She couldn’t have looked more guilty if she tried. She dropped the diary on the floor and stood staring at me, while I tried to get the words “What do you think you’re doing?” out of my mouth. Before I could, she found her tongue, and started babbling:
“It was blue! You told me to find your big blue notebook, and I saw this first, and I thought, well, that’s blue, so I picked it up, and I knew it was too small, but I picked it up anyway, and when I opened it to be sure I had the wrong one I saw my name, and then I started reading—I know I shouldn’t have; I could tell it was a diary and diaries are private, but Uncle told me to read your letters—”
“He told you to what?”
Cora reddened and stood rigid, her shoulders up by her ears. “To read your letters. And to tell him if you told anyone anything about the tablets, or if you said anything unkind or suspicious about him.”
I felt like someone had torn my skin off, exposing every nerve ending. “You’ve been spying on me.”
“Not just you,” Cora said. “Kudshayn, too. Except he hasn’t been writing any letters, so I don’t think that counts—”
My palm slapped the wall before I realized I was moving, silencing her. I had no patience just then for her hair-splitting. “All this time. You’ve pretended to be our friend, to be helping us—”
“I was helping you—Uncle told me to—”
“Damn your uncle!” It came out a shout. I wrestled my voice down with effort, because even then, I didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to bring the entire household running to gawk. “And damn you, too. You’re a liar, Cora. You never told me he was a Calderite.”
Her jaw clenched hard. “You never asked. I would have told you if you asked, though you would have had to explain, because I didn’t understand the word ‘Calderite’ until I read your diary.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?” My body creaked with the strain as I stalked toward her. “You aren’t my friend, Cora. Friends don’t spy on each other—don’t work behind each other’s backs for their own profit.”
She stood her ground, hands bunching into fists. “I’m not profiting! I’m just doing what Uncle told me to. But him telling me to spy on you wasn’t honest, and—”
“And if I hadn’t caught you red-handed,” I spat, “would you have confessed any of this to me?”
Cora’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.
I don’t remember what I said after that. I know that it turned back into shouting, and the maids did come running after all, but by the time they got there I was shoving Cora out of my room and slamming the door; I have no idea what she told them. Kudshayn showed up not long after that and sat with me while I gasped the whole thing out to him, breathing even worse than he was, because all I could think about was the personal things I’ve said in my letters, to Lotte, to Papa, to Mama, and the even more personal things I’ve said in my diary. Things Cora has read, and told Gleinleigh about.
Once I calmed down, Kudshayn went to talk to Cora. I think he hoped it would all turn out to be some kind of misunderstanding. But it isn’t, and he spent the rest of the day down in the cellar—I think he was praying. Because the earth is where you go when you need to be protected.
I don’t feel safe anywhere here anymore, below ground or above. Stokesley feels like a trap now, and I can’t even write to anyone for help, because Cora can swear all she like that she’s going to stop reading my post and lie to her uncle, telling him that I’m not saying anything interesting, but I don’t believe her. I can’t. Because I trusted her, and this is what I got.
Twice now. Twice I’ve been s
I’ve told her to go away. She still lives here, of course, but I’m damned if I’m going to let her work with us anymore. Kudshayn and I can manage just fine on our own.
TEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY
From: Cora Fitzarthur
To: Miranda Brell
Dear Miranda,
Before I went away you said I must write to you. I don’t know whether you meant that sincerely, or whether you only said that because it’s the sort of thing people are expected to say when someone goes to live somewhere else. I asked Mrs. Hilleck, the housekeeper here, and she said that of course you meant it. But I’m not sure how she can know that when she has never met you. When I said that to her, she got angry with me and said that only ungrateful little girls don’t write when someone has asked them to. I don’t want to be ungrateful, so I will write you this letter, and if you didn’t actually want me to then you can tear it up or burn it or whatever you like.
Stokesley is a very grand house, much grander than mine the one I used to live in. It is not in the town itself, which is called Lower Stoke; it is a little way out into the countryside, with lots of fields and a little wood nearby, and it has some gardens that are very nice. The barn is falling down because Uncle does not like to ride and doesn’t keep any horses, so he says he will tear that down and build a greenhouse instead. I looked up what a greenhouse is, and it is a building made of glass so you can grow flowers even in the winter. That sounds nice, too, though I doubt Uncle cares very much about flowers.
Is this a good letter? I cannot tell. I have only ever written short thank-you notes, and those only when Mama made me. Uncle has a very good library, so I looked in it for examples of letters, but the only ones he has are from hundreds of years ago. They are written with very bad spelling and lots of words I do not know. I don’t think I should use them for examples. Rebecca, who is one of the maids here, said there are novels full of wonderful letters where people pour their hearts out to each other, but Uncle doesn’t have any novels in his library—maybe that means it isn’t as good as I thought? Rebecca says she will borrow one from the circulating library in Upper Stoke when she has her next day off. But I’m not sure whether I am supposed to pour my heart out to you, or whether you want me to. It sounds painful, the way Rebecca describes it.
I do not know what else to say, so I will end here. If you do not want me writing to you after all, then send me a note to say so. Otherwise I will write again.
Sincerely,
Cora
Dear Miranda,
I have not gotten a note from you asking me not to send you letters, so here is another one.
Rebecca (the maid) keeps telling me I may cry on her shoulder if I wish. I do not wish. I am fairly sure Mrs. Hilleck thinks I am an ungrateful brat because I’m not sobbing over Mama and Papa, but just because I am not sobbing doesn’t mean I’m not sad. The truth is that I am sad all the time, from the moment I wake up until I go to sleep, and probably in my sleep, too, except I don’t remember my dreams. It simply doesn’t seem right that I will never see them again. It is one thing when people get killed because they have done something stupid, like fighting in a war or travelling to a foreign country, but they were on a train from Falchester. People ride the train from Falchester all the time and don’t die. It isn’t their fault that something went wrong with the track and the train derailed and killed them. Why should they be dead for something that isn’t their fault? That isn’t fair!