I thought I heard you. Creeping back in.
Welcome to Zarya Hollow Sugar. Where the?
Veil. Between worlds.
Is thinner than a lady's slip in July and just as easy to live if
you ask. Real nice.
Tonight's tale. Not for the delicate.
We got bullets, we got blood, we got brothel beds still warm from
the last poor fool who thought love was a bargain.
And somewhere in the middle of all that sweat and silk, someone
gets turned into a legend. So if your heart's too soft,
turn back now. But if you're still here, settle
in, sweetheart. The terrors just begin.
Proceed northeast across the Golden Gate Bridge, merge onto
CA 24 E Stay on route for 32 miles.
Tucked away in the rugged mountains of California by a
Shadow Brook Camp, a forgotten mining settlement resting
quietly beneath the mysterious Witch Crest Peak, these story
places are alive with histories, legends, and secrets just
waiting to be rediscovered. And now, Tommy Ray Harlan
invites you on an unforgettable musical journey through this
hidden part of California's past with his brand new album,
Whispers of Witchcrest Peak Songs of Shadowbrook Camp.
Every song is a. Story.
Handed down through generations, whispered by winds through
ancient Pines, and kept alive around fading campfires, feel
the heart, mystery, and spirit of Shadowbrook Camp and Witch
Crest Peak, California. Tommy Rae Harlan's Whispers of
Witch Crest Peak. Songs of Shadowbrook Camp
available now. Wherever.
Great music is sold. Listen closely.
The Mountain has something to tell you.
Continue onto Marsh Creek Rd. in 5.7 miles.
Turn right onto Ridge Hollow Rd. Continue for 11.8 miles.
Turn. Left onto an unpaved Rd.
Continue for 1.6 miles. You have arrived.
Which Crest peak is on your right?
There's a river that hums in the hush of the night.
Silver is sorrow, but gentle in light.
She carries the names that the wind won't recall, and whispers
them slow as the red leaves fall.
Footsteps fade where the wall roses grow, but the earth still
remembers the ones that let go. Don't you eat, Don't you sigh?
Some songs are meant to live past goodbye.
Moths trace their prayers where the lanterns burned low, soft
ones on cedar, too quiet to know the moon, it's breath, where the
lost lovers lay And time falls like lace man.
Where the dawn turns to green footsteps fade where the wild
roses grow, But the earth still remembers the ones they let go.
Hold off, don't you linger, don't you cry?
Some songs are written in pale autumn sky,
murmurs of lavender dust on the beams, hands pressed in prayer
where the rafters still dream. Candles burn low, but there's
snorkeling goes on a breath in the rafters long after it's
gone. Footsteps fade where the wild
roses grow, but the earth still remembers the ones that let go.
Oh, don't you linger, don't you cry some songs sorry.
In the day along the sky Magnolia still bloom.
Where the footsteps of way a sight and a doorway, a ghost in
the rain. Fingertips rest where the dusk
gathers deep, a kiss on the threshold the ears couldn't keep
footsteps today, where the wild roses grow but the earth still
remembers the ones that let go. Hold off, don't you ink or don't
you cry? Laughter
still rings where the hallway standing, soft as alone but
woven from it, Rocking chest Greek, a hush for legs, a prayer
steps late where the wild roses grow but the earth still
remembers the ones that. Let go, oh love.
Don't you linger, don't you cry? Some songs I met and Pale don't
sky. Tony paints the hens in a soft,
cold rush in the branches, like the river still holes through
the land in the wash of the but the earth still remembers the
ones that let it go. Oh, don't you wrinkle?
Don't you cry Some songs. All right folks, we're back on
air with Tommy Ray Harlan, the artist behind the captivating
album Whispers from Witch Crest Peak.
Tommy, this album carries an undeniable old world spirit.
It feels like Shadowbrook Camp and Witch Crest Peak are
speaking directly through your guitar.
And where's all that magic coming from?
Well, most of it comes from my grandpa.
He was a park Ranger up there most of his life.
And let me tell you, that man could spin a tail.
Weren't just about the land, neither.
He talked about the folks who live there, the ones who drifted
on. Through.
And the ones who never left Shadowbrook Camp weren't just
some Old Town to him. It was alive.
Like it had a memory all it's own waiting for somebody to stop
and listen, and you turn that into a whole damn experience
that this album. It ain't just.
Songs. It's like you cut open the
town's chest and let us hear it's heartbeat.
I reckon that's a fairway to put it.
My grandpa used to talk about this little museum they had in
Shadowbrook sitting right in Julian Hale's old Telegraph
office. Ain't many folks remember it
now, but he sure did had this old kiosk inside.
Weren't. Nothing.
Fancy just some dusty machine, but you'd press a button and
it'd start talking, telling stories about the land, the
settlers. Even the kind of.
Myths that stick to a place like that.
And it weren't just some history lesson that made you feel that
like the land itself was holding on to those voices.
Sounds like that museum really captured the soul of the place.
My grandpa always said that kiosk had a voice like the town
itself was trying to be heard, trying to remind folks what went
down, what it used to be. These stories don't just up and
vanish and get tucked away waiting on the right ears.
And that stuck with me. Witch Crest Peak.
It ain't just a mountain, and not to me.
It's the folks, the history, the land, all of it knotted up
together. That old kiosk, it taught me
something. If you don't keep telling the
stories, they fade. And that's what this album's
about. Giving the mountain its voice
again. The building stands quiet,
tucked among structures long surrendered to time its facade
once. Bright with fresh.
Paint has faded into the dust and wind, it's wooden sign
groaning softly in the evening breeze.
A single Lantern, it's glass clouded with age, flickers
beside the door, it's glow unsteady, as if uncertain
whether to hold back the dark or surrender to it.
The door gives way with a slow, reluctant creak, spilling a
sliver. Of golden map light onto the
floorboards within. Inside, the air is thick.
Dust and old paper. And something else.
The faintest trace of machine oil.
Shadows pooled in the corners where artifacts sit preserved
behind glass. Rusted tools, brittle
broadsheets. A Ledger whose ink has faded to
ghostly traces of forgotten names.
Photographs, daguerreotypes, tin types, an early album, and
Prince lined the walls, their images locked in time, a miner,
his face weathered as the land. Behind him stands a youth, at
his side, his apprentice, or perhaps his son.
A woman, her hands firm on a child's shoulders, stares
through the decades, daring the present to forget her.
In some, the figures blur at the edges, caught between 1 moment
and the next, never fully still, never fully gone.
At the center of the room, an alcove waits.
Dimly lit, It's single bulb hums overhead.
The wood of the lectern, worn smooth by time and touch,
cradles a single brass button. It's surface, dulled from use,
bears only a quiet inscription. Press to listen.
A voice rises from the silence, and a story waiting to be
remembered is told once again. Welcome to Witch Crest Peak, one
of Northern California's most dramatic and historically
evocative landscapes. Looming majestically over lush
valleys, this rugged mountain has served as both catalysts and
witness to human aspirations and inevitable decline.
It is a landscape etched deeply with narratives of triumph,
resilience, and ruin, where countless settlers have dared to
chase prosperity only to discover its fleeting nature.
Visitors today encounter a place suspended in historical limbo,
delicately balanced between preservation and the relentless
reclamation efforts of nature. In its heyday, Witch Crest Peak
was alive with the bustling activities of miners who
fervently sought their fortunes in the silver and gold veins
hidden within the mountains Rocky embrace.
Today, the peak stands in stark contrast, quietly preserved
under the stewardship of the California State Park system.
The remnants of Shadowbrook Camp, once thriving with human
enterprise, now lie in an evocative silence, their
structures slowly yielding to the encroaching wilderness,
leaving only subtle echoes of past prosperity behind.
Prior to European settlement and exploration, indigenous
communities inhabited this region, attributing profound
spiritual significance and reverence to the mountain, each
culture offering unique names and stories embedded with
cautionary messages and deep cultural insights.
For the Chochenyo Oloni speaking peoples, witch Crest peaks,
distinctively sharp and intimidating ridgelines,
symbolize the wrathful presence of ancient elemental spirits.
They named it Suka hot dog, translating to Thunder woman's
teeth, a term rarely spoken aloud, reserved for times of
necessary warning. Coast Miwok traditions echo
similar apprehensions, calling the mountain Tuyen Koyo the
Forbidden High Place, a designation underscoring the
profound spiritual dangers believed inherent in the
landscape. While adjacent River Valley
sustained vibrant indigenous communities with their villages,
trade routes and fertile land, Sugahatak was designated
exclusively as transient territory.
It was regarded not as a hospitable refuge, but as a
region that must be navigated swiftly and respectfully.
Indigenous teachings explicitly cautioned against overnight
stays within its boundaries, warning vividly of irreversible
dangers. Accounts of individuals
disappearing without trace or returning irrevocably altered
reinforced its reputation as perilous ground.
Numerous accounts shared by the Oloni and Miwok peoples speak
chillingly of travelers who ascended too high into these
treacherous slopes. Those fortunate enough to return
were invariably disturbed, their minds clouded with confusion and
their memories unreliable. Pathways were reported to vanish
mysteriously, trees seemingly repositioning themselves as if
directed by unseen hands, and spectral whispers carried by the
winds. Cryptic, unintelligible murmurs
that haunted survivors long after their return.
An evocative proverb documented from Ohhloni oral tradition
succinctly encapsulates the region's foreboding nature.
The mountain listens, and it remembers.
Complementary Coast Me Wook traditions describe mysterious
stone markers scattered through witch Crest remote ridges.
These peculiar relics bearing patterns that defy
interpretation were considered ancient even by their earliest
ancestors. Disturbing them, according to
legend, condemned travellers to endless wandering, trapped in
repetitive loops, vulnerable to unseen and ominous entities that
inhabited the mountain. The earliest written records
emerged during the Spanish exploration period of the late
18th century, wherein missionaries and explorers
documented the mountains unique silhouette.
Noting it's hunched humanoid appearance, they christened it
La Vieja, translating directly as the Old Woman.
Spanish colonial records dating back to 1793 formalize this
naming as Cerro de la Vieja. Debate remains among historians
whether this nomenclature was purely descriptive or subtly
influenced by the region's existing indigenous narratives
and folklore. A notable archival record from
1797 by a Franciscan missionary provides a vivid and culturally
significant observation. When the storm arrives, the old
woman laughs with the lightning. This striking image became
deeply embedded in the region, evolving over generations into a
colloquial saying still recognized locally when the
lightning strikes, the old witches cackling.
With the subsequent influx of Anglo American settlers during
California's Gold Rush era, the original Spanish and indigenous
names gradually faded from common usage.
Miners and settlers began referring predominantly to the
mountain as the Old Witch, a name inspired by the foreboding
visual resemblance of its ridgelines, which appeared
particularly during storms, as an elderly woman hunched in
ominous watching over the valleys below.
The first explicit historical mention of the Old Witch appears
in a vivid 1852 correspondence by a local prospector, who
described the mountain in stark, evocative terms.
A damned ugly thing looks like a Crouch and hag ready to climb
down into the valley. By the mid 19th century,
cartographers formally adopted Witch Crest Peak into official
maps, although personal narratives retained earlier
Indigenous and Spanish designations well into
subsequent decades. At the heart of Witch Crest
Peaks, later history stands Reinhard Hendrickson Reinhard
Hendrickson was more than the town's wealthiest benefactor, he
was his foundation. He had overseen its mining
operations, ensured its economy survived the collapse and
supported the workers who remain.
But in 1873, he suffered a loss of his own, the death of his
daughter, Zarya Hendrickson, known as the Songbird of
Shadowbrook. Zaria was the heart of the camp,
a child whose voice carried through the hills, singing to
the men as they worked below. When she passed, the town, it
said, fell silent. Three months later, the mine
collapsed. Contemporary reports attribute
the collapse to structural instability worsened by
aggressive excavation. However, local accounts from the
time reference unexplained tremors, erratic Lantern
behavior and voices heard from within the rock itself.
Some survivors described an overwhelming sense of something
watching. And then there were the claw
marks found deep within the collapsed tunnels.
The markings were reported as too deep for human nails, too
irregular for tools. Some dismissed them as a trick
of erosion. Others weren't so sure.
Hendrickson retreated from public life, tending the town's
cemetery until his own passing in 1875.
With him gone, Shadowbrook Camp faded.
By the early 1880s, it was abandoned.
Today, Witch Crest Peak in the ruins of Shadowbrook Camp, are
preserved under the California State Park system.
While some historical structures remain, the mountain itself has
reclaimed much of the land. The roads leading to the town
are unmarked, and few visitors make the journey.
Despite it's abandonment, some regional folklore remains.
On rare occasions, travellers report hearing faint voices on
the ridgeline. Others passing through the
valley claim that when the storms come, they still hear the
same phrase. La Vie has a Rio con El Luz del
Reynambago. The old woman laughs with the
lightning. Julian Theodore Hale.
That's who I am. That's who I've always been,
whether I wanted it or not. Once I tried to leave it behind.
Fled my childhood home. Escaped Witch Crest Peak, ran
hard from a name that felt borrowed rather than earned.
In San Francisco, I became Theo J Hale, a name sleek enough for
a byline crisper's fresh new Sprint.
Untouched by the shadows and soil of home.
It fit comfortably within busy newsrooms, among the scent of
ink and the chatter of Telegraph keys.
There I was, just another sharp mind hungry for stories.
But Witch Crest never let me be Theo.
Here I was, always just Julian, not Theodore, never Theo.
Only Julian spoken quietly, simply, as though I'd never
left. Because the old witch has its
own way of reminding you who you truly are, no matter how far
you've run. I have seen the dusk fall of a
Shadowbrook. Camp in a way that.
Makes a man doubt his own recollections.
There is an immutable quality to it, a quiet subjugation of light
as the mountain devours the sun whole, leaving behind only ink
black ridgelines and the uncertain shimmer of lanterns
below, flickering like the final breaths of a dying age.
This is the hour when the town exhales, when the wind carries
whispers down from the peak, unsettling even the most
hardened souls. I returned to this place with
ink stained fingers and the idealism of a man who believed
in the permanence of progress. I left it as nothing more than
an ephemeral notation in a ghost story that outlived its author.
I was born beneath the jagged spine of Witchcrest Peak, where
the wind gnawed at our roof and the trees whispered things I
could never quite understand. We were not a family of means.
Our house was little more than a shuddering frame of wood and
desperation, the land outside as unyielding as the father who
ruled it. Shadowbrook Camp was not a town
then. It was a rough gathering of men
who believed they could wrest fortune from the mountain's
grip, who dug into the earth with a fury that bordered on
reverence. My father was one of them, a
prospector of the most hopeless sort, convinced that every
failure was but a step closer to greatness.
My mother, a woman worn thin by hardship, spent her days tending
to wounds the earth had carved into him, nights murmuring
prayers he no longer believed in.
I was a boy born with too many words and a tongue that refused
to shape them properly. My stutter made me hesitant,
made my voice unreliable, made me the subject of mockery among
the other children. They called me Ghost Tongue, as
if the words were trying to run away from me before I could
speak them. So I learned to write.
I stole scraps of paper where I could find them, traced words in
the dust outside a trading post, copied letters from discarded
newspapers that drifted into camp from the larger world
beyond the mountain. Writing was safe.
Writing did not betray me. It was at that trading post that
I first heard the mountain's true name.
And a lonely man, lean and lined with years, came to barter with
my father. Pelts for grain.
A quiet negotiation between two men who had learned each other's
ways. I sat at the edge of their
exchange, listening more than I was meant to, memorizing the
cadence of a language I would never speak.
My father grunted, dismissive. But the old man only smiled at
me, as if he knew something my father did not.
You listen well, little one. Good ears, good eyes.
That is a gift. I did not know how to answer, so
I only nodded. His gaze drifted past me to the
mountain's peak, wreathed in mist.
Sugahatto, he murmured. Thunder.
Women's teeth. The name shivered through me,
the weight of something ancient pressing against my ribs.
My father scoffed, muttering about old superstitions, but I
kept the words, held them close. It was the first time I
understood that the land had a history older than any man who
now called it home. And then one day, a man from San
Francisco arrived with a Telegraph machine.
He needed a boy to run messages, to listen instead of speak.
I took the job, and by 17, I took the first Stagecoach out of
Witchcrest Peak, leaving the ghosts of my childhood behind.
San Francisco is unlike anything I'd ever known.
It was movement and noise, a city that never seemed to
breathe, filled with men who carved their names into history
with ink and steel. I arrived with nothing but a
hunger to be someone new, someone better.
But I did not leave Witchcrest alone.
The man who had given me the job, who had taken me from the
mountain, was not a kind man. He was the kind of man who saw a
boy with nowhere to go, with no one looking out for him, and
took him for what he was, a possession, a thing to be used.
He taught me the Telegraph, yes, taught me how to listen, how to
work the machine. But he also taught me something
else. That silence was survival, that
compliance was safety, that men like him always took what they
wanted. I trained my voice until the
stammer was nothing but a memory.
I spent my night setting type in the print houses, reading the
words of men who shaped the world.
By day I worked in the Telegraph office, my fingers translating
the language of wires and electricity.
I became someone else by 26. I was a man of precision, of
measured speech and practiced manners.
The city had refined me, polished me, but it had not
changed the truth of what I was a boy who had once been afraid
to speak, now armed with words that could cut through stone.
San Francisco had its shadows, it's places where men like me
could breathe a little easier, away from the scrutinizing eyes
of daylight. In the back rooms of certain
salons, behind heavy curtains and past knowing glances, I
learned the weight of a man's touch, the unspoken language of
hands that linger too long, of conversations held in the quiet
when names were unnecessary. I wasn't the only one.
There were others. Merchants, actors, Drifters.
Men who walked the streets by day in crisp suits, their voices
steady in the company of wives and business partners, but who
returned at night to the safety of dimly lit parlors where the
air was thick with pipe smoke and the promise of something
understood but never spoken. I met them in opium dens that
catered to more than one vice. In reading rooms, when
newspapers lay forgotten in favour of furtive exchanges, I
learnt to recognise the careful codes, how a touch to the brim
of a hat could mean an invitation, how a glance held a
second too long was as good as a whisper in the dark.
It was never love. Love required a space we weren't
allowed. But it was something, a fleeting
solace, a confirmation that I wasn't alone in the way the
world often made me feel. And then the Western Telegraph
Company assigned me a post. The office stank of ink and old
cigars, thick with the heat of bodies and the constant chatter
of typewriters. A Telegraph machine clicked and
whined somewhere in the backroom, tapping out a language
of urgency and distance. The walls were yellowed with age
and oil lamp soot, the most prominent feature being a large
curling map of California pinned behind the chief editor's desk.
It bore the scars of countless provisions, red pencil carving
new roads, black ink erasing old names.
Here, the land changed at the whim of surveyors, settlers, and
railroad men. As if history could be
rewritten. With a steady enough hand,
Hargrove, my employer, traced a thick, calloused finger along
one of the newer marks. New stations going up here.
He tapped a spot nestled in the falls of the Sierra Nevada
foothills. Shadowbrook.
I frowned. Never heard of it.
Hargrove smirked. You wouldn't have.
It's barely a town yet, but the mines are running strong and
where there's gold, there's news to print.
It needs someone sharp, someone who can handle more than just
tapping out wires. I stepped closer, eyeing the
ink. The name was fresh, the letters
precise, but beneath it, barely visible, was another name, one I
knew. Witch quest.
A memory stirred, deep and buried.
I had not seen it written in years, but I had never forgotten
the sound of it whispered in the wind.
That land? Said a voice from the corner, an
old Clark, white haired and roomy eyed, who had spent more
years in newsrooms than I had spent breathing.
It's had more names than a man can count.
The Miwok called the mountain Tuyen Koyo, the forbidden high
place, the Spanish name, the Timba Cheru de la Vieja, the old
woman's hill in the old loin. He paused, glancing at me.
They called it Sukkahatok. Thunder Woman's teeth.
The words hit like an echo through time.
I swallowed hard, my fingers brushing against the maps
brittle surface. I knew this place.
Not by Shadowbrook's name, not by the crisp surveyed lines on
paper. I knew it by the way the wind
screamed through the Pines, by the stories old men whispered
when they thought children weren't listening.
I knew it because I had once called it home.
That means something to you, Hail.
Hargrove asked, raising a brow. I hesitated.
I grew up there. Hargrove's face lit up.
That's so. He clapped his hands together,
sending dust scattering from the map.
Well hell, that's perfect. You'll fit right in.
Leaned forward, expression shrewd.
But you're not just there to tap wires, mind you.
You're a writer, and a damned good one.
The place needs a paper. You make sure the Witchcrest
Gazette starts on the right. Foot.
