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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Gabe sent Lizzie and Hanny into the parlor and escorted me into his study. He still wore his travel clothes and smelt of Thompson cigars and coffee. If I had been more considerate and less anxious, I might have paused to ask him if he wanted to change, but I was not. As soon as the doors to his study were closed I began speaking, "What is it you must say to me? No one will speak frankly to me and I am so afraid—"
He held up a hand. "Why don't you take a seat and I'll see about a pot of tea."
I wanted neither of those things. "Gabe, I am tired of being lied to—"
"We shall go about this my way, Merritt, or we shall not go about it at all." He sighed and crossed the room to stand before me. He cupped my shoulders in his hands and gently applied pressure until I collapsed, quite clumsily, into my usual armchair. When that was accomplished, he went back to the door and rang the small bell meant to summon Mrs. Zanderfield.
I watched with great impatience as he laid out the checkerboard between us and chose his color. I found that my hands were shaking, unable to cease trembling even long enough to stack the red chips. At one point he reached across the table and placed his hand on my wrist. "Merritt, you need not be afraid. You're safe with me. I swear it."
I did not respond, merely settled into my chair and let him finish with the board. Mrs. Zanderfield brought tea and a tray of treats. Gabe poured both of us a cup but neither of us touched the pastries. For a long time, the only sound in the room was the clink of his spoon against the china bowl of his teacup. When I thought I could no longer constrain myself I said, "Gabe, you must speak. I cannot go on like this."
He smiled wryly at me and lowered his cup. "Perhaps we should begin the game then."
"Perhaps we should begin this conversation. You must speak frankly to me. No one else will."
"What is it you wish me to say?"
I sighed. "I don't know. Everyone is lying to me and saying such confusing things."
"Like what?"
"So many things. Just yesterday Desmott was accusing you of—"
"Why should you place more trust in Leviathan Desmott than in us?"
I pointed a finger at him, he had unintentionally just proved my point. "When have you heard him called by that name? I was only ever introduced to him as Levi. Why does the name Leviathan fall from everyone's lips when it should not? Why was he so appalled that I would know it? And why did I know it?"
Gabe smiled. "You always were too clever for your own good."
"And that as well," I said. "Everyone speaks so cryptically as if they know more of me than I do."
He just smiled at that, a tight-lipped grin that was sad and, just the smallest bit, worried.
I pushed forward. "I no longer know who I can trust, which way to turn. To whom I should speak and to whom I should not. The world, my world, has always had rules but just the other day a man asked to call me by my first name and I let him because it felt solid and nothing has felt solid in so very long—"
