Geneva Withers had never told a lie, but that did not mean she had no secrets. Just like tonight.

As she toed down the dark corridors with a gaslight in hand, the floorboards creaked. But not too much. The house was in pristine condition because its mistresses would not have it any less. It was their own beautiful palace. And someday, it would be hers as well.

For as long as she could remember, Geneva was often told that she was in a fairytale. She was the poor little girl whisked away by three fairy godmothers to live in their palace, where she learned how to be a princess who would someday meet her prince.

The first part was rather true. She was poor, and she was little, and she considered her mother's three aunts as her fairy godmothers. The second part of her fairytale, however, was not quite close to reality. She never learned how to be a princess because she was not one and she would never be. And there was no prince. No. Not in Abberton, at least.

As she grew older, and as the verses of the bible were engraved into her soul by her three great-aunts, Geneva realized she was not becoming the princess the three women wanted her to be. Every day, it seemed that she was becoming more of a disappointment. Every hour, every minute. Every breath.

It was like walking on hot coals. Every day, she had to be careful with each painful step. She had to be perfect. She could not make a single mistake. Because if she did, they would send her away.

Like her grandfather.

Like her grandmother.

"It runs in the blood," her great-aunt Prudence would always say as part of her bedtime stories. "Even your mother was not spared of it."

Many years ago, her mother lost control of her emotions. She was enticed by the devil. And that man was her father. They lived a life of sin and gave birth to her.

But Geneva was saved. And for that, she was grateful. Her great-aunts were nothing but wonderful to her. Even now, they never showed their disappointment at her lack of marriage prospect at twenty-eight. Not that there was any chance, of course, because by Abberton standard, Geneva was a spinster.

Perhaps it was better. If she had the potential to be like her mother, then she was better off safe and alone. Her great-aunts would leave her everything as they promised. So long as she stayed pure and good, she would never bring evil into this world.

"They had evil within them," said great-aunt Deborah. "Our father—rest his soul. And then Adeline, our dear sister—your grandmother. And then her own daughter—your mother. Do you understand now, Geneva? You can be like them if your faith is not strong. Never stray into the devil's path."

Geneva's grandmother, her great-aunts' youngest sister, moved away when she married one of their servants. Her daughter, Geneva's mother, Constance, was raised in a private school for girls in Strait, paid for by her grandfather, the baron. Everyone expected her to be different from her mother. They were greatly disappointed, of course, because Constance met the man who brought out her disease. Pregnant and married to a nobody, she went far away. But her disease ultimately consumed her, and she died when Geneva was only two.

All of Abberton only knew that Geneva was orphaned and that the three rich and unmarried (one widowed) daughters of the rich baron took her in, as any family should. Then they changed her name from Geneva Vernon to Geneva Withers.

But one Christmas changed it all. That was fifteen years ago, when Geneva was eleven. She was hiding in one of the unused bedrooms, reading a novel she was not supposed to, one her good friend Theresa gave her in secret during church service. It was an ordinary day—quiet and calm, as it always was in the Withers household.

Sitting by the window where the light was generous, Geneva happened to look out and saw them. They were waiting outside with a package wrapped in white cloth. They talked to the servant who greeted them, then walked away with one last glance at the door. Next Christmas, Geneva saw them again. This time, they were with a boy. They carried the same cloth-covered parcel. And unlike the previous time, Geneva could hear them when they asked if they could see Geneva. But the maid refused, saying Geneva was indisposed. For many more Christmases, they came back. Sometimes they would bring the same boy, who grew taller every time, and other times they would bring all three. And like before, they were never invited inside. They would come, and they would leave, and Geneva would never know the contents of the parcels.

She did not know why she never told anyone she knew about the short visits. Perhaps because deep inside, she knew the answer.

But one day, Geneva saw them in the market by chance. She was twenty by then and was finally allowed to venture out on her own. And seeing them up close, she knew. She knew it was them.

Her parents.

She had her mother's black hair and gray eyes. Just like her Aunt Prudence said.

They seemed different from what she imagined. For one, her mother was alive. And Constance Vernon did not look like she was sad. No. She seemed happy as she walked on the side of the street with her three sons. She even laughed at something one of them said. And Theodore Vernon did not look like the monster her great-aunts described. He laughed, and he walked with an arm around his oldest son.

And their sons... They were laughing. They looked...happy. And they had grown so tall. How old were they? They playfully punched each other while their mother tried to stop them. They ran down the street like the unruly Stratford children.

And it made Geneva wonder. How long had they been in Abberton?

Of course, deep inside, Geneva knew. She knew they had always been here.

All along.

Her curiosity ate at her since that day she saw them. Their laughing faces would haunt her dreams. She would search for them in church, but they were never there. Once, she asked her aunts if they could attend a different church. They refused, of course, and she never asked again. There was no use. The three Withers Sisters, as what all of Abberton referred to them, were too obsessed with their routine.