The Gazette, I almost laughed. A town that hadn't existed when
I left was now a name on a map, a place with enough promise to
warrant its own Telegraph station, its own newspaper.
I should have refused. I should have walked out of the
office, let Shadowbrook and its ghosts stay buried in the past.
But my fingers drifted over the map, tracing the curves of the
mountain. I should have said no.
Instead. I nodded.
I'll leave in the morning. I'd left the mountain once
before, not for ambition, not for opportunity, but because I
had no choice. The man who took me from
Witchcrest was called Elliot Lowry, a Telegraph man, a
drifter, a liar. He came through the valley with
a gleaming machine and a story for every man who would listen.
Said he worked for the railroads.
Said he had money. Said he needed an assistant, a
boy who could run messages, fetch supplies, learn the trade.
Said I could be somebody. My father, eager to be rid of a
stuttering boy who would never swing a pickaxe, practically
shoved me into Lowry's hands. And I, young and foolish,
desperate for escape, went willingly.
The first few nights on the road were ordinary enough.
Hard travel, bad food, long silences.
It wasn't cruel, not yet, just sharp edged, impatient.
Something changed when he reached the first time.
A Tavern, a bottle, a shift in his mood.
He put a hand on my shoulder, heavier than it needed to be,
pulled me closer when he spoke, breath sour with whiskey, and
when I tried to pull away, he tightened his grip.
It would be stupid, boy. He muttered, voice thick and
low. You belong to me now.
I remember the Press of his weight, the iron fingers
bruising my wrist, the way the floorboards groaned under my
struggles, the Lantern light flickering against the walls.
I remember learning that silence could be a weapon, the
resistance was useless, that sometimes the only way to
survive was to let yourself disappear.
By the time we reached Sacramento, I'd learned my
lessons well. I spoke only when spoken to.
I did what I was told. I learnt the trade.
My hands quick on the keys of the Telegraph, my mind faster
still. I made myself useful.
I made myself forget. But some ghosts do not rest
easy. And now, decades later, standing
in that newsroom with my hands pressed to a map, I could feel
them stirring again. Shadowbrook, Witchcrest, the old
woman's hill. The past was waiting, and this
time I was going back. Just past the sagging fence line
of Shadowbrook Camp, where the dirt path curves like a question
mark no one's answered, stands a structure that doesn't quite fit
the bones of the ghost town around it.
The shop looks quiet from the outside, but not forgotten.
The wood siding is dark with age, but well kept.
The shutters hang straight, though one leans just slightly
like it's listening. A row of glass bottles lines the
front windows, green, amber, cobalt, each one catching the
light and throwing strange reflections across the worn
steps. The door is painted a soft
sallow red and above it's swings a hand carved wooden sign,
Madame Roof remedies readings and charms.
The gold paint is dulled with time, but the letters are still
legible, just they called it many names over the years.
The cabinet is echo, the cabinet of Echoes for the way voices
lingered in the walls long after the living had gone.
The Santuere de Minui at the Sanctuary of Midnight, for those
who arrived after dark looking for answers the daylight
wouldn't give them. Some just call it Madame Bruce.
Didn't matter what you named it, the air always smelled the same.
The scent of Magnolia oil, frankincense, and burned myrrh
clings to the walls. It smells like old secrets and
something sweeter, something that tastes like Deja vu.
Inside the light zones, velvet thick, filtered through heavy
curtains of plum and black, the colour of bruises.
The walls are lined with shelves, some bowed with the
weight of glass jars and parchment bundles, others left
bare like something had been removed and never replaced.
Dried herbs hang in rows overhead, devil, shoestring,
Yarrow, clove, tied with twine and shadow.
The table near the back is layered in wax, stiff lace,
black silken open cards mid reading.
One is sideways, 1 is burned. A mirror leans against the far
wall, cracked but clean, clouded not by dust but by time.
And always there's our damned cat, Monsieur Felix Siamese,
pale as smoke one eye, glacier blue the other.
Clouded like old. Glass.
He sits at the window most days, tail flicking slow as a
pendulum, watching the street with a knowing look of something
that's seen both sides of the veil and stayed.
The shop isn't rotting, it's resting, Quiet, strange and yet
alive in ways wooden stones shouldn't be.
And underneath it all, something hums, low, steady, like the
floorboards are holding their breath.
But that's just a feeling, and in this place, feelings come
easy. This place was always hers.
You knew her, it fed her, it kept her secrets better than the
grave ever could. And it still hurts even now.
You know, The funny thing about haunting a place is it don't
always start when you die. Sometimes you start haunting it
while you're still breathing, long before the grave gets your
name. This shop, it wasn't always
incense and bones and dried up dreams.
Before the shelves, before the candles, there was fire.
This place had another life. And.
So did I. You want to know where I came
from? Well, it wasn't a place where
you're taught to dream big or reach for the stars.
I was born in New Orleans, where the streets are thick with
secrets and the air smells like Jasmine and rum.
My Mama, well, she wasn't around much.
She left when I was too young to remember.
And my grandmother, she tried in her own way to fill that gap,
but she had her own demons. She was a woman who kept things
locked away tight in the back of her mind.
She was a healer, they say, a Mystic, always stirring up
potions, reading palms, making little bags of dried herbs for
those in need of some protection.
But she was always alone. Her house was filled with
shadows, thick smoke from incense, and strange books I
wasn't supposed to touch. I spent my time trying to make
sense of it all, learning to listen to the words people
didn't say and the looks they didn't give.
You see, it's not the words that matter, it's what's left unsaid.
And I learned to hear all of it. I wasn't just a girl sitting in
the corner with a book. I was listening to the pulse of
the world, What they wanted, what they feared, what they
never said out loud. And I saw it all.
The lies, the games, the silent struggles.
I think that's where it started. I began to see the world for
what it was, Dirty, dangerous, raw.
And I knew I had to be stronger than that.
I couldn't be soft or naive like the women I saw around me.
There were men in that town who would use you up and leave you
broken, and I wasn't going to be one of those broken things.
Hell no, not me. I remember one night, standing
on the balcony of my grandmother's house, watching
the shadows move in the street below.
I was young, maybe 16, and I had this thought in my head.
If I don't start taking control of my life now, someone else
will take it from me. I had no idea what that meant
yet, no idea how much blood and tears it would take.
But I knew one thing. I wasn't going to let the world
own me. And and that's when I knew I had
to leave. So I packed up and I left New
Orleans. I went W to California, where
men tried to strike it rich. And I didn't know where I was
going, but I knew I had to get there.
I worked the streets, did what I could, but I never stayed in one
place too long. I knew I couldn't stay small
forever. I needed to carve out my own
world. And when I set my sights on
Shadowbrook, I knew it was my chance.
A town being built on dream, sure, but mostly on dirt and
desperation. And I knew I could carve
something from that. I was the West, after all.
There was no place for. A woman to hide.
But there was also no one to tell me what to do.
And that's when I realized I could be whoever I wanted to be.
So I did. I reinvented myself and the
world that wanted to break me. I turned into a place where I
could control it. That was the first thing I knew
for sure. You take what you need and you
make it yours. And it was in that area in
Shadowbrook Camp, that I found what I was looking for.
It wasn't about money, it wasn't about pleasure.
It was about power. And I wasn't going to let anyone
take that from me. But I was not the Madame Ruth
you see now. No, back then I was Ruth
Dellacroix, just a woman with a vision.
Before this shop was here, I ran a very different establishment.
A garden of sorts, you could have called it.
Now. Tommy.
This next. Track the ballad.
Of Ruth's greenhouse. Isn't your typical?
Brothel song. As you were just.
Mentioning during the break. Well, this one took a while.
I kept bringing the bits and pieces of the story, but none of
it ever felt complete. The more I dug, the more I
realized it wasn't one story and it was 2.
So how'd you go about piercing them?
Together, a lot of it. Came.
From my time. Digging.
Through old records see. My.
Granddad. He always.
Told me what he heard about Shadowbrook but when I started.
Going. Through the archives I found
something I hadn't expected. These minors accounts, letters
and journals. There weren't just memorandum of
the work, but personal logs. Some guys were pretty open about
the greenhouse. If you read between the lines
you could tell it wasn't just about what happened on the clock
I remember coming across. 1. Journal from a guy named Richard
Fletcher. He called it his.
Survival guide to Madame Ruth's Greenhouse.
It wasn't like a typical journal.
He even listed out each of the girls with notes.
Some of them were superstitions, some of them were just good
advice if you. Wanted to.
Walk out of. There in one piece.
I remember 1. Of them.
Amaryllis buy wrapped in silk. She'll take your money, your
time, and maybe a little more if you ain't careful.
Then there was Daisy Mae, sweet as sugar.
Oh, but don't trust a woman who always knows what you're
thinking before you do. Whatever you do, do not let her
take a lock of your hair. Damn, Richard, what the hell?
Did you do? That's just the beginning.
There's Violet, who makes a man feel like a king but leaves him
a beggar, and then? There's Madam.
Ruth, her cell. Her note.
Was simple but it stuck with me. If she asks for your cold, give
it. If she asks for your boots, you
better. Run.
That's why that's where the. Ballad comes from.
Yeah, it is. The first.
Ballad. That's the one that tells the
story. The miners couldn't stop
talking. About.
It's a survival. Guide.
Wrapped in a drinking. Song one tall tales, the whole.
Lot. Men went in there full of
themselves. But Ruth.
Had a way of showing them their place.
The greenhouse well lived up to its reputation.
Another payday in Shadowbrook camp.
It's always the same around here.
Men coming in with their pockets full, laughing, boasting,
thinking the world's theirs for the taking.
I've seen it more times than I can count.
They come in here with their swagger, their coins heavy,
their spirits higher than the damn mountain outside.
Ain't no place quite like it, this town.
I mean, not much to look at, sure, but it's got something
about it, the kind of something that keeps people here even when
they know better, even when they've had enough of the dust
and the sweat all. Right.
Well, paydays here ain't no better way to spend it than a
trip to the sombre Magnolia tonight.
Hey, boys. Hell yeah, been too long since
I've had a little fun. Ain't nothing like a hen house
to shake off the dust and get right.
And I haven't been to this place.
Ain't nothing like it. Been a while since I've felt
that kind of hospitality. If you're heading up there,
clean yourself up at first ain't complicated.
You don't walk into a place like that looking like you just
clawed your way out of the earth.
You go upstairs, take a bath behind the ears, under the arms,
all of it. You walk in filthy.
They'll know what kind of man you are before you even open
your mouth. What?
You took your boots at the doors.
Nah, they don't take nothing. They just don't look at you.
That's worse. The.
Conversation pauses. The air shifts.
Greenhouse lingers. The miners know about it.
It heard stories. Not many of them have been.
In some they look. Over the Richard.
Fletcher nursing is whisk. Been.
There, Fletcher, What's it really like?
You don't just walk in there and grab it whoever you want.
And the Madame, Miss Ruth, she's.
Not one you try to make a move on.
I tried it once. Let's just say I learned the
hard way. The men look at him, unsure
whether to laugh or take him seriously.
Fletcher doesn't soften his gaze on He's not joking.
That place ain't what you think it is.
You think you're in control, think you can walk out the way
you came in. But Miss Ruth, she makes sure
you leave with. Less than.
You have. Come on Fletcher, it's just a
brothel. What's the worst that can
happen? We'll see, but don't say I
didn't. Want.
Tell him, Fletcher, go ahead, I'll pour another round.
I. Walked in, thought I'd seen it
all, had my degree, thought I was standing tall.
Ruth's greenhouse. What's sweeter than a scholar's
dream? But.
Brother. You're playing.
In a whole. Different scheme Amaryllis fire
drip been wrapped in silk and lace.
She'll burn through your soul, leave a scar.
You can't race. You think you're?
The man boy. Don't be a fool.
She'll gush you. She'll wreck you.
Then spit out your jewels. You.
Can't. Afford.
To plant. Your wooden.
Madam Ruth. Bush try to catch the bloom and
you'll get kicked in the dush. She'll make you think you're
leading the game, but you'll leave her guard with nothing.
But shame. Daisy May.
Soft. As a spring mornings there,
she'll lull you in close, then drag you by the hair.
Her kisses are like heaven. She'll take you balls deep.
Let's. Just hope she doesn't make dolls
with all the hair she keeps. Well, she's the Queen.
Running. At all.
She lets you play, but you'll answer to her call.
You'll. Think.
You're the king of this. Green.
Garden bed, but Ruth the one. With the.
Crown on her. Head.
You can't. Afford to plant your wooden
Madam Ruth Bush. Try to catch the blue when
you'll get kicked in the tush. She'll make you think you're
leading the game, but you'll leave her garden.
With nothing but shame. Pilot's got that look like
she'll tear. You.
Apart. She'll tie you up tight and call
it her. Art.
Sweet yet venomous, like a rose with thorns, She'll take you to
heaven, then laugh while you mourn.
But Ruth the gardener, and she holds the key.
You'll dance. With the flowers.
But Ruth, she's the tree. She lets you taste, lets you
feel the fire. But it's Ruth who sets the.
Rules the one you. Gotta admire you can't afford to
chase the bloom in the Madam Ruth Ruth, try to take a taste
and you'll get the. Fuck.
With the. Broom she lets you think you're
the one to win, but you'll leave with God and you want.
To. Crawl back.
Licensed, gentle, like a somber breeze, she'll have you begging
down on your knees. But don't let her sweetness fool
your eyes. She'll drain you dry and leave
you with no goodbyes, and she's always watching from the
shadows. She lets you.
Play in her garden. Follow.
Leaves and gallows. She'll take your coin, let you.
Feel like. Man, but in the greenhouse, you
better follow her. Plan.
You can't afford Madame Rose Bush?
Try catching Blue. You'll get kicked in touch.
She'll make you think you're the one.
You will. But you'll leave Ruth's garden
and won't crawl back in. You think you know the girl's on
the floor, But Ruth, she's the one you're really here for.
She'll let you taste the sweetness, make you beg.
For more. No one leaves Ruth's garden
without settling the score. So now I'm back just a man.
Of the earth, but I remember. Ruth.
Greenhouse and all her work. The flowers were sweet, the
touch was divine, but Ruth the. One who made sure I paint my.
Fire. They like to say Le Manuel Ye
Sombre was a House of sin, but I call that a lazy man's lie,
because it was never just a bordello.
It was a sanctuary, a Kingdom carved out of candlelight and
velvet, of laughter and perfume and the quiet murmur of silk
against bearskin. And the miners blessed their
hearts. They couldn't pronounce the
fancy French names, so they called it Madame Ruth's
Greenhouse, a name that stuck because, well, the place did
have its fair share of green shutters.
A little something to remind me of New Orleans.
When I came here, I didn't just leave the city behind.
I left my name, my past, the life I thought I had to leave in
order to survive. But those shutters, Those green
shutters, they were a reminder of where I came from, a reminder
of the candlelight that lit the streets of my childhood.
And I'll tell you something else, darling.
Every time I looked at those shutters, I knew I was still
rooted in something more than just this town.
It was a little piece of home, even if that home was now built
on different soil. You see, men came here for all
sorts of reasons, and my girls, they gave it to them.
Oh, they were more than just soft hands and painted lips.
They were chameleons, each and every one of them.
Some men wanted to feel powerful, some wanted to feel
small, and some wanted to forget who they were entirely.
My girls knew how to listen, how to watch, how to give a man
exactly what he didn't have the courage to ask for.
And for that, they paid in gold. Not all of them were rough.
Plenty of men came in smiling, kind enough when the whiskey was
still burning low in their bellies.
But for every gentleman, there was a bastard who mistook the
price on the door for ownership. We handled those men
differently. There were rules in my house.
No man laid a hand on a girl unless she wanted it there, and
if he did well, he'd leave with fewer teeth than he walked in
with. We didn't take cruelty for free.
No girl went cold. No girl went hungry.
No girl stood alone in the dark because the world had taken
enough from us already. We would not take from each
other. And outside, standing watch over
it all, was our Magnolia tree. It was older than the town
itself, older than the mine, older than the men who thought
they ran this place. It's blossoms would glow like
ghost lanterns when the moon was full, silver white against the
black of the night. The girls swore it listened,
that if you whispered your secrets into its bark, it would
keep them safe. We whispered a lot of secrets to
that tree, and for a time we were untouchable.
For a time, Le Manuelier sombre was ours.
Well, we'll jump in about your way to the Magnolia Sombre.
Let me show you how we do things around here.
No need for games. You play, you play, and I'll
make sure you enjoy your. Time for a price.
I'm annoyed you shine sweet eyes.
I live in measures. Sweet, I dream, but.
I am a power zombie and sheshe I saw music did you have fun?
Everything. Is.
But don't forget, gentlemen, that I'll make.
The choice. So the girls are ready, but
I make the world around you. None.
Don't. Forget, gentlemen, don't
remember. I run the show and you follow.
Somebody, you're here for pleasure.
But remember. You pay and I control the
treasure. I remember the day I met
Thaddeus Fournier. He was a quiet sort, polite,
well spoken, but with something in his eyes that didn't quite
sit right, like he was carrying a weight he didn't know where to
set down. He looked out of place.
The. Moment he stepped inside, a
young man with the kind of careful presence that didn't
fill a room but lingered in its corners.
Dark curls that never quite behaved, sharp eyes that miss
nothing but rarely let on. He had that particular way about
him, the kind you see in men who've spent their lives
watching instead of speaking. I remember when he stepped in
and sat down. I got a good look at him because
I was entertaining that night. There's a rattle in the hallway.
There's a Creek beneath the bed. I swore I locked that closet
tight. But here he.
Comes and stands. He's all ribs and bad decisions,
A dashing little fright. With empty eyes and a wicked
grin, he slips beneath the light.
Mum, Petit, toss two of your uncle to fair dishes 'cause you
wipe our uncle. I try to forget, but most kill
it. He's not done.
He knows where all my secrets. He's read my little book.
Each name I scratch. Well, now.
Ain't. You a new scent in the hallway.
Welcome to Le Manuel Yair, sombre sweetheart.
You here for pleasure or just passing through?
Evening, ma'am. I'm not looking for that kind of
trouble, just a drink if you don't mind.
Ma'am, he says, like he's talking to the preacher's wife.
You got a name, Handsome Fournier.
Thaddeus. Fournier.
Fournier, that French or just fancy?
Bit of both I suppose. We like both round here.
You want whiskey, then whiskey. You'll have who's in charge.
She is. That's.
Madam Ruth, she don't run this place, love, she is this place.
If you're looking for work, best wait till the song's done.
She don't like interruptions when she's conjuring.
I can wait. Well, well.
She saw you take the matches with you.
Lighting her cigarette always gets a good impression.
Good. I.
Didn't come to be forgotten well.
I best not. Keep the lady waiting.
Madam Ruth, I, I'm Thaddeus, foreign.
Yay. Could we talk in private,
please? It's, it's important.
His voice was soft, measured, touched with something foreign
at the edges, a trace of another place, another life.
One. He.
Hadn't quite left behind, and his clothes neat but not quite
right, like they've been tailored for someone else.
Too snug across the shoulders, too loose at the waist, like he
was still trying to decide what suited him best.
But he carried himself well enough, held his chin high,
smiled that small, careful smile of his, the kind that made you
wonder whether he was shy or just real damn good at hiding.
But I couldn't help wondering if he was looking to be the muscle.
You know, the guy who makes sure no one gets too rowdy.
The one who breaks a man's arm if he thinks he owns one of my
girls. But then he said he had someone
I ought to meet. Now I'll admit I was confused.
Thought maybe he was trying to set something up, play guardian
to a girl too delicate to come knocking herself.
Wouldn't have been the first time a man played keeper to a
woman who wasn't truly his kin. But that wasn't.
The case. He led me upstairs to my own
damn room. Shut the door.
Behind him and I. Waited.
Waited for whatever half baked story he had, whatever desperate
favour he was about to ask. But instead he turned his back
to me, shrugged off his coat, and Lord above walked straight
to my closet like he belonged there.
Didn't say a word, just ran his fingers over lace and silk.
Slow, deliberate, like he was reading something in the fabric.
And then, slow as anything, he started changing.
Didn't hesitate, didn't fumble. Slipped into satin.
With the kind of ease that only comes from years of knowing how
took his time with the Rouge, the coal, the delicate touches
that turned something familiar into something else entirely.
And just before he stepped behind the screen, just before
his reflection disappeared from the vanity mirror, he said she
usually prefers blue for the evenings.
Softer. Shades in the daylight.
Lilac sometimes, and lace always.
Now that gave me pause, because I knew every girl that worked
under my roof and none of them had a man speaking for him like
that. So I waited, watched.
Figured some woman was about to come floating through the door.
Some quiet thing in powder and pearls.
Then she lifted her chin, let the lamp light catch at her
cheekbones, at the shimmer of powder across skin.
