Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I spin around and go outside to look for Nora, but she is already coming towards me. She greets me with her usual brisk efficiency. “Mr. Jackson informed me that you’ll be needing a suitcase,” she says, her tone polite, but her eyes full of curiosity. “Please, follow me to the storeroom. You can pick a suitcase there.”
I realize how strange this must seem to her. A wife borrowing a suitcase from her husband, as though I’m some guest rather than the mistress of the house.
“Thank you.” I offer a small, tight smile and follow her up the stairs.
Nora steps aside to let me into the attic. I enter and notice that there are things that must have belonged to Charles’s family here too. They didn’t bother to take it with them. Dolls houses and rocking chairs.
A row of suitcases sits neatly in the closet. They are mostly pristine and absurdly expensive, but my fingers hover over the handle of a simple black one. I know this suitcase. I’ve seen it years before. Instinctively, I pick it up and go outside.
Nora waits in the landing, her expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” I say again.
She nods. “You’re welcome, Madam. If there is anything else I can do for you please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, but there’s nothing more I need, Nora,” I say softly, and even I, can hear the sadness in my voice.
Then I turn away and carry the suitcase back to my room. Once inside, I shut the door, put the suitcase on my bed and stare at it. It’s a blast from the past. I close my eyes and try to steady myself. The past couple of weeks have felt like a fever dream—unreal and vivid all at once. But the last two days? They’ve been a waking nightmare, a whirlwind of anger and longing and everything in between.
Bending forward I snap the suitcase open. It’s empty. The breath I’m holding comes out in a rush. I don’t know what I expected, but there’s nothing in it. Another disappointment for me.
Furious with myself for being so stupid and naïve again I drag the suitcase with me over to the closet and start pulling clothes off hangers, one after another, in a frenzy of movement. Each garment drops into the open suitcase on the floor, their colors blending together into a heap of frustration and simmering fury.
The air fills with the sound of hangers clattering and fabric rustling. My hands work mechanically, folding and shoving as much as I can into the suitcase. Dresses, shirts, jackets—they all disappear into Earl’s black suitcase. The thought of having to return, even for something trivial, makes my stomach turn. No. I’ll take everything of mine now.
I reach for the front pocket of the suitcase to stuff it with my socks and my fingers brush against something smooth and flat. Pulling it out, I see it’s a neatly pressed man’s handkerchief. Something my grandfather would have owned.
Inside is an envelope. I freeze. My gaze locks on it, my pulse quickening. The paper feels delicate in my hands, the edges yellowed and slightly curled as if it’s been waiting for years to be discovered. My fingers tremble as I open it and take the folded letter inside it. The faint scent of old ink wafts up. The handwriting is unmistakably his, though a little neater than I remember—like he’d actually tried to make it perfect for once. My heart thuds painfully in my chest as I begin to read.
Raven babe,
I should probably be paying attention to Mr. Winslow right now—he’s going on about derivatives or something equally brain-numbing—but how can I when your seat is empty? It’s weird not having you here to roll your eyes at me every five minutes or scribble sarcastic notes in my notebook.
Charles, the nosy bastard again, had the cheek to ask me about you. I ignored him, obviously—no need to start another pointless fight. I wonder when he’ll get it through his head that you’re mine.
Also, what the hell were you thinking about making a midnight snack from random fridge leftovers? Food poisoning is a thing, you know. People even die from it!!! One day when I’m rich, you’ll only ever eat in the best restaurants.
Anyway, I was planning to skip after the first period and come over to see you, but I don’t think I can without Miss Loewe making a big deal about the both of us being absent. She has a dirty mind and she’ll probably tell all the churchgoers we’re fornicating or something. I mean, she’s not wrong, but she really should learn to mind her business.
Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better. I can’t stop picturing you all annoyed because your mom keeps fussing over you. You always hate being babied, but you know you secretly love it … maybe just a little.