Never Tell a Soul, Damon Priest

2. the neighbors

Geneva winced as she pulled her stockings up one leg. For the second time, she fell into one of the traps in the woods last night. She had always heard stories of the Stratford children making traps for each other. Who, in their sane minds, would build something to hurt someone?

Only the devil.

She sighed as she tied the stocking in place and stood before the mirror, staring at her dress, making sure the sleeves were not askew. Aunt Deborah disliked it whenever her clavicles showed. Then she put on her bonnet, resting on top of her head. Not too much to the right, nor to the left. Center just as Aunt Prudence liked it.

She turned, smiling when her blue dress swerved in a perfect circle around her. For the rest of the day, they would stay down because showing her stockinged ankles was not proper. Walking to her table, she picked up the folded piece of paper. It was sealed with one name written outside.

Constance Vernon.

She gathered her coins and dropped them in her purse, along with the letter. Then she picked up her bible.

Running her gloved hands over her skirt one more time, Geneva squared her shoulders and sauntered downstairs where the three mistresses of the Withers House were already waiting.

"While it's necessary for a woman to be graceful, dear, it's not proper that she be late," Aunt Deborah said, already turning toward the door.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, jaw tight as she tried not to limp. Her right ankle was still sore. And the scratches hurt. As she followed her three great-aunts into the carriage, she wondered why shallow wounds hurt more; that if the skin felt more than any other parts of the body, why did God design it to be outside where it could feel everything?

The four of them climbed into the carriage, always taking the same spot, always silent. At first, at least, before her aunts could find anything worth mentioning. Like the Stratfords.

It would always be a murmured comment. There would be no discussion over how Simone Priest's hat looked horrid, if not improper, inside the house of God. No, her aunts were too kind to dwell into such shallow things. It was just that the young woman's hat looked horrible and improper.

And if they could find nothing to comment on, Aunt Deborah would spend the remaining few seconds to remind Geneva of her manners. "They always play tricks on you because you provide them the reaction they want."

She meant Roxie Stratford and Freda Matson, of course, the youngest of the Stratford cousins.

"They're children, so you must be patient," said Aunt Barbara.

"And they're Stratfords," murmured Aunt Prudence beside her. "You'll end up the enemy if you allow them to get the better of you."

Aunt Deborah looked at her with a kind smile. "Do you remember that day they placed a frog inside that purse of yours? You screamed loud enough for a deaf man to hear you."

Geneva shifted in her seat and moistened her lips. "I did not mean to."

"You sounded angry, Geneva. I almost did not recognize you."

She bit her lips. "I will do my best in the future."

Aunt Deborah's eyes went to her purse tied around her wrist. "If you're not too fond of taking that thing with you, it would not have happened in the first place."

Geneva instinctively hid the purse in the skirt of her dress.

"Leave that in the carriage," Aunt Deborah ordered. "What do you have inside that thing, anyway?"

Her jaw went tight as she pulled the purse off her wrist and placed it behind her.

Aunt Barbara reached for her hand and squeezed. "Good girl. You are not like the Stratfords. You have grace and control. You are you."