Leaving the party, Damon took Maple through the woods and up to the direction of Windsong. Geneva's laughter had died down, replaced by total silence. She did not question when he rode up the hill, which was a little curious. She always questioned his plans.

It would help if he could look into her face, but she was behind him. All he could judge was her grip around his waist. It was tight, her hands clasped tightly together. He covered it with one hand. "Are you alright?" he asked over his shoulder.

He felt her nod, felt the brush of her hair on his shoulder.

When they reached Windsong, he tethered the horse. He reached for her and when her feet landed on the ground, he did not let go. He tilted her chin up with one finger and peered at her face.

She was crying.

"Of course, you're not fine," he whispered with a sigh, pulling her head against his chest. "When someone asks, the answer is not always yes, Geneva."

She sniffled, her whimper muffled by his coat.

"Now, tell me. What is it?" he asked, pulling back. "Is it your Aunt Deborah?"

Her eyes fluttered open, damp lashes stuck together. "She's worse."

He took her hand and led her to the garden and back inside the foliage of the willow tree. They sat in silence for a while. She cried and he listened, letting the soft night wind do its magic. It swayed the foliage, rustled the grass and fallen leaves. It dried her tears.

Sitting not too close, he did not touch her. Instead, he leaned his arms on his knees. The only way he dealt with his own grief was with silence. While Simone and Lydia held on to each other, refusing to go anywhere alone, Harry and Webster went on to take over their parent's estates and businesses. It worked for them to be busy. Gale and Price saw friends and explored Abberton. He on the other hand searched for places where he could be alone. To think, to remember and question. To be angry, or to be anything.

"They had not told me what the doctor said. Not yet, anyway," Geneva said, breaking the silence. "But I saw it in their faces when I came to greet them. Aunt Deborah... I could barely recognize her. Her face is almost hollow, her words barely a whisper."

Damon reached for her hand and gently squeezed. "I'm sorry that you had to go through the play after that."

"No, I wanted to come." She sniffled. "I wanted to play the princess."

He smiled, giving her hand another squeeze. "You should spend more time with her." At his words, she started crying again. "Cherish every moment."

"There might still be a chance. She might still get well. The doctor may have suggested something."

He slowly nodded. "Then you must do what you could. Give your aunt her best chances. Or her best time."

"I'll try."

"And don't cry too much in front of her," he said in jest, bending low to peer at her face and wipe her tears. "It will break her heart."

"I never cry in front of them," she said. "You must think me insane."

"Why? Because you cry in front of me?"

"Well, yes."

"We have tears for a reason, Geneva. They don't exist to be stored away."

"I know," she weakly said, turning her head to face him. "Why are you so nice to me?"

He sighed. "You sometimes ask the foolish questions."

She laughed. "I suppose I do." Turning away, she stared at the silhouette of the foliage, watched it sway in midair, the tips nearly brushing the ground. All the while, Damon watched her.

"You're one of my favorites."

His words made her pause and turn to him. She looked confused and amused at the same time.

"That's my answer," he said, leaning against the tree. "But do not get too flattered, Miss Withers. As I said, I have a number of favorite things." He did not see if she was smiling or frowning still because he closed his eyes. His words were embarrassing enough.

He felt her lean back on the trunk of the tree as well, her voice clear when she spoke. "I never thought I'd have a favorite amongst the Stratfords, you know."

Damon grinned and squeezed her hand. After a long while, he asked, "Just to be certain—It is me, yes?"

Her laughter rang around the garden.

***

Geneva was awakened by Gwen, who had to shake her until she opened her eyes. "You're late for breakfast, Miss!" the maid hissed.

For a moment, Geneva was confused. Then she realized everything was different now and she remembered her aunts were home. And that meant a strict schedule. That meant no more breakfast in the garden with a book.

"You should have roused me early!" she said to Gwen as she scrambled out of bed.

"I woke up late too!" Gwen said, laughter escaping her lips as she pulled a dress down Geneva's head.

"How are they this morning?" she asked.

Gwen's laughter disappeared. "Silent. Too silent."

Geneva nodded and murmured, "Hurry."

However late, Geneva made certain that her steps down the stairs could not be heard. And before she entered the breakfast room, she blindly righted her morning dress, tucked her hair behind her ear, and moistened her lips.

