Never Tell a Soul, Damon Priest

19. the afterparty

"You committed a grave sin against them," Roxie guessed.

Geneva pursed her lips, but continued to keep mum. The girl had hooked her arm around hers since they started their walk through the woods and up the hill. Harry and the earl had gone ahead in a carriage with all the food they cooked to take the longer route to the Vernons. "No," Geneva said, attempting to escape Roxie's hold, but the girl tightened her arm and stayed attached to her hip.

"Maybe when you were a child, you were like us. You played a prank on them," Freda said, kicking a pebble as she walked.

"No."

"Did you hurt one of their cows?"

"Stole eggs from their hens?"

"No," she said before she let out a frustrated sigh. "All your guesses are wrong."

Roxie looked up at her with a calculating look on her face. "You're keeping an enormous secret. I saw it in your face that day Matthew carried you on his back."

"And you're both prying," Damon's voice said from behind before he tore Roxie away from Geneva's arm. "Leave Miss Geneva alone."

Roxie joined Freda ahead of them. The two hooked arms and easily shifted their topic to the new play they were writing together. Up ahead, just three dots on the road, walked Lydia, Price and Gale.

Without a word, Damon took her hand in his. He didn't have to say anything. They already talked about what may happen, and what may not, and both concluded that they should just let things be.

The journey down the hill felt surreal. She had never traveled that road, although she considered it every time she visited Windsong. She felt stupid when her legs started to shake while the rest of the Stratfords walked on with steady steps, as if they had done this hundreds of times. Which may be true, considering their relationship with the Vernons.

Just at the foot of the hill, a small village emerged. Stone fences lined the street, separating the cottages like the box of spiders Roxie and Freda once showed her. The cottages themselves were made of stone and clay, ranging from small to medium. There was also the constant noise of farm animals—chicken, ducks, cattle, pigs and even dogs.

They traversed the dirt path and arrived at a small stone cottage with a barn. Outside by the road was the earl's carriage. In the yard was a long table covered in two different cloths. Chairs of different sort and colors surrounded it. At the head sat the earl, and to his right, Theodore Vernon himself. Harry was nearby, talking to another guest.

The two men turned at their arrival. "There they are," said the earl, chuckling as Roxie and Lydia ran to him with a bunch of wild flowers they picked along the road. "Find somewhere to put it, my dears. Mrs Vernon is inside. Greet her a happy birthday."

Theodore Vernon stood and greeted Damon, and then her, Geneva, with a warm smile. "Thank you for coming. Please, find your seats. Anywhere is fine."

Geneva was quiet, her eyes glued to her father as he continued his conversation with the earl. "Feeling alright?" Damon asked, chewing on a pear he took from the center of the table.

She nodded stiffly, smiling despite the rampage in her chest. Under the table, he closed his hand over hers and squeezed as he turned to say to Mr Vernon, "Have you thought of my offer, Sir?"

The man simply laughed. "It's Matthew you should talk to."

"Well, he's been making it sound like I need to talk to you."

"You misunderstand. He is free to do whatever he wishes."

Damon's reply was drowned by the muffled chatters and laughter inside the cottage. She recognized Roxie and Freda's voice, as well as Lydia's. There was also Matthew's. And a woman's voice—not one she had heard before. One she knew even just hearing it for the first time. The voice sounded cheerful as she talked and gave orders. Her laughter in response to what Lydia said almost made Geneva stand. To go to her. To glimpse her face.