Eyes dark as ink, lined with care.
A mouth curved just enough in a smile that carried 1000 secrets
and no apologies. And that's when I knew I hadn't
been waiting for a woman to walk through that door because she
was already here. Madame Ruth, I'd like you to
meet Miss Lily Rose. Forest Day.
Most women, most people might have gasped, might have stepped
back, might have stammered something foolish.
But me, I just sat down, folded my hands in my lap and said,
Well now, Miss Lily Rose, why don't you pour us a drink and
let's get to know each other proper?
Let's get one thing straight, sweetheart.
I ain't in the business of taking in girls who can't handle
what's expected of them. This ain't no place for Wilton
Flowers, and it sure as hell ain't a place for someone
looking to be saved. So you're here to work or to
dream? Ain't much difference in the
two. Now's there.
Men come here to dream, Miss Ruth.
I make sure they get their money's worth.
Do you now? I do damn near everything, Miss
Ruth. I suck, I fuck.
I ride until they forget their own damn names.
I'll cry if they want me to. I'll slap them if they ask nice
enough. They want a blushing bride.
I'll tremble like a girl on her wedding night.
They want a temptress. I'll make him beg before I let
him have a taste. They want a whore who won't
talk. I'll make silence feel like
worship. And best of all, they don't know
they've been LED till it's already over.
You say that real sweet, but sweet don't keep you safe.
When a man's had enough whiskey to start noticing things he
shouldn't. Then I make sure he never gets
that fall. She shifts, just barely letting
his shoulder slip from her shawl.
Not careless, controlled. The flicker of bare skin, the
suggestion of something fragile beneath silk.
Allure. Not a promise.
Her movements are deliberate as small, almost imperceptible
adjustment. The fabric of her shawl slides
down like a whisper, revealing the smooth curve of her
shoulder. It's a fleeting moment, a hint
of skin so carefully exposed, and then nothing more.
The silk clings to her like a second skin, barely disturbed
yet perfectly positioned to tease the softest curve of her
body, shown without effort, without need to force attention.
She's not revealing, but she is certainly inviting.
The air around her seems to shift, subtle but perceptible, a
quiet change, as if the room itself has taken a breath.
Each movement is measured, purposeful, a slow shift of her
weight, a careful realignment, as though the very motion is
part of the performance. The barest flicker of her skin
against the light seems almost deliberate, like a stroke of
paint on a canvas. Just enough to evoke curiosity,
just enough to entice. She holds still for a moment
longer than necessary, letting the air hang thick with unspoken
promise. A small tilt of her head, an
imperceptible shift in her posture, and the shawl drapes
just a little further down. There's a grace to the movement,
effortless yet intentional, as though every inch of her is
calculated to captivate but never fully reveal the hint of
vulnerability beneath. The silk is only for an instant,
a breath between 1 moment and the next.
The delicacy of her exposed skin suggests something fragile, but
it's no more than a whisper, A suggestion.
Just enough to make someone look, just enough to make them
wonder. But she never gives it all away.
She's still in control. Men don't go looking for what
they don't want to find. I make sure they see exactly
what they expect, and if their hands wander, I guide them
somewhere else. All.
Right, Miss Lily, Let's talk specifics.
What about the odd ones? The ones who come in with
something a little different on their mind?
Odd. Don't scare me none.
A man pays good coin for a dream.
Who am I to tell him no? And if he says you're his
sister, older or younger, well, shit, ain't you a damn
chameleon? Man wants me afraid I tremble.
Man wants me cruel I bite. Man wants me desperate I whimper
his name. They don't care who I am, Miss
Ruth, Only what I make them feel.
Ain't much left to say then, is there?
Room's yours if. You want it.
I'll take it. Your first customers we then I
best make myself unforgettable. I knew she'd be good.
Didn't take more than 5 minutes to see she had something the
others didn't. Confident.
Sure. Plenty of girls walk in here
thinking they can turn a trick just because they got a pretty
mouth and a willing body. But Lily rose.
She understood something most women never do, something some
men never even figure out. Men don't come to Le Manolier
somber just to sweat between the sheets.
No, they come here to be seen, to be held the right way,
touched the right way. They come wanting to be
something else for a little while, wanting to forget who
they are outside these walls. And Lily, she didn't just let
him forget, she made him believe UN parfa exotic porn feel
exotic. An exotic scent for an exotic
girl. That's what he said.
My first client was a real gentleman.
What made him different? Everything.
I had barely been in Witch Crest Peak for two days before I found
myself walking into Madden Ruth's.
Not even 2 days. I was still dressed in my boy's
attire, still trying to figure out where the hell I was going,
still feeling like an outsider in a world that didn't know what
to make of me. I'd only just left the life I
knew behind, trying to find something new in a place I knew
little of. I didn't know who I was yet, not
fully anyway. Most men walk in, eager to take
what they want and fasten, rough coin in hand, a leer on their
lips. But him?
Not a single ounce of desperation.
He didn't rush. He didn't try to own me like the
others. He looked at me like I was worth
something, like I was worth more than just another night.
And for the first time, I let him believe I was worth more
than that. I let him see me.
Mademoiselle Lily Rose. He called me that.
Mademoiselle. That didn't happen here.
No one called me anything but what they wanted me to be.
But there was something in his eyes, something in the way he
held himself. He saw me, and that made me feel
something I wasn't used to, like maybe I wasn't just a body to be
used for a night. He didn't make a move, didn't
rush to grab me, just stood there, quiet, calm.
The man who didn't need to fight to take control.
No, he took his time, took him the whole damn room, looked at
me like I was someone worth acknowledging.
That's when I knew this man wasn't like the others.
When he handed me the bottle, I was taken aback.
Magnolia oil, thick, rich, unlike anything I've ever worn.
I was used to rose water, lavender, the usual suspects,
sweet soft smells that made me blend in.
But Magnolia? Magnolia changed me, and I could
feel it right away. It wasn't just a perfume, it was
the beginning of something. He applied the oil so carefully,
almost like a ritual. His fingers brushed against my
neck, trailing slowly across my skin as though he was marking
me. And then he said, Mademoiselle
Lily Rose Fuzette la manolia du Jardin de Madame Ruth, the
Magnolia tree may stand tall, but you, my dear, are the flower
that blooms untouched, unclaimed and untamable.
It wasn't just the fragrance, it was the feeling that came with
it. It was like he was giving me
permission to be, to exist as I truly am.
Not just a woman to be desired, but a woman who could be more
than that. I wasn't just a body anymore, I
was more. I'd let them mark me with that
all. And in doing so, he didn't just
change how I smelled, he changed how I saw myself.
Magnolia wasn't just a gift, but it was my transformation, the
way it felt on my skin, the way it made me feel more than I had
ever felt before. And I realized something in that
moment. The Magnolia, it wasn't just for
the men who came to take it, was for me.
I was the flower of the skull. I was the one who controlled
what happened next. I have to admit, I enjoyed it.
I enjoyed the way he took his time, the deliberate he was, the
way his hands moved over me, slow and purposeful, like he
knew exactly how to make me lose myself in him.
I like the way he didn't rush, he pushed when he needed to.
And I let him. I like the way his lips met
mine. Questioning.
Demand. Never apologize.
He made me beg for it. And hell, I like that too.
I liked how he made me feel like I mattered.
And then when he took me, when he made me loose myself
completely, yeah, I liked that too.
Jesri La Manolia. I am the dark Magnolia, the
flower they crave but will never own.
They beg for me and I let them. They dream of me.
And I haunt them. I step into their minds, their
beds, their prayers, and I leave when it pleases me she's been
Amit. I still understand I am the
mistress of my own fate. And I decide what happens next.
Wasn't long before they were asking for her by name.
First the lonely ones, the desperate ones, the ones who've
been in town too long without a woman of their own.
Then the dangerous ones, the men who thought they owned the world
till she made them feel small in her hands.
She knew just how to play him, how to make the soft ones feel
strong and the strong ones feel weak in a way they liked.
That bitch made more in a week than some of my best girls made
in a month. Not just because she was
beautiful, The Lord knows she was.
Lily Rose Forest Yay had the kind of face that made men
linger longer than they meant to, like a tune they have
remembered laying soft in the back of their minds, haunting
them long after they had walked away.
Her cheekbones sat high and sharp, cut like they'd been
sculpted from marble, casting delicate shadows in the low lamp
light. They gave her the.
Look of a woman born for secrets, for whispered
confessions in the dead of night and her skin smooth as poured
cream but with a warmth to it, a depth that made a man wonder
what she'd look like under softer light or softer hands.
But it was her eyes that caught you first.
Dark, deep, full of stories she'd never tell unless it
served her. They weren't a kind of eyes that
begged. They dared.
They pulled a man in, made him think he had the chance to
unravel something rare, something meant only for him.
But the moment he thought he had her figured out, those eyes
would shift. Just a flicker, just a breath of
movement, and suddenly he'd be the one exposed.
She had a way of looking straight through a man, of
seeing what he wanted before he even knew himself.
And Lord help the fool who let himself believe she was
something soft. And then there was her mouth,
sweet enough to kiss, sharp enough to wound.
It curved like it knew more than it led on a smile that could be
indulgent 1 moment and merciless the next.
When she spoke, it was like a slow drawl of honey laced with
arsenic, sultry and dangerous in equal measure, the kind of mouth
that could whisper a man's name like a prayer or spit it like a
curse. She wasn't delicate, she wasn't
fragile. There was strength in the way
her features settled in, the way she carried herself, like she
knew she had something men would fight and bleed for, and she
wasn't about to give it away for free.
And her body, well, that was a different kind of weapon all
together. She carried the remnants of a
broader frame, shoulders that might have belonged to a boy
once, but she softened them, tamed them with the way she
moved, the way she draped herself in silk, like it was the
only thing keeping her together. That waist of hers cinched
tight, exaggerated the curve of her hips just enough to make men
forget what they were supposed to be looking for.
And her hips, well, they weren't the kind that swayed with
innocence. They rolled like a slow promise,
the kind that knew exactly what it was offering and dared you to
take it. Her chest wasn't the effortless
swell of a woman born to it, but she made damn sure no man ever
thought twice about what lay beneath her bodice.
Corset, tree padding, lace in all the right places, every inch
of her shaped by her own damn hands.
And Lord help the fool who thought he could find the edges
of the illusion. She knew how to sit just so, how
to lean forward in a way that caught the lamp light just
right, how to press against a man in the dark so he only
noticed what he was meant to notice.
And then there was a way she held herself.
Like she belonged anywhere she stood.
There wasn't no hesitance, no nervous fidgeting, no stumbling
over her own damn body like she was wearing it for the first
time. No, Lily Rose wore herself like
she was born that way. Like she hadn't spent years
teaching her hands to move softer, her hips to roll easier,
her voice to settle into that slow, lazy drawl that made men
lean in just a little too close. Her voice that was something
else, not high and girlish, not some breathy little thing that
tried too hard to be sweet. No, Lily's voice poured like
dark molasses, slow and rich, sticking to a man's ribs long
after she was done talking. There was a rasp to it, just a
little, like a secret dragged across velvet.
She could sue the man with it, make him feel safe if she
wanted. Or she could sharpen it, cut him
down to size with nothing but a well placed whisper.
It was the kind of voice that could tell a lie so pretty you'd
thank her for it. And for those who look too
close, who thought they saw something under the Rouge and
perfume that didn't quite add up, well, Lily had a way of
making them doubt their own damn eyes.
She'd tilt her head just so, let the lamp light catch the smooth
column of her throat, let her lashes lower just enough to make
a man forget what he was second guessing in the 1st place.
And if he still lingered too long, if he still thought he
could pick apart the edges of what she'd built, she'd smile
real slow, like she knew every last dirty thought in his head,
and say something in that low syrup sweet drawl that it'd make
his damn knees go weak. Because Lily Rose wasn't a
trick, wasn't a con, wasn't some half baked illusion meant to
fool the unwitting. She was real.
She was flesh and silk, bone and fire, every inch of her shaped
by her own hands and owned by no one.
And God help the man who thought otherwise.
Most girls burn out fast in a place like this.
They take too much, they give too much.
They let men carve their names into them one by one, till there
ain't nothing left of them but what's been taken.
But not Lily Rose, and God damn it, I envied her for that.
She bloomed in the dark where the wild things grow.
Soft as a pedal, sharp as a thorn.
Left her perfume on my. Skin.
Now I wake up. Tasting sin El Don SU lalu
leversukre car brewlong she dances.
On them she'll. Play near me as you live her to
the tone and I won't hurt all the time.
No la Magnolia flirt your mind. No Magnolia.
Flirt your mind. Oh, you.
Soft as silk, sweet as sin. Took me under, stole my breath,
left me drown And won't in death, O lamb and no you flirt
you to my soft as silk, sweet as sin.
Took me under, stole my breath, left me drowning, wanting death.
She don't need diamonds, don't wear a man's rain.
Just wants hands on her hips and the sins they'll bring.
She. Rides like Thunder, moans like
sin. Then.
Slips through your fingers like she's never been.
Soft silk, sweet as sin, took me under storm.
My breath left me drowning, wanting dead.
You ever begged for mercy, for you even began.
Ever touched the fire? And still reached in again,
she'll let you have. Her.
She'll let you break. But As for her heart, that's
your mistake. I know your beautiful crew, soft
as silk, hot as hell, took me. Under stone, my soul left.
Me drowning, wanting. Death.
You ever hear a man beg a sweetheart not for money, not
for mercy, but for you? Oh, they beg.
Some fall to their knees, hands tangled in my skirts like a man
clutching A rosary, whisper in my name like it's a prayer.
Some do it with their hands in their pockets, plain or casual,
but I see the shake in their fingers, the way their breath
catches when I touch them. And some, some beg without a
single word, just sit on that bed, hat in their hands, hat in
their lap, and look at me like I got the power to pull them from
whatever hell they've been living in.
And maybe for a little while I do.
Men come to me thinking. They know what love is thinking.
They can buy it in an hour, in the night, in a handful of
whispered promises. Something.
Love is a claim, something to take, something to own.
Others think it's a kindness, a slow touch, a breath shed in the
dark. But not a one of them truly
understands, not really. Love ain't just the wanton, it's
the staying. And ain't the soul ever stayed.
Each one thinks he does, though, thinks his way is the only way.
Some say it with their hands, some with their silence, and
some never say it, just leave the weight of it behind, like
footprints in the dust. Some of them come in like wild
horses, rough hands and too much breath.
Like they're trying to conquer something that don't need
conquering. They think they've got to take
pleasure like the world ain't never.
Giving them a. Thing for free, like if they
don't grab it, don't own it, it's to disappear between their
fingers. Then there's the soft ones, the
ones who touch like they're afraid I'll break under him,
like I'm made of glass. Too fine for this place, too
delicate to take what they came here to give.
But they don't know I ain't never been fragile.
A day in my life. I don't break love, I bend and I
learn every little thing about a man and how he lays his hands on
me. That's why I always preferred it
on my stomach. Easier that way.
Less to explain, less to give away.
Jacob Elijah Henshaw, a fool if you ask the.
Others. Not the kind of fool who threw
his money around, drinking hard and gambling harder, spending a
month's wages on a girl he wouldn't remember in the
morning. No, Jacob wasn't that kind of
fool. He was.
The kind that saved. His coins for something that
actually meant something to him. And for some reason I never
quite understood, that meant me. Every payday, when the rest of
the boys stumbled into the parlor with their pockets
burning and their mouths full of big talk, Jacob came in quiet,
sat at the edge of the room, waiting his turn.
And when his name was called, he didn't ask for a night, didn't
try to take something that wasn't his.
He asked me to dance. I remember that first time, how
careful he was, like I might slip through his fingers if he
wasn't gentle enough. He held me like I was precious,
like he didn't care what the others thought.
And the others did think. Jacob came in with his hands
full. Not with gold.
Not. With drink.
With wildflowers, not the kind you buy.
The kind you find growing out when no one's looking.
The kind you pick because you want to.
He never made a show of it, just walked in, placed them in my
hands like a quiet little offering, then settled them
across from me with that half smile of his, waiting for me to
say whatever it was I needed to say that night.
And every time I told myself I wouldn't take him, that I didn't
need a man bringing me things like I was some girl who'd be
courted. But every time I did, because
they want payment, they want a promise.
They were just flowers, and maybe I needed something soft in
my hands every now and then. Jacob didn't just bring me
flowers, he brought me meals, Said if I wouldn't walk into
Aunt Tilly's then he'd just have to bring Tilly's to me.
And so he did. Biscuits, warm and buttery,
wrapped up in a cloth to keep them from going cold.
Fried chicken, crisp and golden the way, only telling you how to
make it. Little Peach tarts, sweet and
flaky, like something made for a world softer than the one we
lived in. He'd show up just before
sundown, carrying that basket, and together we'd slip out back
behind the house to where the old Magnolia tree stretched
wide. We'd eat sitting in the grass,
watching the way the lanterns flickered through the windows,
listening to the sounds of laughter spilling out into the
night. And he'd talk.
Not about the minds, not about the things the men muttered over
drinks. He talked about the things he
wanted, a little farm. Somewhere.
Far enough away from Shadowbrook that the air smelled like earth
instead of dust. A place where he could wake up
slow and breathe deep, where he could work the land instead of
digging through it. And he'd tell me real quiet,
like it was something delicate, that I could have a place there
too. That.
I deserved a place there, Nadler.
Shake my head, tell him to hush before someone overheard and got
the wrong idea. But he didn't have the wrong
idea. Jacob Henshaw loved me.
Not the way men in places like they say they do.
Not the way they press gold into my palm and whisper pretty
words. They don't mean.
He loved me like he thought it might change something, like if
he just tried hard enough, believed in it deep enough he
could take me with him. Jacob Henshaw asked for a dance.
Not in the parlour, not in some dark room where the only music
was the low murmur of men's voices and the clinking of
glasses. He asked me to dance outside in
the open air, under lanterns strung between the trees in the
centre of town where the whole damn world could see.
And I told him no. Told him I wasn't made for town
squares and harvest festivals. Told him I knew my place and it
wasn't out there with folks who'd never seen me as anything
but what I was. He didn't argue, didn't try to
change my mind. He just nodded, said all right,
Lily Rose like it was the simplest thing in the world and
left. And that should have been the
end of it. But the next evening, when the
festival was already in full swing, when the lanterns were
burning bright and the music had started up proper, there was a
knock at my door. And when I opened it, Jacob was
standing there, not holding wildflowers, not holding
anything at all, just holding out his hand, Not to drag me,
not to make a scene, just an open hand, like maybe just.
Maybe. I could take it, and I don't
know why I did, but I did. He led me through the streets
like I belong there, like it wasn't a strange thing at all.
A whole walking arm in arm. With a minor.
Through a town that pretended it didn't.
Know her name and. The people, they stared.
They did what they always did, the whispers crawling up behind
me like vines. But.
Jacob didn't. Flush didn't lower his voice,
didn't drop his hold on me. He just kept.
Walking like he dared anyone to tell him he was wrong.
And then he danced with me, right there in the middle of it,
under the glow of lanterns. Strung between the.
Trees. He.
Spun me. Slow held me the way he always
did. Like it didn't matter where we
were. Like I wasn't La Manonia, Like I
wasn't a whore. In a borrowed.
Dress, standing in a place I didn't belong.
Then came the laugh. A miner, not when I knew where,
but a face I'd seen before. A man who'd probably spent a
night or two behind the. Curtains of.
Emmanuel Lisonga let out a low whistle and ugging the man
beside him. Didn't take you?
For a man who had to pay for his dance as Headshaw through the
music like a blade, Jacob stopped moving, didn't drop.
My hands. Didn't turn to look at the men
watching us from the edge of the squad.
But his jaw went tight. I could see the way his
shoulders squared, the way his grip shifted.
Not possessive, not angry, just steady.
Like he was preparing. For something.
I waited for him to speak, waited for him to look at me, to
drop my hand, to let the moment and let the world decide what I.
Was. To him and I, I didn't want to
wait, so I didn't. I turned to him.
Pulled him close and kissed him. Not soft, not like a secret.
I kissed him like I didn't care who swore, like I didn't care
what the world thought. Because in that moment, I
didn't. The laughter stopped.
I didn't have to turn to see the looks on their faces, the wide
eyes, the men nudging each other like they'd just seen something
they weren't supposed to. Didn't matter.
Because Jacob. Jacob was grinning big and
bright, like the sun had just come up over the mountains, like
that kiss had changed something in him, like he couldn't believe
his luck. And he did.
Me right there in the middle of town, under the glow of lanterns
and whispers. It's a.
Miracle. Guess I should start.
Saving. Up faster then and I laughed.