"I'm sorry," she said, walking inside with a small smile. Her steps faltered when she found Deborah's seat empty. "I was reading the bible."

Splendid. Too early in the morning and the first thing she did was lie.

Aunt Prudence nodded and motioned for her to sit. "We're all doing our best in prayers, Geneva," she said, much to Geneva's relief.

Aunt Barbara looked like she had spent the entire night crying. And she looked like she would rather have breakfast doing so. But that was unaccepted in the Withers House. Tears should be spent alone and behind closed doors.

As she sprinkled salt on her egg, Prudence asked, "What have you been doing while we were away, Geneva?"

The small porcelain salt container slipped off her hand, rolled off her plate, and out of the table. She struggled, caught it, and the floor caught her. "Goodness, child!" Barbara said, voice high enough to cause Geneva's heart to go frantic.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, struggling to stand.

"Get up and return to your seat," Prudence snapped, scowling at her. "You look silly sprawled on the floor."

She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, her hand shaking around the salt container.

"Now we have salt all over," Barbara said.

The maid was fast to clean up while Geneva struggled to hold her tears as Prudence said, "Now, I'm afraid to find out how you fared while we were gone."

"I fared well," she said, biting her lips when she realized she spoke too loudly. "We all fared well," she repeated in a gentler voice. "I've been going to church. Your friends have been praying for Aunt Deborah."

Prudence and Barbara mellowed at the mention of their friends. "And I hope you were not bothered by the Stratford girls? They should have been leaving you alone, considering what we're going through."

"They've been keeping their distance," she lied. She pushed a mound of salt off her egg and gave the made a curt shake of her head when the woman tried to take her plate away. "I hope you can tell me about your trip," she said. "What did the doctor say?"

Prudence's fork froze over her plate, her jaw clenching. "He doesn't have much to offer."

She wanted to ask more, but that was all her aunt was willing to provide.

"Finish your meal and go up to your Aunt Debora. She's been asking about you since she woke. If you rose early for your prayers, she wouldn't have to wait until you've had your meal."

Her head bowed over her food, which she ate without chewing. It was too salty. When she was done, she excused herself from the table.

Everything that had come alive when she was alone with the servants were now absent. The kitchen, which seemed to have a lot of chatters and laughter just yesterday, was deadly quiet. The windows were shut closed, the morning sunlight scant through the little gaps of the curtains.

As she marched up the stairs with careful steps, Geneva lamented on those little things, just realizing how they made her day a little better for a few weeks. The entire household was once more a cage brought back from the garden inside a dark room.

Stopping outside her Aunt Deborah's room, she fixed her hair and righted her skirts. With a soft knock, she entered. The room was too dark, with just one lamp lit beside the bed. Every part of her wanted to tear the curtains off and let the light through.

"Geneva," Aunt Deborah said from the bed.

Taking a deep breath, Geneva willed her tears to retreat. "Aunt Deborah," she whispered, taking the seat beside the bed. She clenched her teeth as her eyes adjusted to the light. This was no living thing lying on the bed. It was a corpse. "Good morning," she choked, holding the woman's hand.

She looked worse than yesterday, and even worse to touch. Her hands were cold, her eyes and cheeks sunken. Her hair, brushed to perfection, was the only feature Geneva could recognize.

Instantly, she almost regretted everything she had done while her aunts were away. She should have been there with them, should have seen these changes, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"How have you been?" her aunt asked. "I wasn't able to ask yesterday."

"Good," she managed, smiling and struggling to hold the tears. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

"The travel wore me down, I'm afraid." She coughed and Geneva reached for the glass of water. Carefully, she assisted her aunt to take a few sips. "Have you been attending church?"

She nodded.

"And what else?"

Her eyes, after all, seemed to be the same as she scrutinized Geneva's face in the dimness of the room. "I've been managing the household with Helene's help." And I've been doing crazy things with the Stratfords.

Her aunt stared at her for a while and she swallowed nervously. "Good," her aunt finally whispered.

"Would you like me to read you a passage?" she offered.

Aunt Deborah nodded, closing her eyes.

Geneva reached for the bible sitting beside the glass of water, opened it, and in the dark, she read.

