and led it back to us. The horse rubbed its forehead against Conor’s chest and he pushed it gently away. The horse pushed back, and Conor gave in, lovingly stroking its long nose. “Together—you and I—we can save her.”
The movement of his hand along the horse’s nose stirred me. He was so different from the clumsy boys and dull fathers I knew in the suburbs: more earthy, more confident and commanding. More sexy. “I don’t know.”
“Better for her to come with me than to be captured by the Red Branch Knights. They won’t spare her.”
“Why can’t you just come to the house?”
“That field—prairie, as you call it—sure there’s magic there. Deirdre must have put a druidical spell on it. I can’t pass it.”
I didn’t know what to think or believe. Conor seemed valiant, but most of the Heroines ended up with us precisely because of bad men. Maybe escaping Conor had been Deirdre’s heroic moment. But all the Heroines returned to their stories in the end, of their own mysterious accord. Mother believed the best strategy was to play dumb, to provide tea and sympathy and clean linens. Conor’s presence annihilated Mother’s strategy. No one else had ever followed a Heroine into our lives. And would my encounter affect Deirdre’s fate? I didn’t know anything about this story, so I didn’t know how to play it. Possible plot lines twisted in my mind, and it struck me suddenly that the key to this scene was figuring how to get myself out of it. Exit stage left, quickly and with as little drama as possible. I looked at the pond, considered swimming across it, but imagined swallowing the scum and getting tangled in slimy seaweed. I was a weak swimmer in a regular pool, worthless with that kind of drag. To reach it I’d have to jump a log, and Conor would have me by the ankle in no time. Plus, it was entirely the opposite direction of home. For a minute, I wished Horace would swoop down and fly away with me on his back. Then I got real. A selfish twinge snaked up my spine. Just because Mother sacrificed herself and me for the Heroines, it didn’t mean I had to. With Deirdre gone, I’d get my room back. And my mother.
“I know. I’ll tell her I want to collect mint or cresses with her from along the water. She keeps talking about gathering herbs.”
“Spells, no doubt. But a woman such as Deirdre has had servants to tend to such matters. She’ll expect that you’ll collect them yourself.”
“I’ll play dumb. Like I don’t know a weed from an herb.”
“There’s sense in that. You’ve a clever head, have you not?”
I fought a smile. I didn’t want him to think I was pleased by his compliments. I didn’t want to feel anything for him at all, though I felt closer to him than I did to Deirdre, and attracted in a way I didn’t wholly understand. In three years only one Heroine, Franny, had taken me seriously; the rest treated me like a nonentity. But Conor needed me, and I needed him. We had the same aim: getting Deirdre out of the Homestead. I saw myself running through the prairie, opening the door to my house, climbing the stairs to my bedroom, hiding beneath my pink satin duvet, reunited with all my things. This plan would work in two ways: I’d get what I’d want, and he wouldn’t hurt me if I helped him. My mother had impressed one thing upon me: never meddle in the Heroines’ lives. But where had it gotten me? I was marginalized either way. I had to fend for myself.
Chapter 6
Emma Bovary’s quandary Mother’s attempts at neutrality My espionage
and bold revelation The slap
T he trouble simmering between Mother and me had boiled over months before when Emma Bovary arrived. I found her novel five minutes after she registered—I didn’t have to scour the shelves—there she was in gold leaf on the navy-blue spine: Madame Bovary . It was spring break, April, so I was free to keep whatever hours I chose, to lie on a mattress in the attic and read and doze all day. The rain
The movement of his hand along the horse’s nose stirred me. He was so different from the clumsy boys and dull fathers I knew in the suburbs: more earthy, more confident and commanding. More sexy. “I don’t know.”
“Better for her to come with me than to be captured by the Red Branch Knights. They won’t spare her.”
“Why can’t you just come to the house?”
“That field—prairie, as you call it—sure there’s magic there. Deirdre must have put a druidical spell on it. I can’t pass it.”
I didn’t know what to think or believe. Conor seemed valiant, but most of the Heroines ended up with us precisely because of bad men. Maybe escaping Conor had been Deirdre’s heroic moment. But all the Heroines returned to their stories in the end, of their own mysterious accord. Mother believed the best strategy was to play dumb, to provide tea and sympathy and clean linens. Conor’s presence annihilated Mother’s strategy. No one else had ever followed a Heroine into our lives. And would my encounter affect Deirdre’s fate? I didn’t know anything about this story, so I didn’t know how to play it. Possible plot lines twisted in my mind, and it struck me suddenly that the key to this scene was figuring how to get myself out of it. Exit stage left, quickly and with as little drama as possible. I looked at the pond, considered swimming across it, but imagined swallowing the scum and getting tangled in slimy seaweed. I was a weak swimmer in a regular pool, worthless with that kind of drag. To reach it I’d have to jump a log, and Conor would have me by the ankle in no time. Plus, it was entirely the opposite direction of home. For a minute, I wished Horace would swoop down and fly away with me on his back. Then I got real. A selfish twinge snaked up my spine. Just because Mother sacrificed herself and me for the Heroines, it didn’t mean I had to. With Deirdre gone, I’d get my room back. And my mother.
“I know. I’ll tell her I want to collect mint or cresses with her from along the water. She keeps talking about gathering herbs.”
“Spells, no doubt. But a woman such as Deirdre has had servants to tend to such matters. She’ll expect that you’ll collect them yourself.”
“I’ll play dumb. Like I don’t know a weed from an herb.”
“There’s sense in that. You’ve a clever head, have you not?”
I fought a smile. I didn’t want him to think I was pleased by his compliments. I didn’t want to feel anything for him at all, though I felt closer to him than I did to Deirdre, and attracted in a way I didn’t wholly understand. In three years only one Heroine, Franny, had taken me seriously; the rest treated me like a nonentity. But Conor needed me, and I needed him. We had the same aim: getting Deirdre out of the Homestead. I saw myself running through the prairie, opening the door to my house, climbing the stairs to my bedroom, hiding beneath my pink satin duvet, reunited with all my things. This plan would work in two ways: I’d get what I’d want, and he wouldn’t hurt me if I helped him. My mother had impressed one thing upon me: never meddle in the Heroines’ lives. But where had it gotten me? I was marginalized either way. I had to fend for myself.
Chapter 6
Emma Bovary’s quandary Mother’s attempts at neutrality My espionage
and bold revelation The slap
T he trouble simmering between Mother and me had boiled over months before when Emma Bovary arrived. I found her novel five minutes after she registered—I didn’t have to scour the shelves—there she was in gold leaf on the navy-blue spine: Madame Bovary . It was spring break, April, so I was free to keep whatever hours I chose, to lie on a mattress in the attic and read and doze all day. The rain
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