Laughed because it was. Ridiculous because it would
never happen because he was a. Fool.
Because for one brief burning moment, I wanted to be a fool.
With. Him.
We danced until the music slowed, and when the night began
to fade, when the lanterns burned Laura and the festival
began to wind down, he walked me back to my door.
Tim asked to come inside, didn't ask for anything at all, just
touched the edge of my fingers like he wasn't sure if he was
allowed, and smiled. And I I wanted to tell him
something, something soft, something real, something that
might have let him keep on dreaming, but the words never
came. So I let him go, watched him
disappear into the night, watched the last glow of
Lanton's flicker against his back.
And then I stepped inside, back into the warmth of the parlour,
back into the world I knew, back into the place where Jacob
Henshaw did not belong. And I told myself it didn't
matter, told myself I would not think about that kiss.
Jacob Henshaw was a fool, A sweet fool.
A fool never belonged in a place like this, and maybe that's why
I remember him, because he never tried to make me belong in it
either. Jacob Henshaw asked me to go to
church. Not in the way other men might
have. Not like he was trying to fix me
or save me or make a woman out of me that I'd never been.
He just asked, plain and simple, like it was the most natural
thing in the world for a man to walk into Le Manuel liaison.
Past all the. Whispers in the candlelight and
invite a whore to sit beside him in the House of God and I, I
laughed, didn't mean to, but I did.
Shook my head, flicked my cigarette, gave him a look like
he was out of his damn mind. Jacob, what kind of man walks
into a place like this? Just to.
Ask a whore to kneel beside him come Sunday.
Didn't flinch, didn't stammer or fumble or try to take it back.
Just looked at me real steady, like he didn't see the parlour.
At all. Like he didn't see the way that
others were listening, waiting for me to send him off like a
fool. I don't know what made me say
yes. Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was something softer. Maybe it was the way Jacob had
asked, like he'd already decided I belong there.
But Sunday morning, when the bells started ringing, I found
myself standing in front of the mirror with nothing to wear.
Nothing plain enough, nothing proper, nothing that wouldn't
scream what I was the second I stepped outside.
And so I knocked on Ruth's door. She answered, still half asleep,
wrapped in a row, blinking at me like she thought I'd been.
Sent to. Deliver some terrible news.
And when I. Told her when I told Ruth of all
people that I needed a dress to wear the church, she laughed
herself awake. Well.
Hell's frozen over, she muttered, rubbing at her eyes,
stepping aside so I could come in.
She didn't ask why, didn't ask who put the idea in my head,
just rummaged through her things, pulling out a soft blue
dress, pressing it into my arms. She helped with my hair too,
took the coal from my eyes, wiped the Rouge from my lips,
brushed a light dust of powder across my skin.
Respectable. That's what I asked for, and
when I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.
I looked different, like someone I might have been in another
life, like a girl who might have belonged in a place like that,
sitting beside a boy like Jacob, head bowed, hands folded in
prayer. And I, I don't know how I felt
about that. I didn't have time to figure it
out neither, because just as Ruth finished pinning my hair,
just as I smooth the skirt of that borrowed dress, there was a
knock at the door, and I already knew who it was.
Jacob was waiting for me outside, dressed in his best, a
shirt that had been pressed, boots that had been polished,
hair that he'd tried to tame but hadn't quite managed.
He looked like a man with intentions, and when he saw me,
when he saw me standing there in the doorway in a dress I didn't,
arm hair pinned up, soft makeup light and proper, he smiled.
Not a smirk, not that sheepish half grin he gave when he was
nervous. A real smile, like he was proud
of me, like he'd won something. And I think maybe he thought he
had, because taking a girl like me to church that was halfway to
marrying her. The walk there was quiet.
Not tense, not awkward, just quiet.
Jacob walked with his hands in his pockets, humming under his
breath like this was normal, like he was just a man walking
his girl to church on a Sunday morning, not leading a woman
through streets that had no place for her and me.
I was just trying to breathe, trying not to notice the way
people turned when they saw us, trying not to see the way
curtains twitched, the way voices hushed, the way some of
the older women outside Aunt Tilly's gave each other long,
knowing locks. Jacob didn't care, didn't
notice. Or maybe he did.
Maybe he saw every bit of it and just decided it wasn't worth his
time. Either way, he just kept
walking. And before I.
Could. Second guess myself.
Before I could stop and turn around and disappear back into
the world, I knew we were stepping through the doors of
that little white church. I felt it the second we walked
in, that shift that pours, the weight of every head turning,
the sharp, quick murmur of voices, scraped boots against
wooden floors as men sat up straighter, as women folded
their hands a little tighter. Jacob felt it too, and he didn't
care, didn't hesitate, didn't drop my hand, just led me
forward to the centre of the room, to a Pew that wasn't
tucked away in the back, wasn't hidden in the shadows.
He sat me down beside him and the priest.
He didn't hesitate either, didn't stare at me too long,
didn't wrinkle his nose or furrow his brow or purse his
lips like so many others had. Just gave me a look like I was
any other lost soul who'd wandered through his doors.
Like it didn't matter how I made my living or what I'd done or
why I was here. Like it only mattered that I'd
come. And I, I don't know why, but
that almost made me cry. The service started and I I
didn't hear a word of it. Turn with me, if you will, to
the Gospel according to Saint Matthew Chapter 11, beginning in
verse 28. Come unto me, all ye that labor
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I meek and lowly in
heart, and you shall find the rest unto your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
That passage that's one of the quiet ones Doesn't come with
Thunder, doesn't come with law or warning, Just a voice plain
and still, calling out to the tired.
Come unto me, all ye that labour.
That's not the good and the clean, that's not the strong.
That's anyone who's been caring too much for too long.
If your bones ache from the road you've walked, if your heart
feels raw and half finished, he says come, not fix yourself
first, not make yourself presentable.
Just come. And he offers a yoke.
That's a strange gift, isn't it? A yoke is what you used to bind
2 beasts together. So why offer?
That to the weary. Because it means he'll pull
alongside you. He doesn't ask you to drag it
alone. Take my yoke upon you and learn
of me. He's not a harsh master, not a
cold teacher. He says I am meek and lowly in
heart. He knows smallness.
He knows silence. He knows what it is to walk
beside people who don't see you right and still he offers.
Rest, not escape, not forgetfulness.
Rest unto your souls. That's what he offers.
If you don't know what that means, if the word rest sounds
like something that lives far off in a place you were never
invited, hear me now. You are always invited.
You are always wanted. Come if you're tired.
Come if the weight's got you bent and bruised.
Come if you. Don't know how to pray?
But your heart won't let you stay away.
You'll find no gates closed here.
Not from him, not from me. His yoke is easy, His burden is
light. And if you've come in carrying
something heavy, maybe today's the day you can set it down.
Where shall the O Lord, when all the roads are long?
When every voice has turned. To.
Stone and I remember song. Where shall the burden lay their
heads when no one dares to see? Oh, let thy house be open still,
and make a place for me. Thy oak is kind, thy rest is
true, and I have come to thee. Where shall the hearing go alone
when all the roads are alone? When every voice has turned to
stone and none remember song, where shall the burden lay?
Their heads. When no one dares to see.
Oh. Let thy house be open still, and
make a place for me. Thy oak is kind and the rest is
true. And I have come to think
I didn't sing when the hymn started, didn't bow my head when
the prayers were spoken, didn't do anything but sit there, still
a stone, my hands folded tight in my lap, my breath shallow in
my chest, my mind racing. And Jacob.
Jacob just sat there with me. Didn't push, didn't pester, just
let me be. And when the service ended, when
people started rising, when I saw the way a few of the women
made sure not to brush past me, when I felt the hush settle in
again as we turned toward the doors, Jacob did something I
still don't understand. He didn't leave right away.
We just sat there like we had nowhere better to be.
Like he wasn't in a rush to step back outside into the world
waiting for us. Like he just wanted to sit with
me a little longer. And I, I let him.
Because for one single hour, in the hush of that little white
Chapel, under the glow of candlelight, I wasn't La
Magnolia. I wasn't a thing men paid for.
I wasn't the sum of my choices or my name or my past.
I was just Lily. The parlour was full that night,
too full cigar smoke in the curtains, perfume thick enough
to choke. The piano was playing something
slow, Lacy, like honey left out too long.
Ruth liked it that way. Said slow music kept tempers
down. Didn't work.
He walked in just before the hour turned.
Oh. In.
Beaumont. Well, that's what he said.
Name like a closed door, rich, polished, empty.
He had gloves, he didn't. Wear in a ring.
He tapped against his glass like he was calling someone to heal.
He looked at me like he'd already paid, and when he
smiled, I remembered something Ruth had said.
Clear as day. My grandmother used to tell me.
They say the night smiles 3. Times.
Once for the. Ones too young to see it coming,
once for the ones who think they've tamed it, and once just.
Once. For the ones who know better but
stay anyway. That smile, that was the third.
I should have walked out. But men like him they.
Don't wait for you to. Find the door now.
I've never been afraid of a man before, not in the way.
That mattered. Not in the way that made me.
Freeze made me. Think this is it.
But that night, for one split second I was because I couldn't
reach the gun. It happened too fast.
One moment the bastard had my wrist in a grip too tight, his
breath hot and sour in my ear, his other hand already reaching
lower. The next I was on the ground.
Not because I was thrown, because I put myself there,
dropped fast, hard, sharp, the way Ruth had taught me, the way
a girl learns when she has to. Twisted out of his grip, brought
my knee up hard into his gut. Reached.
Reached for the drawer. Behind me for the revolver I
knew was there. The one.
Ruth kept for when things went too far.
The gunshots split the air clean and half.
And then? Silence.
Thick, sharp. Waiting.
The bastard staggered, eyes wide, hands pressed to his side.
Blood was already spreading through the fabric, dark and
fast. And standing behind him, breath
ragged, hands shaking, guns still raced, was Jacob.
The whole parlour stopped. The music, the laughter, the
conversation, everything turned to smoke and silence.
I don't remember moving, don't remember pushing myself up,
don't remember reaching him, don't remember the moment his
hands started shaking. But I was there.
I was there, gripping his arm, trying to steady him, shake up.
His breathing was too ragged. His hands wouldn't stop
trembling. The gun was still clutched tight
between his fingers, smoke curling from the barrel.
His knuckles wiped with the grip of it, and he just stared at the
man on the floor, at the blood, at what he'd done.
Like he hadn't meant to do it. Like he didn't know how it had
happened. Like he had no idea how he'd
gotten here. Jacob, give me the gun.
Nothing, Jacob. He finally looked at me, and I
felt it. The way his whole body had gone
tight, The way he was breathing too fast, too shallow, Like he
was somewhere else. The way his fingers curled
tighter around the grip, like he thought he still needed to pull
the trigger. Like he thought if he let go,
something worse might happen. Jacob, give me the gun.
And then he did. Like his fingers had forgotten
how to hold on to anything. Like he'd suddenly realized what
he'd done. And when I pulled it from his
hands, when I set it down, When I grabbed his face and made him
look at me, that's when I saw it.
The horror. Because Jacob Elijah Henshaw,
sweet, foolish Jacob Henshaw, had never killed before.
And now he had for me. The room was still frozen, men
shifting in their seats, the girls wide eyed and silent, the
weight of it too thick, too heavy.
And Jacob. Jacob still hadn't spoken.
His hands were still shaking, his breath still too uneven.
So I did the only thing I could. I took those hands.
I held them tight, and I said soft as anything.
It's all right, Jacob. It's done.
But it wasn't because a man was dead, because Jacob had pulled
the trigger. Because Jacob was not the kind
of boy who could kill and walk away untouched.
And even as he let out a breath, even as I watched his shoulders
drop, even as I pulled him against me, feeling the way he
clung to me like I was the only thing keeping him standing, I
knew he wouldn't ever be the same.
Jacob Henshaw had never been a killer.
But that night he became 1 and it broke him.
He. Didn't speak the whole way
upstairs. Didn't argue when I led him to
my room, shut the door behind us, made him sit before his
knees could give out. Didn't look at me, didn't look
at anything. Just sat there staring at.
His hands. Like the gun was still in them,
like he could still feel the weight of it, like the blood was
on his fingers, not the floor. And then he started shaking,
soft at first, tremor in his fingers, a tightness in his
breath. And then the dam broke.
I should have stopped it. His voice was raw, not loud, not
angry, just wrecked. I stepped closer, reached for
him, but he shook his head, sucked in a breath like he was
drowning. I saw him grab you, Lily.
I saw him and I. His breath.
Hitched. He clenched.
His fists. His whole body went tight, like
he was fighting something bigger than the moment.
Like this wasn't just about me. Like this wasn't just about
tonight. I should have stopped it before
he even touched you. His voice broke, and when he
finally lifted his head, finally looked at me, he wasn't looking
at me, not really. He was looking at something
else, something long gone, something deep in the past, and
I knew. I knew.
Whatever he was seeing, it wasn't me.
It was another. His Mama.
I didn't know much about Jacob's past.
No, he didn't have people. No, he'd been on his own for a
long time, Knew he didn't talk about where he came from.
But I'd heard whispers, bits and pieces, things men say when they
think no one's listening. About how his father was a mean
drunk. About how his mother never got
away. About how one night, after too
many bottles, after too many broken things, she stopped
getting back up. And Jacob, Jacob saw it.
A boy too small to stop it. A boy who probably tried anyway.
And now, all these years later, here he was, a man grown.
A man who finally had a gun in his hand.
A man who finally pulled the trigger.
But it wasn't the same, was it? Because this time he was too
late. Because I'd already been
grabbed. Because the past don't care how
hard you fight, it'll still come for you.
And now Jacob couldn't tell the difference.
I saw him touch you, Lily. His voice was thick, unsteady.
Like a man. Falling apart piece by piece.
I saw it, and I thought, not again.
His hands clenched tighter. I thought I won't let it happen.
Again. I won't stand there.
And he cut himself off, turned away, sucked in a breath that
did nothing to steady him. I should have stopped it before
it ever got that far. His voice cracked.
I should have stopped him. Before he laid a hand on you
when I reached for him this time.
When I. Placed my hands.
Over his. When I finally made him see me,
his whole body shuddered and then he broke.
Jacob. Henshaw didn't cry.
Not like. Most men.
Not loud, not reckless, just silent tears slipping past his
lashes like he didn't even know they were there, like he wasn't
built for it, like he didn't know how to let himself grieve.
And me, I didn't stop him, didn't hush him, didn't tell him
he'd done right because he hadn't.
Because no one should have to do what he did.
Because Jacob Henshaw had just killed a man, and it wasn't
justice. It was a boy trying to rewrite
his past, and now he had to live with it.
I sat with him, held his hands tight, kept my voice low,
steady, just enough to keep him here in the present, in this
room with me. And eventually he fell asleep.
Not peaceful, not easy, just exhaustion.
Just the weight of it finally pulling him under.
And I sat beside him, watch the way his brow stayed furrowed
even in sleep, watch the way his fingers twitched like he was
still reaching for something he couldn't hold.
And I thought, no man has ever killed for me before.
No man has ever wanted to. I've had men hit me, had men try
to claim me, try to break me, try to make me less than I am.
But no one, no one has ever put a bullet in a man for my sake.
Jacob Henshaw did. Not because he had to, not
because I was in danger, not because I couldn't handle it,
but because he couldn't stand the thought of someone hurting
me because he loved me that much.
And maybe maybe that's why I didn't wake him, didn't shake
him by the shoulders, tell him he was a fool, tell him he just
ruined himself for nothing. Just maybe he needed to believe
that he'd saved me. That was the only thing keeping
him from breaking apart. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted
to believe it too. Just for tonight, Just for one
night. Henshaw had never spent the
night in my bed before. Not for lack of wanting, not for
lack of trying. He'd never said it outright, too
much of A gentleman for that. PO had seen it in his eyes, in
the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for me,
in the way he looked at me sometimes, like he thought
maybe, just maybe, I could belong to him.
And now, now he finally got his wish.
Only I leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching
him sleep like the dead. Well, Jacob, Elijah Henshaw, you
always wanted the right to enlighten my bed.
Shame this ain't how you pictured it.
I heard Ruth before I saw her. Soft steps in the hall, a slow,
deliberate knock on the door frame, light enough not to wake
him. I turned my head.
She stood there, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Come with me, she murmured. I glanced at Jacob.
He didn't stir, didn't move, didn't so much as twitch.
I sighed, pressed my fingers to my temples, and followed her.
We stood in the hall, low candlelight flickering against
the wallpaper. Ruth didn't waste time.
A story's got to be clean before it leaves the house.
You got a version you're sticking with?
I tilted my head. Jacob shot the man.
She nodded once. And why?
I let the words roll off my tongue, slow and sharp as a
knife slipping free from its sheath.
Because the bastard tried to rape me.
Ruth's eyes flickered, not surprise, not horror, just
calculation. You sure about that?
They shrugged. Makes him look good, don't it?
And me? A woman can't kill a man without
good reason, but a man can. She studied me.
Then she exhaled, nodding once. Only.
Problem. Is the books you know the law is
going to ask. Can you verify Mr. Henshaw was
here with Miss Forestier? I should have said yes.
Should have told her fuck it, I just forge it.
Should have let her handle it. But before I could answer yes,
Sir, I can. We both turned.
Johnny Bailey stood there. Arms crossed.
Face as steady as ever, I saw him on his way to Lily, picking
wildflowers. My breath caught.
He met my gaze, gave me a slow, knowing look.
Is that a good enough alibi? I could have kissed him.
Instead, I just smiled. It'll do.
I'll go get him. Jacob.
Didn't wake up when the sheriff came, didn't hear the low
murmurs from the front hall, didn't know that by the time the
morning sun started creeping over the mountains, his name had
already been cleared. Cause of death, clear motive,
acceptable punishment. None.
The sheriff nodded at Ruth, rubbed his jaw.
You sure the boy didn't kill him out of anger?
Ruth tilted her head. Man puts his hands on a.
Woman. To whom he don't belong.
I'd call that plenty of reason. The sheriff sighed, scratching
his head. Guess I better go interview him
anyhow. Not that I got much to ask.
He closed his book, and then he glanced at me.
You all right? I smiled, small and sharp.
Ask me. Again.
Tomorrow. Sheriff.
He just shook his head and let himself out.
As I had said, Jacob Henshaw had never spent the night in my bed
before, and after the way last night went.
Well, why not have a little fun? He was still dead to the world
when I stretched, ran a slow hand through my hair.
And then I got an idea. An awful idea.
The kind of idea that put a little lightness in my chest for
the first time since the gun went off.
I glanced down at him, still knocked out cold.
Didn't move when I slipped out of my chair, didn't stir when I
lifted the blanket, didn't even twitch when I slid into the bed
beside him, pressed up or just close enough to set the trap.
Then, real quiet, real slow, I leaned in, let my breath warm
the shell of his ear, and whispered.
Rise and shine, sweetheart. Jacob, damn near let out of his
skin, jolted so. Fast the bed.
Shook, eyes wide, hadn't scrambling for something.
Anything like he'd just woken up in the middle of a battlefield.
And me, I nearly died laughing, couldn't help it.
Into the mattress, grinning, shaking, choking on giggles like
I was some schoolgirl pulling a prank on a Sunday afternoon.
His face, Lord, his face, eyes blooming wide, cheeks burning
red, hands fisting into the blankets like he thought he'd
done something wicked. Lily.
He blinked, stared, blinked again.
Then his face dropped. Panic, real panic.
His breath hitched, hands going up to his shirt like he was
checking himself. Checking.
Me checking the whole damn regality of the situation, and
then his voice. Hoarse, confused, desperate.
What happened? I let the laughter settle, slow,
sweet as honey. Let him squirm, let him run
through every possible scenario in his head, every bad decision
he thought he might have made in the fog of last night.
And then, finally, I took mercy, leaning in real close, dropping
my voice to just above a whisper.
You're still a virgin, Jacob. The relief hit him so hard I
swore I saw his soul leave his body.
He exhaled, fell back against the pillow, ran a hand through
his hair like he'd just survived something catastrophic.
And me? I just smirked, but I grinned,
stretching, folding my arms behind my head like this was the
most comfortable I'd ever been. If you still.
Want to? Pretend otherwise, I won't stop
you. Jacob groaned, dragging a pillow
over his face. Relax, Henshaw, you were a
perfect gentleman. He peeked out from under the
pillow, face still down near Crimson.
I wasn't trying to, I know. And that shut him up.
Jacob. Henshaw wasn't here to take.
Jacob Henshaw had never been here to take, and if he ever got
what he wanted, it wouldn't be from a fogged up night with no
memory. No, he wanted the whole damn
thing, and that's why I let him Stew in it a little longer,
because he'd get there eventually.