***

Just as how her morning went, the same went with her afternoon. She dressed and went down for tea with her aunts. It felt wrong to do it without her Aunt Deborah, but it was necessary that they stuck to the routine.

"I found a book in the garden this morning," Prudence said, causing Geneva to freeze. "Must be one of the maids."

Geneva wanted to ask where the book was now, but Barbara said, "You have been lenient on the servants, Geneva. What else are they going to do next? Sleep in your bed while you scrub the floors?"

She didn't say a word. She waited until the subject changed and waited some more until a quiet fell in the room.

"I've been talking to Doctor Peters as well," she said. "He's been suggesting that we take Aunt Deborah to Birth."

Her shoulders were tight as she waited for their reaction.

It was Barbara who turned to Prudence to say, "We had the same conversation with Doctor St. Vincent's wife."

Geneva's face broke into a hopeful smile. "You did? What did she say?"

"That in many ways, Birth heals the soul."

"We'll have to think about it," Prudence said. "Even if Deborah wishes to go, she has to regain her strength for the journey."

"Can I go with you? If you decide to?" Geneva asked.

Prudence and Barbara shared a look. "Someone has to stay here to watch over the household."

"But you may need me there—"

"We'll send for you if the need arises," said Barbara. "Show me some of the needle works you've been doing while we were gone."

She stood to retrieve her needle works from the nearby drawer. As she passed, she glanced at the clock and almost groaned. Why was the time so slow today?"

***

Damon stared up at the window with a frown. "I don't think that's hers," he whispered.

"We've been coming over here for three bloody nights. Make up your mind," droned Webster. "That window, or that one?" His brother pointed at the one to the farthest left.

Harry was playing with a pebble in his hand, absently throwing and catching it as he said, "That window's been dark for three nights. That's where her Aunt Deborah is. She's sick, isn't she?"

"Or that window could be her Aunt Deborah's," Webster pointed, adding, "I open my windows when I'm sick."

"No, I think that's the one," Damon said, pointing at the one window with the brightest candlelight.

"Do you know what I think?" Harry asked, stepping around the bush they've been hiding in. "I think we're going around in circles. And I think it's time we throw this bloody pebble."

And he did just that, sending it to the window Damon pointed at. They all held their breaths and waited.

"Bloody tarnation!" Webster hissed as he ducked behind the bushes, carrying Damon with him. Harry jumped and landed right on top of them.

"Get off, Harry," Damon grunted, pushing Harry off him to rise to his knees. Peering over the bushes, he saw Barbara Withers, white cap over her head, poking out the window, looking left and right. "Wrong window."

"Let's try the other one—"

"No," he said to his brother. "We'll come back tomorrow night."

"No way in bloody hell," Webster groaned. "I'd rather spend another evening with the devils wishing on stars than throwing pebbles on windows wishing it doesn't belong to an old, grumpy lady."

They crawled out of the garden and only rose to their feet when they reached taller bushes. Once there, they made sure that Barbara Withers had closed her window again before sprinting away.

Only when they reached the Stratford Road did they breathlessly burst out in laughter.

"I'm not going back tomorrow night, Damon," Harry said. "We almost got caught."

"Fine," he said, his laughter dying as they jogged back to the manor. "I'll go alone."

But of course, they returned the next night, all three of them. Harry threw another pebble and this time they were prepared. And again, it was not Geneva. It was her Aunt Prudence.

The next night, Webster stopped Harry with a knowing smile. "Wait," he said, taking the pebble from their cousin. "We're on the wrong side of the house," he said. "Her window is..." he said, leaning far to the left until he caught sight of the side of the house. "That one."

"And how do you know?" Damon asked.

Webster grinned at them. "Gwen Halloway, of course." He gave the pebble to Damon. "Met her earlier at the park."

When his brother walked away with Harry, Damon asked, "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, but that's what Gwen told me. If anything goes wrong, you blame her." Without a glance back, Webster waved goodbye.

Alone now, Damon crept to the side of the house and stared up at the window. It was dark inside. He looked behind him and cursed. No bushes to hide in. He would just have to be fast.

He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he pulled his hand back over his head and threw the pebble.

It took a while before someone opened the window. And as it did, he ran to the press his back against the wall.

Very slowly, he looked up.

It was not the best hiding place, and he knew that because the person who opened the window was looking straight down at him.

And it was not Geneva.