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“Zane Bradford!” Her horrified cry breaks on a laugh.
A grand piano sits in the corner, and a balcony circles the room above us with bookshelves full of books lining the walls.
Thick beige silk and satin curtains cover the windows, and she slides her hand down a sheer moving it aside.
“Would you like it to be decorated?”
Her lips press together, and her brow furrows. “I don’t have Christmas decorations. They always seemed too risky to me.”
“I agree.”
“Do you think it would be okay to have only lights on the tree? Is that boring?”
“I think it would be beautiful.” Rachel’s soft voice joins us in the room, and my body tenses. “What made you decide to get a tree?”
My eyes move over her hair hanging long down her back with little pieces curling around her chin and jaw. She’s wearing peach-colored wide-legged overalls with a thin, long-sleeved shirt underneath.
She’s seemed slightly on edge since we were at the stables yesterday, and she’s been very focused on talking to Dylan. Mylittle sister, by contrast, has been slammed getting ready for the Christmas program.
“I’m sure it’s old-lady sentimentality, but I feel like I’m missing out on something important.” Miss Gina’s lips press into a half-smile, and it’s the closest I’ve ever seen her get to unhappiness. “Something the whole world joins in together.”
“You’re not being left out this year.” Rachel steps closer, sliding her hand through the old woman’s arm. “We’ll make this place look and smell so good, it’ll be like Santa’s workshop.”
“Don’t add anything besides a tree, though.” Miss Gina’s brow furrows.
I take a step closer. “Don’t worry. I know the rules.”
“Hmm…” She pats her bony finger against her thin lips. “Is Edward in the garden? I think I have a job for him.”
“Want me to walk you?” Rachel takes her hand.
“No, no!” Miss Gina lifts it, waving her away. “I can find him. You two stay here and sort out the details.”
She scurries away in her long, beige cardigan, and my eyes move to Rachel. She seems almost afraid to look at me, but eventually she tears her eyes away from the direction our employer went.
Her chin dips before she looks up at me through thick lashes. “I think she did that on purpose.”
“What would be the purpose?” Her body feels too close, so I take a step away.
“She’s an old lady. Old ladies love to play matchmaker.” Rachel turns and walks to the wall of mahogany bookshelves. “Just look at these old things. Aren’t they amazing?”
She slides out a small, fabric-bound tome, lifting it to her nose before turning it in her hands.
I look up at the skylight far overhead. “No telling what all’s on these shelves.”
“Silas Marner.” She opens the cover and reads aloud. “The Weaver of Raveloe. It has handwriting inside. Look.”
Excited eyes meet mine, and I relent, walking over to seewhat she wants to show me. On the front page in a shaky old cursive, it says Tuesday and Thursday.
“I didn’t think you were allowed to write in textbooks.”
“I wonder if it’s Miss Gina’s. Maybe she was homeschooled since she’s blind. This could be her tutor’s handwriting.”
“Maybe.” It looks older than that to me.
“Oh, look!The Black Stallion.” She pulls out another hardcover edition with gold print and turns it in her hand. “Edward might like to read this.”
My eyes drift from the book to the curve of Rachel’s cheek. A soft peach color is on the top of them, and I can smell the grape candy in her mouth.
