Black Locust Letters by Nicolette Jinks

serious, and he stood behind
Charles, leaving Betty to stare after him.
    Her
eyes slid down his form. Where before she had only seen him as
lanky, now she saw him as sinewy. His movements were graceful, and
when the wind blew his cape to the side, she saw that beneath his
clothes, he had sculpted muscles, the work of a martial artist or a
runner rather than a heavy lifter. She found herself wondering what
it would be like to grasp that body close to hers, how it would
feel to move with hers and in her. A blush again covered her
cheeks, but this time it was out of shame rather than
embarrassment. She wouldn't entertain any more thoughts like that.
Where the head went, so did the body. So she wouldn't let her head
have any more leeway.
    Minutes later, the wagon turned down the road which would run
perpendicular to her own street. Though she'd intended to instruct
them to let her off at the end of her street, the horses already
began their turn and it was not long before they came to a
snorting, tail-switching stop in front of her house. Clarkin
returned, looking at her a little sheepishly.
    “ I
did not mean to leave you alone for so long. Charles had a
question.”
    “ It
was quite alright.” What she really wanted to say was that it had
been necessary, that it was for the best.
    Clarkin reached to help her stand, eyes gleaming. “There are
no lights on in your house. If you live alone, it might be best on
a night like tonight if you would spend the wildest hours in a safe
café. I can walk you back after.”
    Though it was said lightly, the rush of anticipation coursing
through her body hit her full in the gut. Her instinct for
self-preservation made her pull away. “I am accustomed to wild
nights, and as Charles has said, it is a nice street. My neighbors
are home. I will be fine.”
    Clarkin glanced at the nearby houses, two of which could be
seen couples with their infants in chairs before their fires, and
he slowly nodded. “And your walls are thin, I suppose. That is
good.”
    He
jumped over the wagon's side to help her climb down, then escorted
her once more through the garden gate and to her door. It took her
an embarrassing minute to find her keys, which had slid into the
lining of her clutch, and when she opened the door, she said,
“Thank you for watching out for me this evening.
Good-bye.”
    Clarkin's face fell. “Good-bye, not good night, or until next
time?”
    “ Decapitaria Hannah. I'm General Bernard Cratchet's daughter.
I can't be seen with Never Weres.”
    “ I'm
fine with cloak and dagger games. Adds to the excitement to use the
back door,” he said with a wink.
    His
roguish charm strummed her body into fire again, but his blatant
disregard for her will made Betty's words harsh. “Good-bye,
Hannah.”
    She
felt the stab of regret as she stepped through the door and shut it
firmly. Love had already made her its toy once before. She wouldn't
do it again.
    Not
even when her heart stung when she heard the front gate open and
shut, this time without a cheerful whistle. He might be gone for
good this time. Why didn't that make her feel relieved?

     
    Betty lay on her single mattress which was flat on the floor,
without a bed frame or more than one lumpy pillow. She'd recently
made a lacy throw using shell stitches, and this she pulled up to
her face, nuzzling it for comfort while she stared out the crack in
the curtains, where she could see the pinpricks of
stars.
    She
was unable to sleep.
    For
the first time since she had moved on her own, she found the place
lonely and the silence stifling. Memories she had tried to shove
away encroached on her again. Ghosts of the past. Circumstances she
had tried to push away from her mind even while she bore their
lessons first and foremost.
    She
remembered a handsome, chiselled face, as though he were standing
in front of her. James Legrand, who insisted they all call him
Slim, the man who she had trusted with all her heart, and who had
proved unworthy of even