Or at least he thought he would. I slipped out of bed before he
could figure out how to string together a proper sentence.
Stretched, slow, deliberate, watching him try and fail to
figure out how to recover, then just to twist the knife.
Come on down. He blinked.
Breakfast is waiting. He sat up too fast, winced,
still trying to get his brain to work.
Breakfast. I smoothed out my dress, tossing
a glance over my shoulder. Then you have to talk to the
sheriff. I grinned, twirling my fingers
at him as I saunted toward the door.
Come on, Henshaw, you're leaving out the front today.
Jacob followed me down the stairs, like a man walking
towards something he didn't quite understand.
His hair was still mussed from sleep, his shirt rumpled.
Sleeves. Shoved up to his elbows, he
looked out of place. Not like the others who left in
the morning, not like the men who walked out the front door
with a knowing smirk and the pocket a little lighter than
before. But the moment he stepped into
the parlour, the moment the girls turned to look at him,
that changed. Because in their eyes, he was
somebody now, The ones who left through the front in the
morning, the ones who had coffee poured for them, breakfast,
waiting. A quiet nod from Ruth before
they left. They weren't just customers.
They were Gens, the distinction, men of importance, the kind that
earned the right to be seen. And Jacob, whether he knew it or
not, was now one of them. I saw it in the way the girls
watched him, not just with curiosity, not just with
amusement, but with something damn near like respect.
Because Jacob Henshaw wasn't leaving as a fool.
He was leaving as a man who had killed for a woman.
And that, that changed things. Johnny Bailey was already there,
lounging against the counter, 1/2 smirk tugging at the corner
of his mouth. Well, look who's up.
Jacob shot him a look, half exhausted, half suspicious.
What are you doing here? Walked together last night,
didn't we? After I saw you picking
wildflowers. Jacob blinked, confused.
I stepped past him. Plucking a hot.
Biscuit off the tray, breaking it open with my fingers.
There's your alibi, sweetheart. His eyes snapped me, confused,
weary. I waved a hand, taking a bite,
speaking around my food. It don't matter what really
happened, Jacob. What matters is the story.
And the story is? I swallowed, licking a crumb
from my finger. You shot a man who tried to rape
me when Johnny saw you on your way here, Flowers in hand or
innocent light? Johnny grinned, raising his
coffee cup. Hell of a thing, really.
Right place, right time. Jacob still looked like he
wanted to argue, so I tilted my head, studying him.
You really want to tell the sheriff a different story?
That shut him up. Ruth called Jacob a cup of
coffee, set it in front of him without a word.
That was the final seal on it. He was one of ours now.
The way the girls moved around him, setting down food,
laughing, easy, nudging his shoulder.
Jacob wasn't just a boy anymore. He was a man who'd left his
mark. And when the sheriff finally.
Arrived. Stepping through the front door
instead of the back like he usually did when questioning a
whore, Jacob was already sipping his coffee, calm.
Settled. Like he belonged.
The sheriff didn't take long and didn't need to clear 'cause he
muttered, shaking his head. The man puts his hands.
Where they? Don't belong.
Gets what's coming to him. Jacob stiffened.
Didn't look at me, just swallowed hard, nodding once.
And the sheriff, he didn't notice, didn't see the way Jacob
was still holding on to the weight of it.
Didn't see the way. He kept clenching his jaw, like
he wasn't sure if he could swallow it down.
Didn't see the way I was watching him, waiting to make
sure he didn't crumble. All the sheriff saw was a good
man who did what was necessary, and that, that was enough.
The sheriff had barely cleared the front steps before Ruth
turned back toward the room, arms crossed, that slow, knowing
smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
The girls were still gathered, eyes bright, waiting, because
they all knew just as well as I did that a moment like this, it
deserved the proper ending. Ruth exhaled, long and amused,
shaking her head. So what do we?
Say to our Chevalier doner? Jacob blinked, still looking a
little like he'd stepped into a play without.
Knowing his. Part.
You're what? Ruth smirked.
Our night of honour. I grinned.
Means you did good, Henshaw. He opened his mouth, probably to
argue, to insist he wasn't some hero, wasn't some knight, wasn't
anything more than a fool with a gun who made a choice too fast
to take back. But before he could, the girls
descended. One of the younger ones, Marie,
all dimples and wild. Curls was the first to.
Pounce, grabbing Jacob's face between her hands and pressing a
loud, lingering kiss to his cheek.
Pour the garage. She teased, giggling as she
called back for courage. And then they all joined in.
Ruby dragged her thumb along her lip before leaning in, leaving a
soft red print on his jaw. Delphine smoothed a hand down
his arm, murmuring something in French before pressing a kiss to
his temple. Colette, always the daring one,
trace the finger along it's collar before pressing a kiss
just beneath his ear, whispering something scandalous before she
pulled away. And me?
I watched. Watched the way Jacob went,
still not tense, not uncomfortable, just stunned,
because when had he ever been the centre of something like
this? When had he ever had women,
beautiful, powerful women, treating him like he was someone
to be honoured? And even when he tried to shake
them off, tried to wave his hands and insist it wasn't
necessary, they wouldn't hear it.
Because Jacob Elijah Henshaw had earned this, and damn it, we
were going to make sure he knew it.
By the time the girls finally pulled back, he was at sight,
lips red with smudges of Rouge, hair tousled from all the hands
that had ruffled through it, marked and not by blood, not by
the stain. Of the night.
Before, not by the weight of what he'd done, but by us.
By the house. By the women.
Who had? Decided, for better or worse, he
was one of ours now. And when Ruth stepped back,
nodding in satisfaction, she gestured toward the door.
All right, ladies, let's send our cavalier out the right way.
The girls led him to the door, giggling, notching him, sending
him off like some soldier going to war.
He stepped onto the street, still half dazed, still wearing
the ghost of their kisses, and as he walked toward the mines,
they followed him to the balcony, to the veranda, waving.
Come back and see us sometime, Cavalier.
We'll be waiting. And me.
I just leaned against the doorway.
Watching him. Go.
Watching him walk through town like a man with a story no one
else knew. Watching the way he walked a.
Little. Taller head held a little
higher. And Ruth, Ruth was watching too.
She crossed her arms, smirked, tugging at her lips, and
murmured. Nice work, ladies.
And just like that, Jacob Elijah Henshaw walked out the front
door of Le Manoli Sombo, and the town saw him different because
of it. By the time Jacob Henshaw
reached the mines that morning, his story had already outgrown
him. He didn't write it.
He didn't shape it. But that didn't matter, because
men love a legend, and when they can't find one, they make one.
And Jacob, he'd given them just enough to work with.
It started small. A whisper here, a knowing glance
there. A low chuckle pass from one man
to another, building slow, waiting for the right moment to
set fire. Jacob was still rolling up his
sleeves when he heard the first piece of it.
You hear about Henshaw? What about him?
Spent the night with all of them.
Oh. Every.
Damn 1 Jacob. Still.
Didn't turn around. Didn't react.
Because, Lord help him, he knew better than to get tangled in a
rumor already moving too fast to stop.
By midday, the story had legs. By lunch, it was running.
And by the. Time.
They all sat down, passing tin cups and wiping dust from their
hands. It had.
Turned into a full blown epic. Heard they passed him around
like a bottle of whiskey. Hell, more like a sacrament.
Yeah, well, La Magnolia took first taste.
Of course she did. You think?
She was going to let a. Boy like that.
Leave untouched. Lucky bastard.
Jacob didn't move, didn't speak, didn't confirm, because what was
the point? The girls have done half the
work already. See, a man might exaggerate,
might take a small thing, stretch it wide, make it into
something worth envying. But a woman?
Women, they know how to craft a myth.
And the ladies at Le Manuel E Sombre, they have done a damn
fine job. Strike the rock and mind your
tone. The old witch watches flesh and
bone. Her breath is cold, her gaze is
deep. She knows the secrets miners
keep. Swing, boy, swing.
Don't catch her eye, dig the vein and don't ask why Gold runs
thick where shadows creep, But the old witch never sleeps.
Hendrickson's men, we earn our faith.
Tunnels. Dark.
We make our way. The mountain groans, the Timbers
moan if we press on, We're not alone.
Swing, boy, swing. Keep it untight.
The old witch stirs in the fading light.
Dig with care and hold. Your breath.
Where she deals? In.
Gold and dead, they say she guards a treasure vest.
Hidden. Deep where none half past.
But Creed has cost more than it's worth.
Many alive beneath this earth. Swing, boy, swing.
Let the hammers ring. Heat the song the shadows sing
in which. Pressed.
Hard our fortunes lie under the old.
Witch. Watchful light.
You're standing at the threshold of the Hendrickson mining
operation Witch Crest Division. Parcel. 42 and the north
extension veins. This.
Year's shaft #1 dug straight through the mountains.
Granite plank, full timber frame every six.
Feet. Reinforced with Oregon pine,
double braced for when the old witch starts breathing.
Hard 6 levels down. With lateral cuts east and South
on the 3rd and. 5th. It feels like you're crawling
through the veins of something. Ancient.
We like with carbide. Lamps.
Got a proper service? Fed air system, fresh pipes laid
in just this spring. Rails run or carts to the main
platform. Manual crank hoist for now, but
Mr. Hendrickson's looking to bring in the new steam lift once
the smelter's up and fire ready drainage runs through the
sluice. The devil's run off.
We call it carries. Tailings.
And. Flood water clear downhill.
Fenced. Off now too many.
Boots. Got pulled under.
Crews run 12 on, 12 off 2 bells. For.
Change one long bell if you. Hear the mountain.
Shift or the gas hisses. Loud.
Enough to wake the dead or is sorted here.
Gold. Iron and then red quartz
everything. Gets logged by.
Hand Foreman signs off Mr. Hendrickson reads every line
himself. End of every week, man.
Doesn't. Miss a damn thing you asked me.
Ain't another mine in California run cleaner?
Or. Safer, though I'll tell you
this, you work under the old witch long enough you'll start
hearing her too. The sun was low and Jacob
stepped away from the others, slipping down the narrow path
behind the work site. The 10 cups had been passed
around, the shift was winding down, and Lord above he needed
to take a piss, but privacy? That was damn hard to come by
these days, especially when half the men were still watching him
like he was some kind of walking legend.
He had just settled in, one hand braced against a tree, the other
doing what it needed to, when he heard the sound of footsteps.
Light, quick, a woman steps and before he could even swallow the
panic. In his throat.
Ain't this a lucky moment? Jacob damn near jumped out of
his skin, whipped his head. Around so fast he nearly pissed
on his. Own boots and standing there,
arms crossed, you know, grinning like she had just won a prize,
was Colette, for Christ's sake. Jacob yanked himself back,
fumbling with his pants, face burning hotter than the damn
forge. What the hell are you doing?
Colette just laughed, easy, unbothered, not looking away.
Oh, don't go shy on me now, handsome.
She cocked her head. Eyeing him like a.
Woman. Inspecting fine goods.
Not after last night, Jacob groaned, still fumbling, still
trying. To recover Jesus Colette.
At least the rumor got the description of it right.
Jacob froze. His brain shut down as his mouth
opened, closed, opened. Again, you hush, Henshaw, she
winked, flipping her braid over one shoulder.
Let a girl. Admire a thing.
Won't you? Jacob made a sound a choked.
Wheezing. Mortified sound.
And Colette just grinned wider. By the time Jacob had managed to
compose himself, Colette held up a small paper sack.
Swinging it. Lightly between two fingers.
Brought you something. He eyed it, still suspicious.
What is it? Aunt Tilly's bread and a bit of.
Honey. Jacob hesitated, because this,
This wasn't part of the game. This wasn't teasing.
This wasn't the rumor getting bigger.
This was kind. Why?
Colette rolled her eyes, pushing the sack into his.
Chest. Because a man don't shoot a
bastard for one of us and go hungry.
Now take it or I'll eat it. Jacob swallowed.
Took it, didn't say much. Didn't have to, because Colette,
she had already won this round. Jacob just shook his head,
laughing soft and low. Damn it, he should have known
she wasn't done yet, because Colette never let a man walk
away without twisting the knife one last time.
She was halfway up the Ridge when she paused, turned back
over her shoulder, made sure she had every man's attention, then
with a voice loud enough to carry clear across the damn
sight. I'm still walking bow legged
because of you, Jacob Elijah Henshaw.
Because Lily had given them all his Christian name, and when a.
Woman calls a man by his full name.
That's the word of God. No argument, no denial, no
talking his way out of it because Colette had just made a
gospel. Mr. Jacob.
Elijah Henshaw was now a goddamn legend.
Colette that you Cherie. Tell me something.
You ever hear the things they say about Henshaw?
Oh, I hear plenty. Ain't much I ain't heard.
Sugar. Question is what part you boys?
Getting wrong this time ain't wrong at all, Lovey.
Just want confirmation you know, from someone who'd.
Actually know. Oh, she knows this game.
They're dangling bait waiting for her.
To bite. But Colette ain't the one being
lured. She's the one setting the hook.
Oh, so y'all want to hear it from the women's mouths?
Now that's new. See here's the thing about
stories, y'all pass them around like a deck of worn out cards,
add in a little extra every time.
But we girls, we don't add, we don't embellish, we just say
what is and what is. It's worse than what y'all been
telling is that. So just hush, listen, close,
retoi. Sweetie.
Strum. Me an A.
As you walked into town, silver in pockets, hat pulled down,
picked wildflowers yellow and blue.
With this bouquet, my Lily, I'll bring it for you.
But another man's hands dared to wrong females on silk that were
in his own. Jacob saw red.
Jacob saw black. One pull, one shot.
No taking it back. Jacob, Elijah, what did you do?
Spilled blood for a woman and paid for it.
Too. Was it?
Love. Was it pride or rage at a man
who dared stray inside? The girls took him in, peeled
him apart, ran hands down his chest, kissed his heart.
They stripped him down, laid him out wide.
Said a killer like you should be properly.
Tried. Milly knelled, low breath hot on
his skin, teeth at his ear, fingers dug in.
You killed for me, now take your do and drowned him deep where
the petals grew. Oh, Jacob, Elijah will be worth
the pain. Did they fuck you breathless?
Did believe you said? Did you beg him stop?
Did you bathe for more or just lay there wrecked down?
On the floor. Then the others came.
Wet lips, sharp teeth, fingers below, nails dragging deep.
They took him down. They dragged him whole, rode him
raw, fucked his soul. Hush, cavalier, let's make you
plead. 1 whispered low, grinding his knee.
They kissed his throat, they kissed him bare, ran tongues
through sweat like a whispered prayer.
They tore him open. They took their turns, bit at
his neck, left bruises that burn.
By the time they were done, By the time they were through,
Jacob was shaking, wrecked, clean through.
Then who stepped in her voice like a spell.
Boy, you've been fed, but I'll give you hell.
She climbed. On slow.
Held him tight, made him burn through half the night.
She fucked him slow. She fucked him deep.
Made him bite down, made him weep.
By the time she was done, he was wrecked inside.
But Lily Rose took one last ride.
The sun rose hot, The air hung thick.
The sheriff knocked, boots heavy and quick, pushed through the
door, stood there still, and damn near lost his will.
Jacob lay there naked as sin, lipstick smeared from jaw.
To. Shin.
She had still damp the air, still rank.
The long man's face turned white, then blank.
He spat in the dust, wiped his brow, tipped his hat.
Said I ain't asked him how then? Turned.
Away stepped out slow, muttered Lord, I don't want to know.
Oh, Jacob, Elijah, what have you done?
Killed. A man and painted a club.
Did they take your soul? Did they take your pride?
Or just left you panting, too weak to rise?
They sent him out through the front that day.
A man undone but made to stay. The girl stood high, lining the
rails, bodies draped, climbing like vines in the swelter's
whale. The street was not sweat and
heat. Jacob's legs barely found his
feet and as he walked that shit one Rd. the town bowed their
heads, knowing damn well the load.
Old Jacob, Elijah, tell us truth.
Did they break your body? Did they hollow you through?
Did you taste the sin? Did you taste the grace?
Jacob, Elijah. None.
Shadow Brook Camp had not existed when I left.
I had known these hills before they were streets, before men
staked their claims and called this valley their own.
As a boy, I walked these slopes when they were still wild when
the. River carved its.
Path through unspoiled land when the only light at night came
from the stars and the occasional campfire.
There had been whispers of silver, rumours that the
mountain held fortune. Beneath its skin.
But I had left before men had carved their ambitions into its
ribs once. Long ago.
Before there was a town, before the Saloon, before The Gazette,
before they called this place Shadowbrook Camp, there were two
women, Old Mother Abigail Gambrel and Gamma IL Zashula.
They were not just women of the land, they were of the land
itself, the orchard, the cider mill, the river that ran cold
and steady. Those were their elements, and
they shaped Witch Crest just as much as the mountain did.
Mother Gambrel worked the trees, her hands always smelling of.
Apples. Her words as sharp as a well
honed blade. The side that she made wasn't
just for. Drinking.
It was memory full of bitter sweetness fermented with
stories. That lived in the roots.
Of the orchard Gamma Shula lived just below the orchard, her
cabin. Tucked.
Beneath the sprawling limbs of the old trees, people didn't
just call her Gamma out of age. Gamma was a title.
It was reserved for women who knew things, Things others have
forgotten or things they never had the courage to ask.
She mended more than clothes, she mended lives.
Her needle was like a compass, threading the broken parts of a
world too dark to see, and she wove red thread into the wrists
of children, warning them with a glance that they were marked
tethered to something older than any of them.
That night, it wasn't the land that called me.
It was a voice. Sweet, high pitched, a laugh
that carried through the trees. I thought it was a game, a
distraction, a way to feel alive.
For a moment I didn't understand.
What it meant? I followed him.
Luke. It wasn't the first time I'd
heard the laughter. It had echoed through the trees
in the evening mist, a boy's voice calling.
Me from the woods. From just out of sight.
But tonight it felt more urgent and more real.
I wasn't. Supposed to go into the.
Woods alone. I knew that.
But when the boy called my name, when his laugh curled through
the fog like a song, I couldn't resist.
I didn't. Know where I was.
Going just that I had to keep moving the trees blurred by.
Their shadows. Stretching along across the
dirt, the air grew colder, the scent of wet leaves rising.
In the air. My feet followed the sound of
his voice, light and quick. Something about the rhythm that
didn't feel right. Wasn't until I stumbled,
stepping too far into the ravine, and I realised how deep
I'd gone. Suddenly he was gone.
The laughter stopped. I was left in silence.
I wasn't alone though. There was a presence behind him,
something that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
And then she appeared. Mother Abigail Gambra.
She didn't speak my name. She didn't ask.
What I was doing? She simply stood there, blocking
the path, her face serene but knowing, as if she had been
watching me the entire time. Her hand was steady on my arm.
She guided me away from the edge, keeping me from falling
into the ravine. I was too shocked to speak.
You shouldn't have followed him. She said quietly, her voice
calm. The mountain doesn't give up
what it. Takes.
I was frozen. Unable to form a response, but
I. Felt it.
The mountain wasn't just a place, it was a thing that took.
And tonight it had nearly taken me.
Twilight Hush, the air turns cold.
Heather and Boom Willow. And.
Reed the Gills remember tales they told Heather and Boom Blue
Barney. Slip.
Off. Your shoes and latch the door,
Heather and boom, Willow and Reed.
There's something stirring by the Creek bed floor.
Heather and boom boom pani. The fence is split, the path
grow wide, Heather and burn. Willow and Dream.
The trees don't whisper what they hide.
Heather and Brown Blue Barney step with care where roots run
deep. Heather and broom Willow and
read. The ones who wander rarely
sleep. Heather and broom Blue Bunny
slip off your shoes and latch the door.
Heather and broom Willow and read.
Not every child comes back once more.
We walked back to her orchard in silence, her words heavy on my
chest. The trees, the apples, the
cider. Everything about the orchard
felt like home. But it was different now because
I knew too. Much.
We reached the porch. And I sat.
Down, feeling like the ground was shifting beneath me.
It felt wrong. What had I been chasing?
What had Luke been then? Gamma Illinois.
Zashula appeared. She was a shadow in the dark,
silent, knowing. She didn't say anything at
first. She simply walked over to me and
took my wrist, tying something around it.
A red thread. I watched her hands move as she
worked. The thread.
Wrapping around my wrist, binding me to something I didn't
understand. When she finished, she spoke.
You were following him, weren't you?
She didn't wait for me to ask Luke.
I nodded, unsure of what to say. How did she know?
Gamma continued, her voice soft like a whisper carried on the
wind. I followed him once too, when I
was a girl. The mountain takes what it
wants, and it doesn't care who you are.
It takes, and you don't come back the same.
I swallowed hard. She knew she had followed him
too. That was why the red thread was
around my wrist. I had been marked.
