“Ye needn’t defend the bastirt,” Quinn said, coming round to face

me. “I suspected as much.”

“Really? Why?”

A twitch arched Quinn’s brow; he started to say something. “He

just seems the type,” was what he settled on.

Stepping squarely in front of him, I levelled my gaze. “Quintin Lars

Fletcher, you know something you’re not telling. What is it?”

“I doan. I mean, nothin’ more’n I already told ye.”

“You do! And I demand you tell me this instant.” My foot stamped

the firm ground.

Ill-at-ease flushed all over him. He was quiet for several moments.

Then, reaching for my elbow, he pulled me close. “That lass has been

abused,” he said in a low voice.

Heat, then cold; then ringing in my ears. “By whom?” Though I

fully suspected.

“I cannae say. But those marks on ‘er arm . . . not all of ‘em are from

injections.”

There was more to it. That much was obvious.

“Doan say anythin’ to the lass,” Quinn pleaded. “She doesn’t need

to be upset her more’n she already is. She’s ‘ad a lot lately, an’ she

needs time. As much time as she can get.”

“I don’t know how much we can manage. Father was livid over a

single day. He told me in no uncertain terms to obtain his permission

first, before taking Laurie anywhere.”

This last did nothing to improve Quinn’s opinion of Father. “What’s

‘e now, a bloody dictator? Not enough ‘e’s a bleeding bastirt. . . . Sorry,”

he ran a hand through his shock of sun-dappled hair, “I dinna mean

that. Him bein’ your father an’ all.”

“Step-father,” I corrected.

Karen R. Thorne 57

“Little difference, when it comes t’ ordering you two around.”

Resuming our stroll, Quinn fell quiet.

“We have to find a way,” I said after a few moments.

“Aye.”

“And soon.”

“Aye, no doubt.”

I glanced over. “Today, even.”

“Right.”

Taking a large step, I moved in front, turning to walk backwards

facing him. “Where can we take her? We can’t just leave her at your

house. It’s the first place Father’ll look.”

“Way ahead o’you.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She’s already gone,” he said, a tiny grin crooking one corner of his

mouth. “First thing this mornin’—”

The clout landed hard against his shoulder before he could finish.

“Quinn, how could you! You moved her without telling me? Without

even letting me know?”

“Calm down, will ye? What’dj’ think I came here for?”

“Yes, after the fact.” I knotted my arms, looking away.

“We thought it best,” he said in a quieter voice. When I looked up

he said, “Mother and I were worried your Father might not react well.

So we suggested perhaps she’d be better off in a safer place,

somewhere your father wouldn’t know about.”

“And where’s that?”

He returned my gaze, but said nothing.

“You’re not going to tell me? Bleeding Christ!” This time my foot

stamped in earnest. “I want to see her. I want to know she’s all right.”

“She is.” Warm sturdy hands wrapped around my upper arms.

“Trust me, it’s best she ‘as a bit o’ time away, just on ‘er own. With

Mother lookin’ after ‘er, a’course.”

This did not feel good at all. In fact it felt awful. Not that I didn’t

believe him, or thought it wasn’t a good plan. Except where Father—

never mind the rest of the family—was concerned. “Just what am I

58 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter

supposed to tell everyone? That she’s up and run away in the middle of

the night?”

“If ye like. Whatever’ll keep ‘em happy.”

Nearly did I clout him again. “And just how long will this little

sojourn be?” Quinn was trying to help, I knew he was, but for some

reason this whole thing made me agitated, even irrational.

“A week, perhaps, maybe a fortnight.”

“No,” I said flatly. “It cannot be that long. Father will never stand

for it. He’ll have the constable after you and your mother for

kidnapping.”

“Aye, will ‘e now? An’ what happens when we tell the constable ‘e’s

been abusing his daughter, an’ show ‘em the proof?”

My mouth clamped shut on that one.

“We wouldn’t do it, a’course,” Quinn said more softly, “unless we

absolutely had to. It mightn’t bode well for the young lass.”

“True. So then, we’re back to where we started.”

“Not exactly.”

“Why not?”

The tiny grin stole back into the corner of his mouth.

“Quarantine,” he said, pleased as a bird with a worm.

At once my heart leapt and my stomach dropped. “And how would

you manage that?”

“Mother’s close friends with a local doctor, Henry Kirkendoll. A

word t’ him and all’s good.”

I pressed my lips together and frowned. “You really think it’d

work?”

“We have to try.”

Another moment passed. Then I gave a firm nod. “Let’s do it.”

~End of excerpt~

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by Karen R. Thorne