Excerpt from Chapter 1
An impish impulse rose in Charlotte's belly, and with a wild, wicked laugh, she took a bursting leap towards the elm, her body and hands angled forward. Her nails clawed at the branch, and leaves fluttered to the water below. The toes of her sharp-angled boots bobbed in and out of the water as the branch swung desperately up and down with her weight. Please don't break, please don't break, Charlotte thought.
Not waiting for the branch to still, Charlotte immediately moved one hand over the other and began a frantic monkey-climb towards the north bank, the branch swaying heavily with each grasp. Suddenly, pain ripped into her finger, and she cried out. A quick glance upwards revealed a ragged splinter, at least two inches long, had jammed into the tender flesh beneath her nail. She tried moving her hand once more, but the splinter drew even further into the nail-bed, and, oddly, she felt the pain in her hand and behind her right eye. Fatigue began to dig into Charlotte's upper arms as she looked longingly towards the river shore, only a few water-drenched feet away.
I can't keep my hold, she thought. Either I give up on the branch and swim my way to shore, never mind what Mama will say about coming home with drenched clothes—again. Or, I keep going. Her arms began to shake in protest. Inspiration hit. With a great push from her abdomen, Charlotte swung her legs towards the sky, hooking both knees over the branch. Her back now lay parallel with the river. By squeezing with her legs and pushing with palm of her uninjured hand, Charlotte jerked upright onto the branch, straddling it like a horse and began scooting backwards across the branch, a bit like a bear wiping its bum. She gave a little laugh of surprise at her creative—though embarrassing—solution.
Charlotte eventually felt her back bump against the elm trunk. Releasing a soft chuckle, she swung her left leg over the branch and jumped gracefully out of the sloped tree. She celebrated her victory with a wild wriggle of celebration, her hands jumping over her head and a happy grin across her face. She whistled to Thomas to come join her and watched his clumsy, steady paddles.
“Well done, indeed, Miss Falwell,” called a deep voice.
Alarmed, Charlotte whipped her head towards the intruder. Her smile wilted as she turned to see the trim, smartly dressed blond man behind her. “Mr. Everly,” Charlotte said, surprised. Her eyes narrowed in distaste. They exchanged brief bows, hers a clumsy, exhausted affair.
“You have just as much...talent as I remember,” Everly said, that annoying smirk about his lips. Six years and he's still just as frustrating as ever, Charlotte thought.
“I—ah, your dog,” he exclaimed as Thomas scrambled up the river bank towards Mr. Everly. Mud splattered the gentleman's fawn pantaloons.
“Oh, Mr. Everly, I'm ever so sorry for that,” Charlotte said, feigning embarrassment. “I do hope they are not as ruined as they look.”
With a tight smile, Everly said, “They will be fine. Probably.” He leaned down towards the dog, and, removing his gloves, rubbed him roughly about the ears, a personal favorite of Thomas considering the devoted adoration blooming in his eyes afterwards.
“But I am glad to have found you, Miss Falwell. We've spent so little time together, since my return.” He walked closer to her, and Charlotte realized how tall he'd grown since she'd last seen him. He's at least a foot taller than me, she thought, surprised, considering her own rather impressive height. “It's of a rather...delicate nature.” He grinned at her mischievously. “Perhaps I could meet with you at your home later today,” Everly said softly, leaning closer.
“Never has good for me come from you,” Charlotte replied, her finger quite rudely pointing at his chest. Suddenly she saw blood dripping from her hand, and she, belatedly, remembered her injury. “And now I'm bleeding, thank you very much.” She fished about her pockets for a handkerchief. I knew I should have worn gloves, Charlotte thought. I just wish the ones made for ladies weren't so damn useless.
Pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket, Everly asked, “Would you have me take a look?”
“I'm fine,” Charlotte said, instead pulling her hand close to her face and, without gentleness or even precision, roughly pulled the splinter from her hand. Blood began pulsing from the deep wound and she forced herself to take his embroidered handkerchief, offering a begrudged thank you while wrapping the rich fabric around her middle finger.
His head tilted towards, Everly said, “What I would discuss with you, Miss Falwell, is the Forest.” His voice lowered to a whisper on the last words.
“The Forest?” Charlotte repeated. She was distracted for a moment by his eyes, one markedly larger than the other, giving him always an ornery, almost rakish expression. She looked back to her finger and said, disinterested, “You have news?”
“I have seen purple smoke.”
Charlotte paused to consider his words. Her heart beat quickly as she remembered that it had been years since the last time she had entered the Forest, the last time, too, she had been with all of her brothers. An exciting thrill of adventure bloomed in her chest.
“Information like that would have spread throughout the village by now. Following your word alone has caused me enough trouble. The picnic at the Fisher's pond, you remember? My boots smelled like fish guts for months. It'd take more than smoke, spied only by you, to have my trust.” She paused a moment, interested in spite of herself. “And that is all the evidence you possess?”
Reaching out his palm so that it faced Charlotte, Everly softly said, “And this, too.” A gold marking, as if someone had written with a delicate paintbrush, swirled slowly on Everly's palm.
Charlotte gasped. The marking had first appeared on his palm since he was sixteen, and only she and Everly had seen it. Charlotte then held up her own hand, so that both palms were side by side. She said, confused, “But mine is empty.”
Charlotte grasped his hand and brought it closer to her face. She lightly traced the odd lines with her finger, her brow wrinkled in concentration. She could make no more sense of them than when they had first appeared on their hands.
She looked up at Everly, his eyes a dark blue and intense. She couldn't breathe for a moment at his dark look. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she was almost certain that his head leaned forward. But a noise from the village road pulled Charlotte's attention away, and she looked up to see her father's sextant, Mr. Clarke, looking down from the top of the river bank, staring at the pair.
“Saw your horse, Everly, and wanted to make sure everything was all right.” Embarrassed, Charlotte threw Everly's hand down so hard that it slapped against his muddied thigh. Clarke continued, “Miss Falwell, it seems that your hand is injured. Are you in need of assistance?”
Charlotte looked down at her hand, which she had closed in a tight fist, and only at the reminder, did she realize how much it was throbbing. Thick red blood had begun to seep through the fabric.
“Mr. Clarke, thank you for stopping,” Everly said. “Miss Falwell has fallen on her morning walk and I, riding by, heard her cry out. The kindness of strangers and all that. I'll be escorting her home, very soon.” He smiled warmly at the neighbor. Charlotte was infuriated by how quickly Clarke then departed, seemingly comforted that Everly had her in hand.
“I doubt you will want this bandage returned, and since I have no interest in your 'facts' about the Forest, I take my leave. Good day.” Charlotte walked away, doing her best to storm off despite the loose pebbles making her gait embarraswingly uneven. She was on the road to Merryweather within seconds. Thomas followed at a merry trot, heedless to his mistress's volatile mood.