Page 102 of Charlotte

Delly nodded slowly.

“I can try.”

“For you, that is practically a vow.”

“It is a beginning.”

Lottie looked at her sharply.

Delly blinked.

Then, to Lottie’s complete surprise, both sisters began laughing.

It was not graceful laughter. It came out cracked and wet and too close to tears, but it was better than crying alone.

Delly pulled her into an embrace. Lottie held on hard.

“I am frightened for you,” Delly admitted into her hair.

“I know.”

“I will likely remain frightened.”

“I assumed as much.”

“If he hurts you, I may strike him.”

“With what?”

“A ledger.”

“That seems appropriate.”

“It has weight.”

Lottie laughed again, and Delly’s arms tightened.

When at last they drew apart, the sky had deepened toward purple, and the church windows had gone dark. Delly wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand, then looked faintly offended tears had happened to her at all.

Lottie handed her a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” Delly muttered.

“You are welcome.”

They walked back toward the meeting hall together. By the time they reached the side door, the lamps inside had been lit. The lending table sat just where Lottie had left it. The ledger lay open, the ink dry. A few books waited to be reshelved.

Everything looked ordinary.

That was the strangest part of a fight. A heart could split open and mend itself crookedly, and a room would still contain chairs, shelves, and dust in the corners.

Delly crossed to the ledger and closed it.

Then she looked at Lottie. “Tell me about him.”

Lottie paused.

“Not the safe version,” Delly said. “The true one.”