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."

Geneva only nodded. She meant Geneva was not yet like her great-grandfather, her grandmother, or her mother. That she was doing well and that she was not suffering from the same disease of the mind as they did. That she was sane. Still sane.

Geneva tried to relax, allowing herself to feel nothing but calmness. She willed her mind to not think about Roxie and Freda, of what trick they may play on her this time, or if there was any, would she be able to handle it without screaming. Or crying. Or getting angry.

She looked at Aunt Deborah and found the woman still regarding her with a slight frown. Her heart hammered as her hand tightened around her bible.

Aunt Deborah was the eldest and the most perceptive of the three, followed by Aunt Prudence, who was perhaps the gentlest soul Geneva had ever met, then Aunt Barbara who liked to talk about her dear Winson who passed away just mere months after they were married fifty years or so ago.

Geneva's grandmother was their youngest. All of them had gray hair and gray eyes. All were close in age; all slow, but surprisingly active. They were surrounded by an air of confidence, which people said came with age, but Geneva knew came at birth in the case of her three great-aunts. She had never seen them waver in their beliefs, nor had they ever let anyone talk down on them. They were well-respected in Abberton.

They were kind, always helped their neighbors, but they could be stern as well. For some, those traits could be quite confusing. Geneva had always thought they were the most honest people she knew until she found out about their secret.

She was yet to gather her confidence to confront them. And she needed more of that when it came to asking something from her aunts. They would want to know why she was asking. And for now, she could not think of a good reason other than the truth. And that would lead to her confessing what she had been doing for months. That she had gone on secret trips, sneaked out of the house, and even trespassed into the Stratford woods.

The thought of confessing all those to them caused her to shudder. Not that she was afraid of them, of course. Or at least she'd like to think she wasn't. Because she shouldn't. They weren't scary. In fact, they were honest, and she was afraid they would be forced to tell her the truth if she asked. And that was the scary thing.

Why was she with her great-aunts while her brothers were with her parents?

The answer floated in her mind for many days, yet she ignored it.

Until last night, when she suddenly remembered their Christmas visits. If they did not want her, why did they bother trying to see her (supposing they wanted to)? With that thought, she penned the horrible letter. It started with a question and ended with one. In fact, she should have just written a list of questions because there was nothing to say. For all she knew, they may not even understand why she wrote.

When they arrived in front of the church, she was not willing to climb out. For one, she was afraid to leave her purse with the letter inside it. Two, there was a big crowd outside the church. Three, she knew the reason for the crowd: the Duke of Dafield.

Since he and his sisters arrived to visit the Stratfords, this was their first time to attend church in Abberton. Much to every female's dismay, excluding Geneva's, he was not here to find a wife as they first hoped. As gossips would later reveal, he was here hoping to make a match for his sister with the eldest of the Stratford children, Harry Stratford, future Earl of Abberton.

Geneva wondered why Harry Stratford would even bother finding a match. Was he not courting Arabella Poppet? Perhaps she was wrong. Mayhap the pair were just friends after all.

"Geneva," Aunt Deborah called from outside the carriage.

She immediately followed, throwing her purse and bible one last glance. Satisfied that she was walking behind them, the three Withers sisters sashayed through the crowd to find their friends inside the church, while Geneva looked for Parker Bowman.

She found the butcher's son talking to a friend, and smiled when their eyes met, and he acknowledged her presence with a slight nod of respect. He was younger than her, but Geneva liked to think he was a good friend. Whenever she came by their shop, he would always ask how she was. Once, he asked Geneva to pass along a note to a woman across the street, one he was wishing to court. Today, she wished to collect the same favor.

"Geneva," Aunt Prudence called from the doorway.

Geneva jumped and followed her three aunts inside to greet their friends the way they taught her to. And when they motioned to move and take their seats—in the very front of the church—Geneva leaned toward Aunt Deborah and whispered, "I'm sorry, Aunt Deborah, but I forgot my bible."

The woman turned to her with a frown of disbelief. Never had Geneva forgotten her bible on all Sundays (and Wednesdays) they had to attend church. The woman simply nodded. Geneva murmured another apology before she turned and walked out to find their carriage. On her way there, she stopped by Parker Bowman with a smile.

After a hasty good morning to him and his friend, she asked Parker if he could meet her at the back of the church in three minutes. "I have a favor to ask," she explained.

"Of course, Miss Geneva."

She walked away from him and his friend, found their carriage, and explained to the driver that she forgot something. As his attention returned to his fellow drivers, Geneva reached inside the carriage and retrieved the letter from her purse along with the coins, tucking them inside her bible. With another hasty thank you to the driver, she took the path away from the crowd that led to the back of the church.

Once, it had been a garden, but now looked like the garden of the Windsong Manor, the abandoned mansion on top of a hill not far away. The vicar explained that people should be inside the church, not outside. He found no good reason to maintain the piece of land and the overgrown grass that infested it.