I was tethered. You're not the first to follow
him. She said quietly.
I was once. I didn't come back the same, and
neither will you. I didn't understand what she
meant. The mountain didn't just take,
it left something behind, something darker.
Then Mother Gamble spoke again, her voice low.
You're tied now. That thread will keep you.
It'll keep you from falling. Like the others do.
But you mustn't stray again. The mountain doesn't give back
what it finds, it only takes. And don't follow him again.
The mountain will always call, but if you follow it.
There won't be a. Return.
She looked at me, her eyes steady.
Her hand's still on my arm. Do you understand?
I nodded, feeling the red thread pull up my wrist.
Like a tether. To something far older than me.
I wasn't sure what I had just learned, but I knew one thing
for certain. I would never follow Luke again.
She takes your name, Heather Ember Blue Bunny, a copper
symbol thread of red, Heather Ember, Will and Reid.
She steals your breath and leaves you dead.
Heather Ember, blue Bunny. She freaks on giggles, steals
your grin. Heather, Ember, Willow and to
read. She peels your shadow from your
skin. Heather and brown blue Bunny
don't follow Bells don't hurt you.
Heather and brown Willow and to read or you'll be dancing under
the moon. Heather and Brown Blue Bunny run
to the porch, but mind your feet.
Heather, Andrew, Millow and Reed don't stray off the path or make
a squeak. Heather, Andrew, Willow and
Reed, Beware the Witch of Witch Crest Peak.
It was late. The music had slowed, the
whiskey running low and the air thick with perfume and candles.
More, the house hung with that familiar loss, Men leaning lazy
in chairs, girls stretched across their laps, whispers
curling like ribbons through the air.
It was just another night until the doors flew open and the
whole world changed. The air shifted, spilled.
The easy laughter died. Because of the.
Men who came through the doors weren't drunk, weren't rowdy,
they weren't laughing. They smelled like smoke in
gunpowder, and they carried something wrong, something
heavy, something wrong. And then his neck.
It's Jacob. I didn't move, didn't blink,
just sat there, the sound of his name ringing in my ears.
Hollow was a bell toll. I didn't want to turn, didn't
want to see, but I did. And there he was, slumped
between two men, boots dragging in the dust, his body half
carried, half dropped, blackened with soot, torn up, blood
pooling down his side, staining the shirt I'd mended for him
just last month. His head lulled forward, but he
was breathing, barely. And his eyes, when they found
me, God help me, they still saw me.
He miscalculated the blast, thought he was opening a vein of
gold. Found it too.
Like that mattered now. Like gold?
Meant a damn. Thing when?
His life was bleeding out between his fingers.
I was on my feet before I knew it, pushing past the men.
Taking him. From them.
Like he was mine to take, because he was.
He always had been. Give him to me.
They didn't argue, they didn't need to.
They knew, and I took him, took him upstairs, took him to the
only place he ever wanted to be. I laid him down slow, hands
careful. He winced, breath hitching, his
whole body trembling like he was barely holding on.
I touched his face, brushed the blood mattered curls from his
forehead. His skin was burning up, slick
with sweat, eyes hexy but focused, Focused on me.
Lily. He rasped.
I swallowed. I'm here.
His fingers twitched weakly grasping at the sheets.
I took his hand, held it firm, like maybe I could anchor him
here. Like maybe if I was steady
enough, he wouldn't slip away. Lily, I was going to marry you.
My throat closed up. I knew I'd always known, but
hearing it now, in a voice barely clinging to life, tore
through me like a knife to the ribs.
Jacob. I had enough.
His breath studded, his body shivering through the fever,
through the pain. I had enough.
Saved. I was going to take you out of
here, buy us a house. A real house with a porch, a
garden, a place you'd a place you'd feel safe, with curtains
and honeysuckle and music coming from the kitchen.
I'd sit on the steps just to watch you laugh.
I frowned. Shaking.
My head. Smoothing my hands over his
brow, like I could erase the pain, the regret.
I'm sorry, Lily. Ashnell, Jacob.
I thought if I worked hard enough.
If I. Just kept digging that maybe I
could give you more than this. I'm sorry I wasn't enough.
I just. Wanted.
To be enough for you. I sucked in a breath.
So sharp it. Burned.
And before. He could say another word before
he could drown himself in more guilt he didn't deserve.
I kissed him, soft, slow, like maybe we had a lifetime instead
of minutes. Like maybe?
I could give. Him, something rule, just for
tonight. He shuddered beneath me, sighed
into my mouth, and when I pulled back his eyes were wet,
searching. You were enough, Jacob.
His lips parted, but no sound came.
Adjust to breath. A broken, relieved breath, and I
gave myself to him, Slow, careful, reverent.
Like a first time should be. Like a man taking his bride to
bed, not a dying boy spending the last of his life in a
whore's arms. His fingers traced my skin like
he was memorizing me, like he was carving the shape of me into
his hands so he could take me with him wherever he was going.
And I let him. Let him hold me, let him love
me, let him believe for just a little while that he had what he
always wanted. Because he did.
His breathing changed first, slower, uneven.
I felt it beneath me, felt the shift, but I didn't stop,
couldn't stop, not yet. He gasped, shuddered, gripped my
waist tight, his whole body tense.
And then he let go. Not of me, not yet, but of
everything else. Pleasure shivered through him,
real, whole, pure. His last moment was one of
warmth, of closeness, of something he had wanted more
than gold, more than anything. Oh, and for one second, before
the end took him, he was happy. Then he exhaled and didn't
inhale again. I felt it.
Felt the stillness, felt him slip for me, felt his warmth
fading. Just.
Beneath my skin, where he should have stayed.
But he didn't. I didn't move, Couldn't.
His hands were still on me, his lips were still parted, his body
still warm. And I knew, I knew, but I still
whispered his name. Jacob.
I stayed there, stayed inside the moment because the second I
moved, he will be gone. The second I pulled away, he
would be a body, not a boy. The second I stopped pretending,
I would have to let him go. So I didn't.
The house was too damn quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes
when a place is empty, but the kind that comes when people are
waiting, holding their breath, bracing for something they don't
want to name. I was in the back, counting the
night's take, when I heard the front door creep open.
Then, voices low, rough, familiar.
A boy up yet? He came in last night.
Yeah, Y'all seen him? I paused, set my pen down real
slow, because I knew who they were asking about, and I knew
why Jacob Henshaw never missed a morning shift.
Not unless he had a damn good reason.
And after last night, after what they pulled him out of, I reckon
he had one. But the fact that his crew was
here now, asking after him, that didn't sit right because that
meant he hadn't come out. I didn't move.
At first, just sat there, listening.
Peach was the one who answered them, voice soft, careful.
Ain't seen him yet. Ain't seen Lily Rose either.
Silence. Then someone shifted their
boots. A chair scraped.
Go get Ruth. I already was.
I stepped. Out into the hall.
Met Johnny's eyes from where he was sitting at the bar, coffee
in hand. He'd been listening too, same
as. Me.
And when I nodded toward the stairs, he was already pushing
up from his chair. Peach hovered at the base of the
stairs, fingers curled in her apron.
The other girls were gathered near the landing, whispering,
their faces drawn tight. Even the ones who only knew him
by the legend. Because Jacob was theirs.
Because Jacob was good and that's why they were worried.
That's why the house. Was quiet.
The miners didn't follow us. They didn't ask to.
They just stood there, waiting, shifting on their feet like boys
outside of Church House. And me and Ruth.
We went up. The door was shut.
Locked. Of course it would.
Ruth knocked first, real soft, Nothing.
She knocked again, harder. Still nothing.
I met. Ruth's.
Eyes. She nodded.
I stepped back, braced myself, and threw my shoulder into the
door. The frame cracked, but it didn't
give. One more hit and it burst open,
and that's when I saw the smell hit first.
Candles burned low, sweat something deeper.
And there she was, Lily Rose, sitting on top of Jacob, her
hands braced on his chest, her back straight, still like a
statue. His hands were still on her
hips, fingers slack, the last place they'd held her before his
body went still. And Lily, she hadn't moved, not
all night. Her breath was shallow, her skin
too pale, her curls tangled loose around her shoulders, and
her eyes, Jesus Christ, her eyes.
Like she wasn't here anymore, like she was still inside last
night, holding on to something that was already gone.
Ruth moved first, stepped forward, slow and careful, voice
softer than I'd ever heard it. Lily.
No answer. She reached out fingers.
Grazing. Lily's arm.
Touched light as silk. Cher, you got to let go now.
Lily blinked, barely, like it took effort, and then, after a
long, aching pause, she moved. Slow, too slow.
She lifted herself off him, and I saw the way she shivered, the
way her breath hitched, the way she winced, like letting go of
him hurt, like she still felt him inside her.
She reached for the sheet, smoothed it over his chest,
tucking him in. Then she reached the 2 coins,
pressed them against his eyes with steady hands, and only then
did she speak. He was still warm.
Ruth's breath caught, just for a second, then she.
Exhaled slow, composed herself, and did what she had to do.
She took Lily's hands, gently but firm, and she pulled her up,
guided her away. Lily followed.
Body. Moving.
Like she weren't. Even in it no more like she was
drifting, weightless, unmade. And as Ruth LED her out the
door, the girls, the ones who'd spent the whole night worrying,
they saw her. They saw her face, and they knew
Jacob, Elijah Hinshaw was dead. The girls were waiting at the
top of the stairs, but the men were waiting at the bottom.
They'd stayed put, hadn't moved, hadn't tried to follow, and when
they saw Lily, when they saw the way she walked, the way Ruth
held on to her like she was afraid she'd fold in half, they
knew too. Then one of them, James Holland
maybe, shifted his feet, exhaled sharp through his nose and
muttered real low. God damn.
Another cleared his throat, looked down, scrubbed a hand
over his jaw. And then I.
Tried to break the silence. Mr. Hendrickson will see him
buried proper. No one argued, no one spoke,
just nods, tight and grim. And outside, the wind kicked up,
dry and restless, rattling through the street.
I pushed Lily into my room, closed the door and went to pour
her a drink. She didn't fight me, didn't
speak, didn't move. Just stood there barefoot,
barely covered, curls a mess, skin marked where his hands had.
Been. She was shaking.
Not hard, not obvious, but enough that I saw it.
Enough that I knew. I poured whiskey into a glass
and held it. Out.
She didn't take it, didn't blink, didn't move, just stared
down at the floor like she was still somewhere else, still in
last night, still trying to hold on to something that was already
gone. I stepped closer, pressed the
glass into her fingers. Lily, look at me.
She didn't, but she took the glass.
Small victory, now drink. She lifted it to her lips, took
a tiny sip. Barely there, but it was
something. I let out a slow.
Breath. Pulled out the chair across from
her and sat down, my own drink in hand.
I didn't push, just waited. Then, after a long, heavy pause,
I stayed with him all night. I know.
Her breath. Pitched, she stared down into
the whiskey, eyes glazed far away.
I thought if I kept him inside me and if I stayed, he wouldn't
leave. Her fingers trembled against the
glass. Her lips parted like she wanted
to say something else, but she didn't.
I exhaled real slow, my voice softer now.
Ain't how death works. She flinched, just a little, but
she heard me. That was something.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, my voice as gentle as I
could make it. You loved him, didn't you?
Her whole body tensed, a breath caught sharp in her throat.
But she didn't argue, didn't deny it.
And then, soft, almost ashamed, she whispered.
I told him. Her lashes fluttered, Her chest
rose and fell too fast. I told him.
And he still died. And there it was, the wound, the
things she couldn't make sense of.
She gave him everything, the words, the touch, the love he'd
been waiting for, and it still wasn't enough.
Oh my poor, my poor girl, I want to scream.
For you. Shake heaven by the collar.
Make someone pay, but instead I just hold you because that's.
All I. Can do because sometimes the
kindest thing a woman can do for another is just stay.
The graveyard was quiet, the kind of quiet that settles heavy
over you, like it's not just the wind that's still, but the whole
world holding its breath. The miners stood in small
clusters, hats in hand, staring down at the grave as if they
could will it to mean something. Painted ladies standing tall in
their black lace kept their faces covered, holding their
silence as if it was the duty. And then there was me.
I wasn't crying, not yet anyway. I didn't know if I would.
I just stood there, staring at the open grave, the fresh turned
earth and the wildflowers clutched in my hands.
I had thought they were just flowers, just something he
always picked for me, warm from his hands crashed in his
pockets. But now, standing there, I saw
them everywhere, lining the dirt path to the mines, sprouting in
the ditches, and thickest of all, here in the graveyard.
They'd always been here, I just hadn't seen them before.
Yellow for the sunlight before the.
Rain. White for the whispers I don't
say. Thy name tied up with ribbon
held in thy hands. Soft little secrets only flowers
understand. The sharp breath caught in my
chest, my fingers tight around the stems.
I knelt, slow and careful, and lay them gently at the foot of
his grave. Some petals stay, some fall too
soon. Some turn to the spider light of
I press them in pages. I lay them down slow.
Some things you carry, some things you let go.
Lay them in water, lay them in storm, lay
them in places. Soft on the inside, soft by the
gate. Wildflowers don't ask if they're
early only. Yell for the sunlight and look
for the rain, White for the whispers.
I don't say by name. When I stood, I felt it.
His eyes were on me. Mr. Hendrickson.
He stood apart from the others, still a stone, a man who had
carried the weight of the world with a quiet dignity that only
the town had seen. But now, standing there, he
looked different. He looked like a man who had
lost his son. His hand gripped his head.
Tight. Knuckles wide from the effort,
his eyes met mine, and in that brief moment, I saw something
wrong, Something that made me understand.
Neither of us spoke. We just stood there in the
silence, bearing the weight of it together.
The priest spoke the words carrying on the wind blending
with the weight in the air. Return Jacob Elijah Henshaw to
the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
He was not a perfect man. None of us are.
But. He was an honest one, a man of
his. Word.
A. Man who showed up, a man who
worked with his hands, but carried something tender in his
heart. The book of Ecclesiastes tells
us to everything There is a season and a time to every
purpose under the heaven, a time to be born and a time to die, a
time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted.
We don't always understand the seasons we're given.
Sometimes death comes too early. Sometimes it takes the ones.
Who've just begun? To bloom.
But we remember Jacob today, not for how he left.
But for what he gave to this? Town to the people who worked
beside him, to the ones who. Miss.
His voice around the fire or his boots on the porch.
He did not ask for praise. He did not seek reward.
But he leaves behind proof of life well lived.
The miners called. Him.
Brother, the children knew his love, and the wildflowers grew
taller where he walked. So we lay him to rest now, not
because we are ready, but because the mountain makes no
bargains. May the Lord bless him and keep
him. May he lift up his countenance
upon him and give him peace. Amen.
The miners bow their heads. The girls remained still in
their veils, and I kept my eyes on the ground.
When it was over, I turned to leave, but before I could, I
heard him. Lily.
His voice was rough, like years of smoke.
And authority. But there was something else in
it now, something softer. I didn't look back at him.
I couldn't. I.
Nodded once, unable to find words.
And then he said it. He spoke about you often, he
said, quiet and careful, like he didn't know if he should be
saying it. And I know he meant every word.
I swallowed hard. I didn't know how to respond.
What could I say? That Jacob hadn't suffered in
his last moments? That I had held him close until
his last breath. No, there was no need for that.
Instead, I just took the quiet comfort he offered.
The wind shifted, and when I glanced up again, I saw her.
Sorry. Yeah.
She stood beside her father, her small hand clutching his coat,
dark eyes wide and observant. She had the look of someone who
had already seen more than a child should, but in the way she
looked at me, there was a kindness, a silent
understanding. She said nothing.
Her fingers reached out, tentative but sure, until they
curled. Around mine.
I couldn't feel the warmth of her hand, the same kind of
warmth that Jacobs had once had. A small touch, but it grounded
me in that moment, me back from the edge of the grief I was
still holding tight. And in that moment, I realized I
wasn't the only one morning, neither was Mr. Hendrickson.
We were all lost in this same grief, each one of us holding on
to something different, something that would never come
back. But Sariya's hand, small and
warm in mine, made the silence feel a little less heavy.
A governance. Never thought I'd wear that
word, but here I am just for today.
Mr. Reinhardt Hendrickson sent me a little letter this morning.
Said Miss Suriya would be by this morning and if I didn't
mind, he'd be grateful if I kept her for the afternoon while I'm
at the mine. He said just someone to mind
her. She asked if it could be you.
That last part, that's the one that got me.
She asked. Not because she had no one else,
but because somehow she'd chosen me.
God knows why I'm no storybook governess.
I've got to pass longer than my hemline, and enough scandal in
this town to paint the church red.
But sorry, yeah, Hendrickson doesn't care about that.
She looks at me like I'm something torn from the pages of
an old Empire book, like I came down from a throne in velvet and
smoke, like I know things no one else has dared teach her.
It's unnerving, being seen like that, adored like that, but it's
also it's sweet. The envelope was folded neat,
his pen firm and exact, and inside money.
Quiet, substantial, Not tossed in gratuity, not hush money.
Just trust the kind of man only parts with when he's placing the
thing he loves most into someone else's hands.
I don't know what Reinhardt thinks this is, whether he's
trying me out, whether he just needed a quiet favour without
asking too much. But I do know it is for her.
And I think I want to try this just for today, just for a few
hours. The sun hit the lace curtains
just so, throwing little flowers across the walls.
I'd left the windows cracked just enough to let the breeze
kiss the perfume bottles on my dresser.
The room smelled like Violet and old tobacco, lilac powder and
rose water, and, of course, Magnolia.
Sara Ya was already sitting on the chaise when I came in, feet
swinging gently, shoes off, arms draped, like she was entitled to
this throne of cushions and quiet.
She'd brought her sketchbook again, but she wasn't drawing.
She was watching me. I raised an eyebrow.
You planning to stare all afternoon, Miss Hendrickson?
She grinned, sharp and unbothered.
You look like someone who should always be stared at.
I laughed. Couldn't help it.
Uncorked a little bottle of French perfume and dabbed it on
my wrist. You want some?
She nodded. I crossed to her slowly,
dramatically, letting the robe I'd half wrapped around my
chemise slip. Just enough.
To make her gasp, she clapped a hand over her mouth, then broke
into delighted giggles. You really are a Queen Sheba.
Was it no better her? Eyes.
Sparkled, Cleopatra wished she had your.
Eyebrows. That made me cackle.
I sat beside her, took her small wrist in my hand and dabbed
perfume just beneath the pulse. There, now you're royal too.
She leaned into me, quiet for a moment.
Her voice was smaller when it came again.
Do you ever miss having a sister?
I paused. I never had one to miss.
She nodded like she already knew, then, without hesitation.
No fanfare, no warning. She looked up and said, Well,
now you do. You're mine now.
Lily rose. That's.
Settled and I couldn't. Speak couldn't breathe because
she said it like. Law.
Like scripture. And when I didn't answer, when I
looked away, blinking too fast, she just took my hand and
pressed it to her freshly perfumed wrist.
That's what sisters do. They share secrets and perfume.
And just like that, without permission or pretense, little
Zaria Hendrickson claim me not as property as her sister.
And I found myself smiling for the first time since Jacob
passed. Sorry ya didn't knock.
She never knocks. She bursts in like.
She. Belongs here, which I'm
beginning to think she does. The armoire was open in seconds,
velvet thrown over the settee, gloves dangling from draw knobs.
She'd already chosen 3 different silk scarves and had them
layered across her shoulders like ceremonial sashes.
You have too many gowns. There is no such thing.
How dare you. Can I be Cleopatra?
I'd be offended if you weren't she.
Beamed. A smile that could bend the sun.
I. Helped her into the corset,
laced it gently, not tight, and brushed her curls back with a
shell comb I hadn't used in months.
You know she was real, not just a play.
I know, little one. She set herself cross legged on
my bed, book open in her lap. It was.
Anthony and Cleopatra bound in worn leather edges kissed by
fingers far older than hers. She cleared her throat and
without warning, began to read. Give me my.
Robe put on my crown, I have immortal longings in me now no
more the juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this.
Lip. She looked beautiful, not like a
child pretending like a. Girl.
Remembering a life she hadn't lived yet.
And I? I sat beside her, quiet still.
She looked over, suddenly shy. I'm glad you're my sister.
She placed the crown on my head. Then we're both Queens, darling,
at least for today. She grinned and kept reading,
and I let the moment bloom like magnolias in spring.
I knew from the moment she came through the door that something
was brewing. She had that tight look around
her mouth, the one she gets when she's trying to act casual and
failing at it, holding something too big in her hands and
pretending it's just a cup of tea.
I let her in with a smile and no questions.
