“I… I notice things,” I admitted, because lying in that moment felt like stepping onto thin ice.
She laughed softly. “Good. You should. Not everyone here sees clearly.”
Her hand brushed mine as if by accident. A spark raced up my arm. I pulled my fingers back as though the contact had burned me.
“Be careful,” she murmured, and I couldn’t tell if it was a warning for herself or for me.
Inside, the air was cooler, but it was a colder cool, like marble. I delivered linens down the hallway, each step measured. In the parlor, Miss Sarah Cross sat near a window with a sketchbook in her lap. She was seventeen, sharp as a needle, and bored in the way only the sheltered can afford to be.
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