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stayed, bless her, Corisande thought as she
opened the study door, Frances's stern command for Marguerite and Linette to
cease their quarreling rivaling any general's as it carried down the hall. But
the debacle in the kitchen was forgotten as Corisande's attention once more
flew to the sole occupant of the small shuttered room, her father seated at his
desk with head bent and a book spread out before him, the flickering light of a
candle falling like gilt mist upon his silvery hair.
    Joseph Easton's hair had turned white as Christmas snow
shortly after his beloved wife's death, his once broad shoulders long since
sagging under an invisible burden, and his step the slow, uncertain shuffle of
a man twice his age of forty-two. But his mind had remained unclouded, at least
in matters of books and the Bible, and the pulpit still rang on Sundays with
the power of the Word.
    If not for that, he would surely have lost his parish,
for along with his white hair had come an eccentric streak that had emptied the
pews as if the devil himself stood grinning at the altar with his tail
twitching and fork in hand—at least until the superstitious parishioners grew
accustomed to their parson's unintelligible mutterings, moonlit stints at
gardening, and late-night visits to the graveyard, and other quirks of
character.
    Another was that Joseph Easton preferred his study to
remain shuttered like a cave, Corisande forever longing to throw open the
windows to fresh air and sunlight. But she never did, respecting the strange,
remote existence that her father's life had become.
    "Papa?"
    He started, as always, her soft query jarring him out
of his private world as surely as if she had shouted. For a moment, he seemed
bewildered, then a fond smile came over his still
handsome face.
    "Ah, Corisande. Are you on your way?"
    The same question, repeated too many times to remember,
but even so the words warmed her heart. He uttered them so full of trust, for
even in his unfortunate state did he know that Corisande had done everything
she could to save his parish for him and keep a roof over their heads—paying
visits to his flock as her mother had once done so selflessly, seeing that the
church school and the parish poorhouse ran smoothly, attending to details of
christenings, burials, and weddings and ensuring that the church register and
parish accounts were properly kept.
    Only within the last three years had Corisande begun to
do more, involving herself in the dangerous smuggling of contraband goods for
the benefit of the entire parish, and if her father had guessed her
involvement, he'd given it no voice. But whenever there was boiled beef on the
table, or fragrant quality tea in the pot, or a bit of brandy for him to enjoy
by the fire, he'd look at her with silent knowing in his eyes and a hint of
concern mixed with pride. It was all she needed to keep her going, more
resolute than ever to continue doing what she believed was right.
    "Yes, Papa, I'm leaving now. I've much to do
today."
    "Godspeed, then."
    Two familiar words, and he
turned away, absorbed once more in his book before Corisande had closed the
door. But she, too, was already preoccupied with her own affairs, her step
determined as she grabbed her cloak and left the house, Luther's high-pitched yapping and her sisters' hilarious giggling following her
outside into a glorious sunlit morning.
    At least they were in a better mood, she was glad to
hear, wondering what silly antic Estelle had performed to make Linette and
Marguerite cease their incessant warring— maybe balancing
a spoon on Luther's nose or some mischievous prank concocted to torment
Frances. The latest had been a big hairy brown spider in the mixing bowl,
plopped right on top of a yeasty-smelling mound of rising dough. How Frances
had screamed . . .
    "Just as I'll be screaming if I can't find that
scoundrel Jack Pascoe," Corisande muttered, walking into the small stable
that flanked the Easton parsonage. A loud nickering