She searched whenever she could. Yet, she never saw them again.

But one day, she dared ask someone. It was the most daring thing she had ever done: finally saying her mother's name alone. It almost twisted her tongue, but she managed to get it out. "Do you happen to know someone named Constance Vernon?"

She had asked the butcher. They always knew everybody. And this man did not fail her.

"Of course, Miss! They Vernons provide me the best meat!" But that was not the only information she got. The butcher told her where they lived. "Just on the other side of the Stratford woods, Miss."

For a while, Geneva thought that was enough. But it was not. She needed to know more. She wanted more.

She wanted to see them.

But how? She was so afraid to leave the house and do something forbidden.

Her first attempt was an utter failure. Her heart started thudding against her chest, and she feared she may be suffering from the same disease her aunts told her about. The one she might have if she did was not careful. She went home and prayed for forgiveness.

But curiosity was persistent, and she tried again weeks later. She could not go far because, just as she entered the woods, she heard the Stratfords shouting at each other from different directions. On her third try, she fell into a trap and tended on her wound in secret. On her fourth try, she almost got caught by her Aunt Barbara. And so it was that she decided to go out only when everyone else was asleep.

And that was tonight.

Five months and eighteen days. That's how long she had been trying.

She slipped through the front doors because no one truly suspected anyone to go out in the dead of night, especially the obedient Miss Geneva Withers. The roads were silent as they often were after the clock struck eight. But to be careful, Geneva wore a dark coat and hat. She had heard enough stories of women slipping out of their homes at night to do sinful acts. She was not one of them, of course, but still... people liked to talk and make up something to fill the gaps in their stories.

Her favorite road, the one lined with trees at both sides, their branches arching toward each other as if holding hands in a dance, was often called the Stratford Road. It was not its official name, of course, for it had none, but the Stratford children had always infested the place (even the trees) with their presence since anyone could remember. They played there together or with friends, even had occasional picnics. And when they were older, Geneva heard that the older Stratford cousins had, on more than one occasion, been found sleeping under the trees after a night of drinking. They had no sense to find their way to their beds, but at least thought of tethering their horses.

She shook her head as she crossed the tunnel of trees, breaking rays of moonlight with each stride. And like her many attempts before, her heart began to race against her ribcage. And again, she stopped, eyes wide as she gulped. She was doing something evil and she should be punished for it. She was given a good life and she was risking it all for—what? Mere curiosity?

Her feet moved, turning to retrace her steps. Then stop. But how could she not? Her aunts had been keeping this secret from her for twenty-eight years. Why? How evil could her parents be for them to keep her away from them? Should she not see for herself? Of course, she should. After all, she was their firstborn.

No. This was no sin. She just wanted to see.

Turning on her heels, she continued walking. She could hear her aunts in her head. They sounded disappointed. And she could picture the look on their faces. No, they would understand, she thought. Surely, they would.

But they had warned her of this. They told her of their fear that someday she would begin to act like her mother and grandmother. Like her grandfather. That she would succumb to her desires and drown in thick emotions.

No, Geneva thought. She had no other desire but to please her aunts and live the words of God. And she had no desire to show herself to her parents. She just wanted to see.

But see what?

Her steps halted as hot tears brimmed her eyes.

See what?

The fruits of their sinful ways?

Their poor life?

Their happiness?

She covered her face with her hands and wept because she wanted this too much. But she knew the right thing. And that was to go home. Back in her bed. Back to prayers.

And so she did. She turned away from the direction of the woods.

And stopped again.

She was being a coward.

No, no, no. She continued walking home. She was brave. She was walking away from temptation.

No, you're just walking back to what is safe. To what they want. Not what you want.

She stopped, growing frustrated by each second. A part of her wished someone was with her to tell her what to do. To push her to cross the path toward the woods, tell her she had no choice but to continue. But she had no one. No one but her aunts. None since Theresa stopped being her friend after that afternoon with the Withers Sisters.

Geneva moistened her lips, squared her shoulders, hand tight around the gaslight. She looked at the woods before her and silently murmured for forgiveness. She took one step forward. Then another.

Then she ran before she hesitated again. And at that moment, as her lungs demanded for more air, and her legs began to ache, she realized that there was no turning back. She was committing a sin. She was giving in to selfish desires. Yet it felt the opposite.

Somewhere in the Withers house, her three great-aunts were asleep. Innocent of her little adventure.

She bit on a smile as she ran and entered the Stratford woods.

Her heart pranced against her ribcage and she gasped for air, a giggle escaping her lips for the first time.

She looked around and felt nothing close to fear.

It was quite exhilarating.

Freeing.

She knew she would regret this, but it would only be days later, precisely on a Sunday, in front of Damon Stratford Priest, that Geneva would learn the consequences of her sins.