Parker was already waiting for her, hands in his pockets, looking absently at the poor view in front of him.

"Too bad we lost the garden here, eh?" he asked Geneva as she approached.

She nodded with a smile, imagining herself walking through the cobbled path, flowers blooming on each side. Stone benches for the old ones and a yard for children to play at. A place of escape before and after service.

"You wanted to ask for a favor, Miss Geneva?" Parker asked.

"Yes," she said, biting her lip. "And I am hoping you keep it a secret."

Parker grinned. "My father may be a gossip, Miss, but I'm not."

"I know, Parker." She opened her bible and took out the letter. "Can you give this to Constance or Theodore Vernon when they come by your shop?"

He blinked down at the letter and smiled, as though she just asked him if he could help her with a piece of veal. "Of course."

"I believe they are good friends with someone I lost contact with. I'm hoping to find that person through them."

He nodded, then frowned. "Can you not have one of your footmen deliver this to them?"

She looked over her shoulder. "No."

It was clear that Parker was curious, but he did not push. "I'll be happy to deliver this to them. They come by every Wednesday. But what if Stephen comes? Can I this to him?"

"Stephen?"

"Their eldest."

Geneva blinked. "O-Of course." She cleared her throat. "And please take this," she said, taking his hand and pushing the coins into his palm.

"Oh, no, please, don't—"

"Please, take it. Please, Parker."

The young man narrowed his eyes at her. Shaking his blond head, he sighed. "Very well."

"Thank—" She froze, eyes wide when she saw two familiar figures stepping out of the bushes with flowers in their hands. Roxie and Freda blinked at her, then at Parker. Then they turned and walked away.

"Miss Geneva?" Parker asked, looking at her with concern. "Are you all right?"

"I—" She grew restless. "Y-Yes. Thank you, Parker. I will see you soon. Have a good day."

"You, too, Miss."

Geneva moved quickly and caught up with Roxie and Freda. "What did you hear?" she asked behind them.

They both jumped in surprise. They looked at her, at each other, and back at her. "Nothing," Freda said, shaking her wavy brown hair. Roxie, who had tight curls, frowned at her and asked, "Why?"

Geneva blinked down at them and pursed her lips. It was not a secret that she disliked them. For as long as Geneva could remember, ever since these two had been allowed to attend church on Sundays, they learned nothing but how to creatively hound anyone they could. And for reasons unknown, Geneva was perhaps their favorite victim.

"You were eavesdropping on me and my friend. What did you hear?"

She stepped forward, and they stepped back. "Nothing."

Her muscles went tight and the familiar rise of heat overwhelmed Geneva. Suddenly she remembered the first time she found a bug dangling in her hair. She cried out in alarm then, and found them snickering behind her. At first, she did not think it was them. Until it became clear that they were the culprits because she caught them many times.

She should be familiar with the emotions these two evoked. And she should have mastered them by now. But this time, it was different. The powerful feeling that erupted in her chest as her face heat up was new to her. She knew what it was called because her aunts had warned her about it.

Anger. Fury.

Dangerous emotions, they said.

The first time she displayed it, they lectured her at home. And they did so again the second time. On the third one, she wondered if Roxie and Freda were receiving the same lectures as her. Perhaps not. They were Stratfords, after all. They were crass...crude... Barbaric.

She stared down at the pair, nostrils flaring. Roxie and Freda looked at each other and snorted. "What's wrong, Miss Geneva?" Roxie asked, biting her lips, fighting off a smile, which did not hide the wickedness in her eyes.

Geneva wanted to explode. Just once, she thought. Just once, please.

But then she shook her head.

The two girls frowned and turned. As they walked away, Roxie whispered something to Freda, and they both giggled.

Geneva took one step forward, then stopped herself. But what if they heard something?

Without thinking, she followed the two girls. As she rounded the corner to the front of the church, she spotted them talking to their friend, Dorothy Poppet.

Panic surged up her throat. Dorothy Poppet was the youngest sister of the biggest gossipmongering ladies in Abberton: Bridget and Charity. Even the Stratfords called them the prophets because they preached better than the vicar.

If either Bridget or Charity learned of Geneva's secret meeting with Parker, it would not be long before their words reached her aunts.

Geneva did not know what powerful force urged her to walk through the crowd and insert herself into the little circle of the three young females. All she could think about was her aunts finding out what she had been doing behind their backs.

She could not remember how she managed to separate Roxie and Freda from Dorothy. The two girls looked confused as they frowned up at her.

Geneva lost her battle for control. Her hand, as if it had a mind of its own, grabbed Freda's arm and yanked.

"If I ever learn that the pair of you tell anyone about what you saw or heard today, I will make certain you regret it." Her words shook, but she could hardly hear herself. Blood was rushing to her ears, her fury blinding her from the look of alarm in their eyes.