She curled up on the rug with that old book again, brown
leather, frayed edges. Smelled like a shelf that hadn't
been dusted in a decade, Probably pulled it from her
father's study without asking. The house was quiet, still, that
rare kind of afternoon when the light feels thick like shirrup
in the windows. I'd left the front lace half
drawn so the breeze could carry through just enough to flutter
the hem of my skirts. I was wearing plum velvet, the
one with the high collar and the slit up one side just to the
knee. I'd dressed down, but not too
much. He'd been by the night before.
I didn't say it aloud. But.
My perfume was still faint in the air.
Did you always speak French? She asked out of nowhere.
I looked over the rim of my teacup.
I suppose I did. Spoke it at home before I left.
Why? She shrugged, flipping the page.
Says here. Most courtesans.
Spoke at least 2 languages, some four.
I felt something in my stomach fold in on itself.
I didn't. Move.
They were paid for their minds as well as you know.
I smirk. Do I?
She gave me a side eye. Papa says you're smarter than
most men he works with. I laughed because that one I
believed. It also says they had signature
scents and preferred colours. That.
They dress for effect that they control the space.
When they entered. It Are you reading or building a
case? They were educated, they were
storytellers by some were singers, a few wrote books, and
most were beautiful. And do I meet all those
criteria? Did someone write a song about
me? Because it feels like they did
she. Added.
Lifting the. Book and closing it on her
thumb. La Magnolia.
That's not just a flower, that's a name I busied myself with.
Pouring more tea. The miners sing it.
Oh, but the French beats. Most of.
Them don't know what they're saying now, do they?
I looked up slowly. How many miners in Shadowbrook
speak French, Lily? And then my Papa does.
My hand trembled just slightly. And I've heard.
Him sing it. That hung in the air between us
like the smoke from an old match.
I didn't say a word. He sings it like he means it.
Not drunk, not joking. I didn't look at her.
He. Hums it sometimes too, when he's
walking around the house. When he's just.
Come home. I set the cup down gently.
Watched the. Ripples fade.
And sometimes I could feel her eyes on me.
He smells like. Magnolia.
Not the orchard, not the bloom. The same.
One you were. She was quiet, stitless, a
painting, but her voice, when it came, was slow and sure.
I think he wrote it. I think he gave you that name.
She bloomed. In the dark where the wild thing
would grow soft as a pedal, sharp as a thorn.
Left her perfume on my skin. Now I'll wake up tasting sin El
Don Sulalu levsupe call belongs. She dances under She live in she
live a tool time and I want her all the time or I Magnolia from
my. You're.
Floating my you're soft as silk. Sweet as.
Sin. Took.
Me under stole my breath left. Me drowning, wanting death.
Oh, I'm in. No ya floating my soft as silk,
sweet as sin. Took me under, stole my breath,
left me drowning, wanting death. Don't eat diamonds.
Don't wear a man's brain. She just wants hands on her
hips. Innocence they'll bring.
She rise like Thunder, bones like sin.
Then. Slips through your.
Fingers like she's. Never been Ellen Brass and
morning. Listen to the midwash.
She kisses, she bite, she slips in.
Walk over you. She'll have her.
Own. 01 more time oh, I might know yeah Flirt in my Flirt in
my The softest silk sweetest sin took me under stole my breath
left me drowning, wanting death oh, I'm in new year.
Flirt in my soft as silk, sweet as sin, took me younger, stole
my breath, left me drowning, wanting dead you.
Ever. Beg for mercy for you even
began, never touched the fire and still reached in again.
She'll let you have her. She'll let you break, but ask
for her heart. That's.
Your mistake. She belong to you.
Powerful and cruel. I know you.
Soft as silk, hot as hell. Took me under stone.
My soul left me drowning one in death.
Thought I'm in no ear. You the shadow.
My chest tightened. You're too clever for your own
damn good. Zari Hendrickson, You keep
saying that and you keep proving me right.
Adderbrook Camp had on existed when I left.
I left Witchcrest with red thread on my wrist and the
weight of stories I never told. I left thinking I could outrun
the mountain. But the thing about the old
witches, she doesn't chase you. She waits.
And when you come crawling back, thinking yourself changed,
thinking the past might welcome you like a home, she greets you
like a stranger. The place I returned to wasn't
the valley I remembered now. The town stood where the valley
had once yawned open, as if it had always been there, as if the
land itself had folded around it.
Salons, boarding houses, storefronts, all stacked along
streets, worn into the dirt by boots and wagon wheels.
A town built by hands that never stopped working, never stopped
digging, never stopped taking. I stepped off the Stagecoach,
expecting, foolishly perhaps, that something would feel
familiar. But Shadowbrook did not know me.
The street smelled of coal smoke, damp wood, the sweat of
hard living. The air was thick with movement,
miners fresh from their claims, Drifters passing through, women
balancing baskets on their hips, voices overlapping in an
unrelenting hum. They did not look at me, did not
wonder at the man in the tailored coat, the polished
boots. I was no different to them than
any other outsider. The sign above the door read
Aunt Tilly's Restaurant, Not Eating House, Cook, Shop
Restaurant, the kind of name that didn't quite belong in a
mining town, but no one questioned it.
If Aunt Tilly Sinclair wants a place called a restaurant, then
that's the way it was going to be, and no one dared say
otherwise. And yet, as I passed Aunt
Tilly's, something in the corner of my.
Eye pulled me inward. A familiar face.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of frying bread and
fresh coffee, the quiet murmur of conversation.
Aunt Tilly's was not a place for spectacle, not like the salons
or gambling halls. This was where people came to
talk, to exchange quiet words, to share what was worth knowing
to watch. I saw her immediately.
Adeline Thornway. She sat at a corner table, one
arm draped lazily over the back of her chair, her other hand
wrapped around a cup of coffee, fingers stirring slow idle
circles. But she was no longer the half
starved feral child I remembered from the outskirts of Witch
Crest Peak. The girl with the dirt stained
fingers and the two big eyes had grown into a woman who wore her
place well. Even in a simple black frog.
She looked like she belonged, not to the town, but to herself.
She'd seen me before I had seen her.
And she smirked like she'd been waiting.
You got something to say, Leo? She drawled, tipping her head
slightly. Or are you just going to stand
there looking lost? The familiarity.
Of it. Struck deep.
My throat tightened. You Remember Me?
She let out a quiet snort, shaking her head.
Ghost tongue. Of course I do.
Ghost tongue. A name I hadn't heard in years.
A name I had once been. Before I could respond, Adeline
gestured loosely to the empty chair across from her.
Ghost tongue. You look like a man waiting for
an invitation that ain't coming. Sit down.
Hail, then, with the kind of practice charm that came from
knowing exactly how to command a.
Room. She tipped her head ever so
slightly and said, Come now, Mr. Hale, won't you join us?
Her tone. Made it sound.
Like a request, her eyes made it clear it wasn't.
I hesitated for a moment. Adeline's smirk deepened, but it
was not just her at the table. A girl sat beside her, small but
poised, a book open in front of her.
She'd stopped reading some time ago, dark hair neatly plaited.
Those strands had already worked themselves loose. 11, maybe 12
years old. Zarya Hendrickson.
She smiled, bright, genuine, the kind of smile that seemed to
catch the edges of a room and make it warmer.
She did not look away. This is Miss Zarya Hendrickson,
Adeline said smoothly. Tipping her coffee cup.
Slightly in the girl's direction, Zarya studied me,
then tilted her head. You're the newspaper man.
I glanced at Adeline. You've been telling stories
about me, Not me. Shadowbrook Camp talks, kid,
hears everything. She.
Doesn't. Miss much either, Zarya
considered. Me for another.
Moment before stating taller than I thought.
Disappointed, Zarya shrugged. No, just different.
Just then, a miner approached the table carrying a small
bundle. Wrapped.
In brown paper, he hesitated only briefly before setting it
in front of Zarya. Something for you, Miss
Hendrickson? Baked fresh.
Zarya's face brightened as she carefully unwrapped the loaf of
Still warm. Bread.
Thank you, Mr. Calloway. The miner only tipped his hat
toward Adeline and then muttered something about getting back to
work before slipping away. Zarya excused herself to share
the bread, and as soon as she was gone, Adeline exhaled,
drumming her fingers against the tabletop.
You see that that girl's got this town wrapped around her
little finger, and not because she tries to?
I raised a brow. Why then?
She's the one who started the lunch carriage.
The what? She was 10, saw those miners
with nothing but stale biscuits and decided that wasn't good
enough. Started bringing food down at
midday, in a little cart and all.
No one asked her to. No one.
Could have stopped. Her if they tried.
I frowned. Mr. Hendrickson.
What do you? Think he made sure the whole
damn thing kept running. Now it's proper set routes,
regular meal plans. But it was her.
Idea. She entertains them too.
Started when she was little, just sitting on a crate singing
while her father checked the minds.
And you know what happened? I shook my head.
They stopped, every last one of them.
These big, wild, rough bastards just stood there and listened,
like the whole damn mountain had gone quiet for her.
She leaned back, exhaling. They called her the Songbird of
Shadowbrook Camp, and those men they'd killed for her gladly.
And I mean that Hale. One time she was out singing for
them, one of those hot summer days where the air gets so thick
it sticks to your skin. So naturally, they decided to
move her into the mouth of the mine.
Just to keep the show. Going in the shade, I raised an
eyebrow. They brought her into the mine.
Oh, not deep, just the entrance. Where the?
Breeze. Still hit.
But those men? They sat there like school boys
at a Sunday choir, hats in their laps, staring up at her like she
was the only thing worth hearing in this world.
And the longer she sang, the more convinced they were that
nothing else mattered. Now Zaria, bless her heart,
would have kept going. Girl loves an audience, but
someone had to step in before the entire.
Mining. Operation collapsed into a damn
concert. I leaned forward slightly.
Mr. Hendrickson, Who else? He had to step in, arms crossed,
all serious like, and tell them real gentle boys.
I'm sure Miss Zaria appreciates the admiration, but you all do
have work to finish. And do you know what those fools
did? I shook my head, already
grinning. They stood up at the same time
like a bunch of soldiers being dismissed and then all together
like a God damn choir, they said goodbye Miss Hendrickson like
she was some Duchess boarding a steamship.
You're joking. I wish.
And the worst part? The rest of the damn day, she
looked at me like. I was the.
Wicked stepmother from some fairy tale.
I tried to tell her it was her father that sent them back to
work, not me. But no, suddenly I'm the one who
stole the music. From their hearts, she tilted
her. Chair back, her voice dropping
just enough to make sure Zarya wouldn't hear it.
You ever seen grown men cry, Hale?
Not the kind of tears you hide behind whiskey and dark corners,
but real, open, honest tears. She gestured toward the door
where the miner Callaway was. It had disappeared.
That man has. Seen more death and sorrow than
you can count. Tough as they come, but put
Zaria in front of a group of them.
Have her start singing. These men, these rough, dirt
covered hard luck bastards, start crying like babies.
She made them feel something Hale, Not just homesickness, not
just sorrow, but something better, something lighter.
And after that it became tradition.
Every now and then she'd come down, sit up on a rock and sing.
And those men, they'd sit there, quiet as church mice, listening,
like they were hearing angels themselves.
I looked back towards Zarya, who was still carefully wrapping the
bread. She was small, delicate in a way
that seemed out of place in a mining town, And yet she carried
herself like she belonged, like she had been born into this
place as surely as the mountain itself.
They may call her the songbird, but don't mistake her for some
fragile thing. And you should see him when she
talks to him. Big old miners, mean as hell
when they're in town, turn into a bunch of bashful school boys
the second she smiles at him. Tip their hats, straighten their
shirts. One of them once combed his damn
beard before talking to her. I laughed softly at that.
Adeline grinned. It's ridiculous, but it's real.
They love her hail. Not because of her father, not
because of money. Because she's good, because she
cares. I let out of breath, looking
down at my cup. And you?
Adeline tilted her head. What about me?
You. Care too.
Like I said, somebody's got to look out for her.
I studied her for a long moment. She wasn't just staying in this
town. For a job.
Or for comfort. She had anchored herself to
something, someone. Worth.
Staying for? I exhaled.
And what about Reinhardt Hendrickson?
If he runs this town, does he know how much he means to it?
Adeline gave me a sharp look, then smirked.
That depends who you ask. Don't you dare print this.
If you ask me, Mr. Hendrickson isn't just a man running a
company. He's the reason this place isn't
just another mining camp. He ensures his men are paid
better than anywhere else in the state.
He listens to them, makes certain their families don't go
hungry when times are lean. Have you ever heard of a company
town? Where the man at the top takes
responsibility for the people beneath him.
I shook my head. Well, my friend, welcome to
Shadowbrook. You probably expected something
different, didn't you? I shrugged.
I expected a businessman, and instead you found a boss who not
only gives a damn, he makes a point to know every miner's
name. I sat there, letting all of it
settle the town. The girl, the man who kept it
running. This place was not what I
expected, and I was beginning to wonder if I had ever truly left
it behind. I let out a laugh, shaking my
head. Give her a few more years and
she's going to stage a full scale mutiny.
Oh, I have no doubt One of these days I'll wake up and find she's
declared herself Queen of the Minds with 100 men ready to lay
down their pickaxes and die for her.
I tap my fingers against my cup. And what will you do when that
day comes? She lifted her drink with a
smirk. Try to negotiate better working
conditions, I suppose. I came as a Telegraph operator,
but I became something else. I had seen the power of the
press in San Francisco, how it shaped men's fates, how it
preserved what time wished to erase.
Shadowbrook Camp had no paper of its own, so I founded 1.
The Witchcrest Gazette was a record of the town's breath.
I printed stories of labour and industry, not embellishments or
empty promises, but the reality of wages, of hours.
Spent in the dark. Of the men who carved their
fortunes from the earth, one swing at a time, I wrote.
Of the deals made in back rooms, of the dust thick in the air,
the quiet cost of building something permanent in a place
that had once belonged to no one.
For now, the mines were. Steady.
The work was hard, but the pay was fair.
The men went in and came out again, their hands stained with
silver and sweat, not blood. It was a town still finding its
balance, still writing the first lines.
Of its story. I wrote about the mountain not
as something ominous, but as something vast, something that
loomed over Shadowbrook like it had always been, waiting for the
town to catch up if it whispered.
I had not yet learned how to listen.
If this is about The Gazette, you can tell them I stand by
every word. Relax.
Hail, I need to come for a fight.
Brought something for the nurb. Is that a peace offering?
It's a celebration, actually. God help us.
The Papers. Out.
Your name's. On the masthead, you gave this
town a voice, Hail. I didn't give them a voice.
I gave them the truth. Whether they want it or not is
another matter. You got plans tonight?
Sorting my notes, correcting typeset, wondering if I've
ruined my damned reputation beyond repair.
So no plans. Not unless you count insomnia.
Good, then I've already done you a favour.
Why? Johnny Bailey, what have you
done? Last time you did me a favour it
ended with me apologizing to mother Gambrel over a basket of
missing apples that was barely theft.
She left him on the porch. Yes for me, which I confirmed
after eating 3. And she boxed your ears then
chased you away screaming. That'll learn ya.
You're lucky she didn't hex you. You know, she just might have.
Might explain why I got kicked by my horse last year.
What happened? He wanted my apple.
But my point is. You've earned a knife.
That isn't made of ink. Ghosts.
Deadline Dust There a reason you're not telling me where?
Le Manolier song Bordello That's an odd place to send a
journalist. That's why I am sending you as a
man. You've been wound tight since
the day you stepped off the Stagecoach.
Figured. You could use a night off
somewhere besides my tree. This is a bad idea.
Buggy is waiting. I have seen Lily Rose fight
before and she don't go down easy.
She's got a mean streak, Sharp. As.
A blade pick as a snake and twice as deadly.
She's pulled a knife. On a man.
Before. Put the fear of God in them.
She's broken noses, cracked ribs.
Sent men crawl. Walking out of here begging for
mercy. She'd.
Fight the girls too, when they got too bold or too careless.
But she also protected them. Say a man got rough.
Say he didn't pay. She'd handle it.
No. Hesitation and no.
Mercy. But this, this weren't fighting.
This was something else. I knew she was pissed the moment
I heard. The girls were sitting on the
stairs, smoking, lazy like watching the doorway to her
room, like they were waiting to see who'd come out.
Violet exhaled a curl of smoke. Bad night might be a time of the
month, but I knew better. Or.
Maybe someone's gone and been real.
Stupid. I pushed open the door.
Lily was pacing like a cage thing, breathing sharp,
shoulders tight like she was caught between throwing
something or setting the whole place on fire.
The whiskey bottle on the dresser was tipped half drained,
The glass next to it shattered up the floor.
Her hands were shaken at her sides, but not from fear, from
something worse. What's eaten you, Sugar.
She spun to me, eyes sharp enough to cut, and then she spat
his name like a curse. Johnny Bailey.
Johnny Bailey? That's my best friend you're
talking about. Yeah, that's the funny part,
ain't it? Johnny set me up, didn't tell me
a damn thing, just threw Mr. Hale in my bed like it was a
joke. Like he was setting up some
grand goddamn punchline. And you know the worst part?
I liked him. Liked the way he smelled like
ink and clean linen, like something fresh, like something.
That. Didn't belong here.
Liked how nervous he was. Not shy, not scared, just
careful. Like a man who's used to earning
his pleasure, not taking it. I took my time with him, ran my
hands over his chest, felt his breath hitch.
I had him. Right where I wanted him.
And then he touched me. At first it was just his hands
wandering over my thighs, my waist, my back.
Then I got a little caught up and his hand brushed against it.
I. Froze.
So did he, thought maybe he didn't notice.
Then he reached for it. Not by mistake.
I hit him hard but rolled up him, reached for my knife.
You didn't draw your gun. I.
Did held it to his head and he didn't stop, didn't flinch,
didn't run. He just he reached for me again,
not to hurt. Me.
Not to. Fix me to touch me like he
wanted to, and then he put his mouth on me and.
That's when you. Put the gun.
To his head he. Didn't stop.
If anything, it got him more into it and that that's when I
put the gun down. He left me flowers.
Who? Julian.
And that's a problem, because they were wildflowers.
Oh, honey, he couldn't have known.
How the hell could he? She shakes her head, jaw tight
like she's trying to shove it all back down, but it's rising
anyway. Figured I'd let him take me
once, get it out of his system. And how would that work out for
you? She shoots me a glare.
But there ain't no real heat behind it.
He ain't Jacob. No.
He ain't. Julian.
Took me out to his land, said I needed a break.
Had a little homestead. Real quiet.
Once had family there, I joked. What, you want me to play wife
for the weekend? Well, we.
Did. You going to tell me what's got
you wound tighter than a noose, Sugar?
The last man who wanted to marry me, he died trying to prove it.
Ain't saying it to hurt you, just saying it because it's the.
Truth. You think I don't know that God
damn fool that's supposed to be me or you?
I ain't playing. House, Jules.
I. Ain't asking you to.
She was sitting at his little wash basin, wiping the paint off
her face. Didn't think nothing of it,
didn't hear him come in. Then she felt it, him standing
behind her, watching real close, and then his hand on her face.
She went still, didn't breathe, didn't move, and real slow, real
careful. He took the cloth from her hands
and finished the job. The first time a man ever saw
her without the mask. The first time.
A man. Ever.
Looked at her. Just her and didn't.
Turn away. Of course she smacked him for
it, and he kissed her anyway, and she let him.
And then he did something she didn't expect.
He walked over to his. Desk.
Pulled something from his bag and set it down in front of her.
A box, love me. Lacquered wood, polished fine
inside. Cosmetics and a mirror.
A real mirror. She could see herself and she
didn't know what to do with that.
You love. Me, yeah.
I do. I told him I ain't going to be
kept. Told him straight what you going
to do, Julian? Propose.
And you know what he did? Knelt, didn't he?
Right here in the middle of the damn room.
Didn't say nothing, didn't ask, just offered.
Then he said it. Lily Rose, will you marry
Julian? Then he reached into his pocket,
pulled out the ring. Just held it.
There didn't say nothing. It didn't rush, just waited.
I looked at it. I took it, turned it over in my
hand, felt the weight of it, the meaning of it.
And then what do you say, Lily Rose?
Is it yes or no? And you sent him out with a
bloody nose. Damn right I did.
Ruth, I think I'm going to marry him.
Transfer of land title Parcel 9, Gambrill Cider Mill and orchard
located along the east bend of the Hovic River, Witchcrest Peak
District. Deeded to Mr. Reinhart
Hendrickson October 3rd, 1873, following the passing of Miss
Abigail Gambrel. No legal errors, no contesting
claimants. Property includes orchard
grounds, Press house, functioning water wheel and.
Mill House. Residence Caretaking duties
assumed by Miss Matilda Sinclair.
