The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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Rosie was adamant that I explain what had taken place between Desmott and myself. She followed me into the kitchen and bombarded me with questions while I gathered bandages. Desmott still sat in the parlor with Hanny where, judging by the look on her face when I excused myself from the parlor, they surely must have a lot to say to one another. I felt lost, drowning in my own questions with no one to turn to.
Rosie certainly had her own questions. "I saw you arguing with Levi. What about?"
I grabbed a small roll of gauze and a few cotton pads. "We were not arguing, merely having a conversation."
"You were arguing, I saw you. No need denying it."
"Desmott and I were not arguing. I swear it. We went on a stroll and he was advising me on—" I hesitated and it was enough to reignite Rosie's interest.
"On what?"
I cleared my throat, stalling for time as I tried to come up with a feasible lie. "On what I should do once my treatment with Dr. Abaddon has finished."
"Is that something that is happening?" Rosie's lips curled up in a pretty feminine smile. She kept her tone easy, as if we were discussing a new dress pattern. "I did not believe that murder was permissible, much less curable."
I walked past her, my hands full of supplies.
She followed me, keeping so close to me that the fabric of our skirts rubbed. "Well? Come now, Miss Holbrook, I know you must have something to say for yourself. Or perhaps this is you finally fessing up to burning your family alive. Shall I call the constable?"
My hands were shaking and I knew that if I did not separate myself from her I would perhaps do something I would regret.
"You planned it all very well, making sure that the handsome young gentleman was not in the house when you set it ablaze. Were you in love with him? How sad it must have been for you when you were locked up and he found someone else to marry—"
I turned on my heels, dropping the bandages in my haste, and shoved her. Two pictures and a small glass dove figurine fell from the shelf next to where her head hit the wall. It caused a loud bang and I could hear Desmott and Hanny leave the parlor to investigate. I let go of Rosie's shoulders and stepped back. Her eyes were wide and she was looking at me as if I'd lost my mind—perhaps I had. I knew, despite this being the opposite of what I wanted, that I had only solidified in her mind that I was a killer.
Desmott rounded the corner at the end of the hall. "What happened?" Rosie's entire countenance changed from shocked to dramatically afraid of me. She scrambled away from me and into his arms. Rosie wailed into his chest. "She hit me. She shoved me against the wall like some mad woman and hit me."
He held her against his chest and turned his gaze up to me. "What happened?" He repeated.
Rosie's small fist clasped the front of his shirt and tugged his attention back down to her. "I have already told you. She hit me." Rosie turned and cast me a dark look over her shoulder.
