Never Tell a Soul, Damon Priest

22. the grief

She went away in peace. At least that's all her aunts told her. It was the only thing Geneva hung on to in the days that followed.

Her Aunt Prudence said that before she passed, Deborah asked for Geneva.

"But it was too late," was all Prudence said.

"You could have written to me. I would have left everything to go to Birth," she had said.

Her aunt, whose anger over everything she had been doing while they were away was still palpable, stared at her. "I doubt that, Geneva. You were having too much fun here."

"But I would have—"

It was her Aunt Barbara who sternly interjected, saying, "Get ready."

She tried to understand they lost their sister. That they were not the best with grief. But it was wrong of them to think she would have not come to Birth.

They left her here.

And yet you spent your days with people they dislike. You did the very things they would have disapproved of. You've been thinking about nothing but yourself.

You rushed your letters because they felt like a chore.

The voice in her head would not leave her in peace as she stood to watch Aunt Deborah's coffin lowered into the earth.

This time, she could not help her tears. Even when she stood with her aunts, who wore their faces tightly, their eyes dry. It started in small sniffles, grew into choking sounds, until she was shaking, hands clasped tight before her. She cried where she stood, alone between the two remaining Withers Sisters, surrounded by a sea of black.

Nearly all of Abberton was there to pay their respects. The Stratfords, the Poppets. Everyone who went to church with them. Even the Vernons.

She knew they were watching her. And she could feel her mother's eyes on her as she wiped her tears. But they did not dare approach. Her aunts were two stiff soldiers beside her.

"Master yourself, Geneva," her Aunt Barbara whispered when her crying continued.

For once, she did not try. How could she hold it all in? How could they hold it in?

The worst part was after the funeral. The three of them were in the parlor, spending a quiet time after hours of prayer. Geneva's eyes were swollen, her nose still read as she absently stared at the gentle fire.

Her secret was out. Her aunts now knew what she had been up to. They had not yet discussed it with her after that evening they caught her. Was she a horrible person because the fear that was supposed to eat her alive was no longer there? Yes, she was worried about the things they may do—of the punishment they shall give, but there was also the relief that she would no longer have to crack her brain thinking of ways to tell them.

Drawing her away from her thoughts, her Aunt Barbara said, "She had always been looking forward to your letters."

The words crushed whatever comfort she may have summoned within her.

"Every day, she would ask if a letter has arrived from Abberton."

Her tears spilled hotly out of her eyes like the guilt that rose to her throat. She could have spent more time with those letters. Had she not been too distracted, she would have written more about the plants in the garden, the clouds in the skies Aunt Deborah liked so much. Maybe she should have also written about the food she cooked with Helene. Or about the creaks on the floorboards in the parlor. There were so many things she could have written about if she wanted to.