Compensation. Authorized.
By Mr. Hendrickson under personal account.
Filed in reserve. No civic designation Orchard.
Remains. Productive press remains
operational. Study Hendrickson Hall The fire
has burned low, casting deep shadows across the mahogany
desk. Stacks of ledgers sit beside his
untouched glass of whiskey. The room smells of tobacco, old
paper, and the quiet weight of a man who has made too many
decisions in his life. He isn't expecting company, but
he should have known better. The door swings open.
Hard. As if the hinges themselves
flinched. The entire house feels it.
Reinhardt doesn't even look up at first, just exhales real
slow, pressing his fingers together before finally, finally
glancing toward the door. Yeah.
And there she. Is Zaria Hendrickson, all fire
and defiance, standing in the doorway like she's about to
stage a full scale mutiny and should take care of his own
right? Reinhardt narrows his eyes.
Zaria. But she's already marching
forward, not giving him a chance to get a word in.
In one hand, she's still holding the damn curtain, lace twisted
around her wrist like a battle banner, but in her other hand, a
small satchel. She slams it down inside.
Handful of gold Nuggets, heavy, unpolished, raw.
The sound they make when they hit the wood is dense, weighty,
the kind of sound that changes things.
Reinhardt stares. He blinks, and for a full, solid
5 seconds, he doesn't say a word.
Just slowly, slowly, he picks up one of the Nuggets, rolling it
between his fingers. The weight of it sinks into his
palm. His brows draw together.
Where did you get this? Where do you think?
Reinhardt looks at her, then looks back at the gold as if the
pieces might start. Explaining themselves.
The. Miners.
She nods, arms still folded tight, her weight shifting like
she's bracing for a fight. The minus.
The ones you paint, The ones who trust you.
The ones who trust me. He looks at her sharply.
And you're telling me they just gave you this gold?
They didn't just. Give me anything.
They wanted me to have it because they listen when I sing.
They told me my song makes them feel like men again.
When the mountain tries to turn them into nothing, it's deadly
serious. Standing in front of her father,
the most powerful man in town, and she does not waver.
So yes, Papa, the miners gave me gold and I've been keeping it
waiting. Reinhardt leans.
Back watching her. Real careful now.
Waiting for what? She.
Doesn't blink for her. The words hit the.
Space between them, like a hammer.
Reinhardt exhales through his nose, sets the nugget back down,
staring at the pile. Papa, listen.
You call her a lady, You always have.
You made sure no one disrespected her, even when the
rest of town whispered she's like a sister to me, and you
taught me we don't believe our own.
So act like it. Silence.
Reinhardt looks. At his daughter.
The Storm. Of her.
The conviction in her eyes. And then, finally, he exhales,
slow, long, measured. He taps a finger against the
desk, thinking. Then, at last, he leans forward,
hands folding. Together.
You want me to use it for her dowry?
It's hers already, so let's just make it official.
The fire crackles. Reinhardt presses his lips
together, considering. Then he reaches into a drawer,
pulls out a leather bound Ledger, flips it open, and grabs
a pen. Without a word, he starts
writing. Sorry.
He leans forward, eyes narrowing.
What are you doing making the deposit official?
You want. A dowry.
Fine, I'll set up the transfer, find the right man to handle it,
and by tomorrow Lily Rose will have this dowry.
Zaria blinks. You wait, that's it.
He glances up, arching A brow. Did you expect me to say no?
I. She falters, because honestly,
yes. Yes, she did, Zaria, I don't
know why you always. Expect.
A fight when all you. Had to do was ask.
Because you like to. Argue, that's why.
Not true. In addition to ascertaining that
you have thoroughly thought out your idea, I also happen to like
watching you win the debate. Zaria rolls her eyes.
You grown-ups are so exhausting, yet occasionally useful.
But before she can retreat in full blown victory, something
occurs to her. She stops, tilts her head, looks
at her father real close, as if piercing together some unseen
puzzle. Papa Lily Rose shouldn't just
get married and disappear. Reinhardt.
Pauses, eyes flicking up. No.
No, she should do something bigger.
Reinhardt leans back, studying her.
Real careful now. And what do you suggest?
An orphanage? An orphanage?
What do you mean? You obviously are inspired, my
dear. Go on, Papa.
Children who don't have Mamas or Papas anymore.
Some from the floods, some from the fever, and some because
their daddies went down into the mines, and never.
Came back up. She looked after me when you
were away before Adeline came. She kept the house warm.
She made sure I ate. She.
Told me stories so I wouldn't be afraid and if she could do all.
That for just. One little girl, she can do it
for more. Who better to take them?
In. Reinhardt doesn't answer.
He just watches her, something flickering behind his case, and
suddenly Zaria realizes he's not just entertaining the idea, he's
seriously considering it. You think she'd do it?
Zaria grins. Give her the choice, Papa.
Then, finally, Reinhardt nods. And just like that.
Lily Rose's future is rewritten In small mining towns like
Shadowbrook Camp Golden money live under the same roof.
Now here you wouldn't find a big marble bank or a grand hall,
just a single building with two. Functions.
The assayer's desk, where raw ore gets tested and weighed, and
the bank counter, where it gets converted into cash or a
deposit. The scale tells you what it's
worth. The Ledger tells you if it'll
last has brought their findings straight in gold dust Nuggets,
even half cleaned ore. And if the assailant said it was
good, the bank made it real. One side of the counter measured
what your hands pulled out of the earth.
The other side turned it into a future.
If you were lucky, Reinhardt Hendrickson walked.
In not. With anything from his.
Company. Not today, just a pouch from his
daughter and the quiet thought it might fetch a few hundred.
A kind gesture, a child's offering.
Maybe enough for a new dress, maybe not.
He thought that Weighton's pocket was sentimental.
He didn't know he was carrying Thunder. 2418 oz.
Purity's excellent veins real fine.
Current rate 20. Dollars and 67.
Cents an ounce. Sir, that's over $50,000
thousand, yes. Sir. 50,137.
Dollars. 20. Three cents go that little
helion. I can have it converted
immediately convert it and open a new account under.
Whose name, Sir? Miss Lily Rose Forest.
Yay, done. Would you like her notified?
Yes. Send along a messenger boy.
That'll be. Enough.
You're not. Staying No, I sense a storm
cubby Reinhardt Hendrickson's office
in town. Afternoon light spills across a
desk buried in ledgers. The scent of tobacco, ink and
old paper lingers in the still air outside, the rhythmic hum of
hooves, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer.
Well, now I suppose I. Standing before him is Lily Rose
Forest. Yay.
Hair wild from the wind, gloves still on.
Her body is not even fully buttoned.
In one hand, a crumpled slip of paper, the bank notice $50,000
in my name. Yes ma'am.
What the hell do you think you're doing now?
Hold on. Before you take the other side
of my face off, you might want to ask who put me up to this.
Saria. Now you see, she sent me on the
mission and made damn sure. I followed.
Orders. That girl's been squirreling
away gold for months. Every time she visited the
camps, those miners handed her a piece of their pay.
Dust, flakes, little lumps. She never spent a cent.
Said she was saving it. Saving it for you.
That child has no damn sense. She's got a mouth like a saw
blade and enough grit to shame a preacher just like her mother
did. She asked me to offer you this,
too. It's a deed to a property.
The gambrel, cider mill and orchard passed to me after old
Miss Abigail died. No heirs, no contest.
Until he's been tending it ever since.
Quietly, Zaria said if you're going to become someone's wife,
best make sure you've still got a name.
Of your own. She thinks you ought to open.
An. Orphanage.
She's got a real peculiar way of showing she learned it.
Honest Jacob Henshaw's Gold Claim N Extension Vein, Parcel
42. F.
He came to me with this little nugget, barely worth a cup of
coffee. Said he wanted a corner of land.
Wasn't shy about it, just certain.
I told him to go get us some coffee and while he was gone I
drew up the deed. He came back with a full carafe,
wrapped in a towel like it was treasure.
Didn't even bring himself a cup, just poured into mine like that
was enough. I told him if this is a
gentleman's agreement, then we both need one.
So he smiled, sat down and we drank.
We shook on it. When the accident happened,
folks walked away from that slope.
Too much sorrow in the dirt. But I knew what it meant, and I
couldn't let it be forgotten. I didn't claim it to own it.
I claimed it so the town wouldn't pick it clean, so it'd
still mean what he meant it to. He was building that future for
you, Miss Lily. And I saw it plain when I was a
young man, before Witch Crest, before the mine, before the
Hendrickson name meant anything. I found out the woman I loved
was carrying my child and I worked every waking moment
because I had. To.
Because I wanted. Her to know I could be enough.
So when I saw Jacob, young, quiet, calloused hands trying to
give you the world, it hit me. It hurt because I know what he
was trying to become and I know what he never got the chance to
finish. This is my way of honouring him.
He didn't tell me about the claim.
He didn't want a fortune, he wanted a farm.
Said maybe we'd have chickens, maybe even a pig or two.
He said if he could just save enough, we'd have a patch of
earth that was ours. Someplace to grow, something to
make a life to rest. Well, I suppose I ought to go
find myself a dress, you suppose, right?
Thank you. Thank you for everything.
You don't owe me a thing. This was Zarya's coup, plain and
simple. And if anyone ever asks who
overthrew the king, you tell him Mademoiselle Guillotine wore a
bow. And.
Dropped the blade. Clean
from the which crossed Gazette A most celebrated union, the
marriage of Miss Lily Rose Forest.
Yay. And Mr. Julian Theodore Hale,
Shadowbrook Camp was host to a most joyous occasion on Sunday
last, the 12th of June, upon the marriage of Mr. Julian Theodore
Hale, esteemed editor of the Witchcrest Gazette, to Miss Lily
Rose, Forestier, a lady of both beauty and reputation well
regarded within this community. The ceremony, held within the
modest confines of the town Chapel, was attended by many of
Shadowbrook's most notable residents, including Mr.
Reinhardt Hendrickson and his daughter, Miss Zahri Yah
Hendrickson, whose involvement in the preparations for the day
was evident in the finery of the occasion.
The bride, who has long been a figure of admiration within
certain circles of Shadowbrook society, was attired in an
exquisite gown of ivory satin, its train adorned with the
finest lace hand selected and arranged under the careful eye
of Miss Hendrickson. A crown of Magnolia blossoms,
chosen with particular sentiment, graced her hair,
complementing a veil of delicate embroidery.
She bore herself with a quiet elegance, her expression
composed yet alight with that knowing confidence for which she
is so well. Recognised.
The groom, known for his discerning mind and the sharp
wit of his pen, met the occasion with equal steadiness.
Attired in a fine suit of black broadcloth, he bore the
solemnity of the moment with the same gravity he applies to his
work, though those who knew him well could not fail to note the
flicker of something deeper. A man who has long sought the
truth in all things. And at last found it in the
woman before him. Mr. Reinhardt Hendrickson had
the honour of escorting the bride, an act which, though
unspoken, bore great significance to those in
attendance. The ceremony itself was one of
simplicity and sincerity, the vows exchanged in quiet but firm
resolution before God and gathered witnesses.
Following the ceremony, the newlyweds and their guests
retired to Aunt Tilly's, where a reception was held in their
honour. The evening was marked by
revelry of the most joyous sort, with a generous spread of fine
fare, lively music and dancing that carried well into the
night. The couple shared their first
dance beneath the glow of Lantern light, the bride's
laughter rising over the strains of a fiddle as those in
attendance toasted to their health and happiness.
The couple is to reside at the Hale.
Family. Homestead, a property of well
kept farmland and sturdy foundation, settled beyond the
town's main thoroughfare. Long held within the Hale
family, the estate now passes to Mr. Hale.
Its. Heir who will continue its
stewardship alongside his new wife.
It is the wish of this publication, and indeed all of
Shadowbrook, that their marriage be blessed with prosperity,
companionship and many happy years to come From the Witch
Crest Gazette. A new endeavour for
Shadowbrook's future. Plans for an orphanage underway.
Shadowbrook Camp, a town built upon the labour and resilience
of its people, has long known the weight of hardship in a
place where men risk their lives each.
Day. Beneath the Earth's surface.
And where the? Future is often uncertain.
It is easy to forget those who are left behind, the children
who have lost their fathers to the mines, their mothers to
misfortune, their homes to the cruel turns of fate.
However, it would seem that fate, for once, has turned in
their. Favour, it has been confirmed
that. Plans are now in motion for the
establishment of an orphanage within Shadowbrook, a place of
shelter and guidance for those children left without kin or
care. The.
Endeavour is said to have been inspired by none other than Miss
Zarya Hendrickson, whose keen sense of justice and unwavering
determination are well known to those familiar with the
Hendrickson household. Those close to the family report
that Miss Hendrickson first raised the matter within her own
home, arguing that a town as prosperous as ours should not
allow its most vulnerable to go uncared for.
Perhaps most notably, the charge of overseeing this orphanage
will fall to Mrs. Lily Rose Hale.
Near Forestier, whose reputation within this community has long
been the subject of both admiration and curiosity, though
some may find the choice unexpected.
Those who have witnessed her quiet acts of kindness, those
who recall the tenderness with which she has cared for others
in both life and loss, will not be surprised by her acceptance
of this role. While details of the
establishment's location and formal arrangements have yet to
be finalised, it is said that funding for the orphanage will
come in. Part from an.
Anonymous but substantial contribution, ensuring that this
endeavour is not a fleeting act of goodwill but a permanent
fixture in the town's future. It is a rare thing in a place
such as this to see the future given shape not by industry or
ambition, but by care. To see hands not merely digging
into the earth for wealth, but reaching out to those who need
the most. This publication will follow the
development of the orphanage closely and further details will
be provided as they come. But for now, let it be known
there is work being done in Shadowbrook, not only beneath
the ground, but above it for those who deserve more than fate
has given them. Obituary published in the
Witchcrest Gazette, October 1891, written by Julian Theodore
Hale. It is with a quiet sorrow that I
write these words, knowing full well that no ink nor paper could
ever capture the woman they attempt to remember.
Mrs. Lily Rose Forestier Hale departed this world on the
evening of October 3rd, 1891, seated in the parlour of Madame
Ruth's old shop, a place she tended long after its owner was
gone. Born in 1848, she came into this
world as Thaddeus foreigner, but she did not let the name define
her. She was once the finest jewel of
Le Mangiolier, sombre, but she was never merely the sum of what
men saw in her. She became the matron of
Shadowbrook's Orphanage. A mother to those who had none.
Her passing was not a tragedy, nor was it unexpected.
The town has been fading for years now.
She leaves behind no children of blood, but many of the heart.
And she leaves me. I do not write this as an editor
or a journalist. She was my wife, my companion,
and my equal. She was the only thing in this
cursed town that ever truly made sense to me.
And now she's gone. There will be no funeral, for
there is no one left to attend it.
She will not be forgotten. She has simply stepped into the
next room, where Ruth is waiting with a deck of cards and a
knowing smile. And she has left the lanterns
burning so the rest of us can find our way home.
Unpublished letter to the editor.
The San Francisco Chronicle. April 17th. 1906 Recovered from
Chronicle Archives, Box 14 B Rural memory orphaned.
Testimonies filed for publication April 18th, 1906.
Pulled before press due to the earthquake.
To the editor, Sir, I do not expect this letter will command
much. Attention in a city such as.
Ours with all. Its proper business and daily
worries, and I am well aware that the closing of a charitable
home here or there is no cause for great alarm in the eyes of
those who never needed one. But I felt compelled to write
for the sake of memory and of truth.
I was raised in a place called Shadowbrook Camp, nestled in the
mountains some ways east of here, beneath the dark and
watchful shoulders of Witch Crest Peak.
The town is scarcely marked anymore, just a scattering.
Of stone. Earth and silence, but for a
time it lived, and in its heart stood.
A house that. Changed the course of my life
and the lives of many others. It was called Little Angel's
Rest. It was no formal.
Institution. There were no uniforms, no rules
nailed to the walls, no patrons of society came calling to
inspect our progress. But none of us lacked for what
we needed most. The house was white with blue
shutters and a warped porch that leaned left when the snows came
heavy. A copper bell was hung from the
gate post, though we were warned not to ring it.
Without good reason. It stood near the Hovick River
bend, just past the remnants of Old Mother Gambrel.
'S apple orchard. It was run, lived in, really, by
a woman named Missus Lily Rose Hale, known to some in earlier
years as La Magnolia, though we children scarcely knew what that
meant. She was not of ordinary bearing.
There was always. A perfume.
About her faint and floral, and she carried herself as one who
had once been watched closely and had learned to use it like
armor. But whatever her past, she gave
her life to us. We were not few.
I believe there were eight of us when I came to stay, though that
number rose and fell with the years and the winters.
Some stayed only a season. Others, like myself, remained
until the mountain itself seemed to loosen its hold.
Some of us arrived nameless. Others bore names we could not
pronounce or were too young to answer to them.
Missus Hale named us, not always legally and not always at once.
She would study us quietly for a time and then one day address us
by the name she'd chosen, and that would be that.
She named me Zarya. May.
I never asked where it came from.
I never had to. I was perhaps.
Six years old when I arrived. My brother, who she named Jacob
Elijah, was older and already tall.
He carried me on his back the day we were left at her gate.
I remember this as clearly as I remember yesterday.
My brother rang the bell. She came to the door, looked at
us for a long time before speaking, and then she said,
well, you're here now, come in. Life in that house was not
always gentle, but it was good we worked.
We swept, We fetched water. We learned our letters by
tracing them into ash on the stove top.
We had chores, but they carried the dignity of contribution, not
the sting of punishment. She did not coddle, but she saw
us. She never struck a child, not
that I saw, but her voice could steal a room, and when she
laughed it was like church bells on a warm day.
Sudden. Full and never quite expected.
There was one game we played that I still.
Think of. Often it was called Escape the
Witch. At dusk, when the orchard filled
with shadows, she would Don a black shawl and her red sash
folded just so and disappear into the trees.
We children would scatter, hiding behind barrels and stone
fences beneath the wood pile. Or in the.
Grass We would Crouch low, trying not to laugh or scream
with terror, And we would whisper among ourselves.
What would she do if she caught us?
Then, sure as dusk, we'd hear her voice, lilting and cruel in
play, tell you what she'll do. Lock you up with the beetles and
worms. Deep in the caverns where tears.
Run. Black starve you and punish you
turn by turn, till your arms and legs are sticks and your fingers
crack. It was dreadful and we adored
it. She never caught us unless we
let her, and if we did? If she grabbed.
Your ankle or leapt from behind the old Willow.
She would pull you into her arms and whisper.
Good child. You remembered the room.
Don't go near the caves. Only later did I understand.
She was teaching us safety. She was teaching us to be afraid
of the right things. We lost her in the autumn of
1891. I was.
In the city by then I did not see her.
After, but I carry her still, this letter, however long,
however strange, may be the only account that remains of that
house, of what we were and who she was.
So if it finds a place in your archives, or even one small
corner of your pages, let it do what I cannot do in person.
Let it say her name. Lily Rose Hale.
She was not our blood, but she was our home, and she gave us
the only names we were ever proud to answer to.
I remain Missus Zadie Mae Caldwell, formerly Zaria Mae
Hale, 23rd and Shotwell, San Francisco, April 17th, 19 O 6.
Times are tough, darling, I know eggs cost more than sin.
And rinse. Got sharper teeth than a
roogaroo, but if you've got a spare coin rattling.
In your pocket. Or a.
Heart that beats. For.
Stories Buy us a cup of Witch Crest brew Hot, haunted, and
strong enough to keep the ghosts talking.
Find. Us at.
Ko-fi.com/zari Yahalo a horror anthology.
We'll keep the kettle on. The ghosts get fussy without
their coffee. Lavender's blue dilly dilly
lavender scream when I am king dilly dilly you shall be queen
who told me so dilly dilly who told.
Me this. I told myself dilly, dilly.
I told me this. Call up your men.
Dilly dilly, set them to. Work.
Some with a rake dilly dilly, some with fork, some to make hay
dilly dilly, some tooth thresh corn while you I.
Dilly. Dilly keep ourselves.
Warm. Lavender's green Dilly Dilly.
Lavender's blue. You must love me Dilly dilly,
because I love you. I heard one say Dilly, dilly
Since I came through you, I dilly dilly never shall do.
Up in the Pines Dilly, dilly past widows and shadows grow
long. Dilly, dilly none call you
friend. I wore your ring, Dilly Dilly
made out of twine, Buried it deep.
Dilly dilly under the fire. Whisper my name.
Dilly dilly thrice if you dare leave out a stone.
Dilly dilly, braid back your hair.
Lavenders blue dilly dilly, moonlight and frost.
I am not gone. Dilly dilly only lost.