Freda squirmed from her hold. "Please, Miss Geneva, we did not see or hear anything—"

"Liar," she hissed, eyes wide, brimming with hot tears. "Do you expect me to believe you? Just like the many times you played your tricks on me and say you did not? What have I ever done to deserve that? Scolded you for being crass in church?" Her eyes narrowed. "Everyone forgives you because they think you're both funny, but know that there are people who don't feel the same. With everything you've caused others, I only pray to God that He forgives you. And I hope your parents never witness what you do because there's nothing to be proud of."

Her last words caused the two girls to freeze, their faces registering disbelief as blood drained from their faces and the tears fell.

"Let go of her!" Roxie pleaded, pulling her cousin away from Geneva.

She blinked, her mind clearing and realizing what she had done and said. She looked down at her hand gripping Freda's arm. In disbelief and alarm, she let go, jumping back, tears falling straight on the ground.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, wiping her face. She was about to turn around when two older Stratfords blocked her path.

"What is going on here, Miss Geneva?" Price Priest asked. Gale Stratford was looking displeased as Roxie and Freda ran to him in tears.

Regret came fast. She should have not confronted the two girls. Every time she did, there were only two possible scenarios: her aunts would scold her or she would face the ire of everyone else who was enamored with the Stratfords.

She could not deal with both at that moment. But it seemed there was another scenario: face the wrath of the Stratfords.

"Nothing," she stonily said, blinking rapidly to stop the tears.

"You made them cry, Miss Geneva," Price Priest said, the tiny scar between his eyes disappearing into a fold as he frowned. "What happened?"

"I've just had enough of their tricks. I told them I shall no longer tolerate being the subject of their games and I will not permit such horrible attitude from anyone, even the Stratfords."

Without giving Price a chance to prolong the encounter, Geneva turned and almost crashed against the two other Stratfords, Simone and Lydia. She murmured an apology and strutted away. As she did, she heard Simone Priest ask her brother, "What happened?"

Geneva looked around, searching for something—anyone. And of course, there was none. This was not her crowd. These were neighbors who were here not for the words of God, but for gossip and perhaps the duke.

She hastily groomed herself, nonchalantly wiping her tears and tucking her hair behind her ears. She sniffled, then cleared her throat before she stepped inside the church. Her eyes immediately found her aunts sitting in the first pew with their friends, murmuring prayers. She leaned against the wall to take a breath and collect herself. She should feel safe here, but she was not. In just a span of a few minutes, her world seemed to have tilted. She was now paying for the consequences of her actions.

Her grip tightened around her bible. She should not have written that letter. Should have not sneaked behind her aunts' backs. Should not have been curious.

Her hands began to shake. She pushed away from the wall, unsure of what to do, desperate to regain control.

Find Parker. Get her letter back and destroy it. Apologize to Roxie and Freda. Then forget everything. Forget the Vernons. Forget that she had a mother and a father. Or that she had siblings. Her aunts could not find out!

She started walking away, but winced as the pain in her ankle returned. Good Lord. Earlier, she did not even feel it. She was too consumed by her emotions to have felt anything else. This was what her aunts warned her about. Her potential to be ruled by such dark feelings.

Carefully, she took one step forward. Then another. And then a hand clasped her arm. At first, she thought someone was helping her, but then she realized the hold was too tight. She looked up and found someone who was almost a stranger. One she rarely saw around Abberton. One she did not even think she would have the chance to talk to, more so to be touched by.

Damon Priest.

Dark, curly hair. Brown eyes. Murderous brown eyes. No—dark, murderous brown eyes.

"Come with me," he said in a tone quite different from his eyes. She had not heard his voice up close before. In fact, she had no desire to. Because he was a Stratford, and she was not interested in gaining their acquaintance. But now that he spoke to her, and she heard him, she realized Damon Priest spoke in a calm tone that had a hint of amusement. And it was quite alarming because his eyes spoke a different story.

She knew then that he was a dangerous man. The look in his eyes and the firm grip did not match with the tone. He could very well be the devil tempting Eve to take a bite from the fruit.

"N-No," she said, heart hammering against her chest.

She stumbled on her injured leg as he guided her toward the side door. "Come with me or I'll request an audience with your aunts."

"I did not mean to make your cousins cry."

He stopped walking to look down at her. Their eyes met, his all-knowing, hers glowing with trepidation. "Oh, you did, Miss Withers. We both know you did." Looking her squarely in the eyes, his hand showing no sign of letting go, he added, "We can walk quietly, or we can ask your aunts to join us."

Her eyes jumped to her aunts, all three huddled in their own little bubble with their friends. All ignorant of her mistakes.

"Well?" he asked, brows arched high.

She let out a shaky breath and pulled her arm from his hold. To her surprise, he let go. But he was not letting her escape, that much was obvious. "Where?" was all she could muster as she looked away from him, lifting her chin to maintain a semblance of dignity.

He did not answer, but he motioned his arm toward the side door that led to the chapel outside.

Geneva took a deep breath, ignored the pain in her leg, and walked toward the door.

In a minute or two, she would realize that everything that happened thus far was not yet the worst of it all.