Traitor Angels Read Online Free PDF Page B

thinking,” I muttered. I grabbed my spare shift, gown, and nightdress from the clothespress, then hesitated over the stack of pages I’d hidden beneath them. The pages were covered with my drawings of the constellations. I couldn’t take the chance that Viviani would go through my things. Holding the stack of papers to my chest, I went to my sister’s room next door and knocked.
    Anne’s dragging footsteps sounded from within her chamber. She opened the door, peering at me. “Wh-what—you—doing?” she asked, nodding at the clothing and papers cradled in my arms.
    “Staying with you, but only temporarily,” I said. “May I come in?”
    “Y-yes. B-b-b . . .” Her voice faded, the muscles in her throat working as she struggled to push the words out. They wouldn’t emerge, we knew, or if they did, they’d stream forth in an unintelligible garble. Frustration flickered across her face. She smacked the side of her head, and I caught her hand, my garments and pages falling to the floor.
    “Don’t!” I said in a fierce whisper. “Don’t you dare hurt yourself! It’s all right,” I added as she started to cry. I grabbed her in a tight embrace, pressing our faces so close together I could feel the wetness of her tears on my cheek. “I understand you, Anne,” I managed to say despite the lump in my throat. “Please don’t be upset. I can understand what you’re saying, I promise.”
    She made a low, distressed sound. As always, I wondered if her life would have been different if our mother hadn’t died after Deborah’s birth. Maybe our mother would have known how to help Anne learn to talk clearly or to read—at the least, she probably would have known how to comfort her. Our father didn’t seem to, but then again, we’d suffered so many losses after Mother’s death that he must have been overwhelmed. Six weeks after Mother died, our toddler brother, John, passed away from a fever, and only a few years later our father’s second wife and their baby daughter died, too.
    I pulled back in Anne’s arms, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry to trespass on your privacy, but I could hardly stay in my bed when there’s a man in it, could I?”
    She gaped at me. “Ex-explain!”
    “If you require explanation of why a man might be in a woman’s bed, then perhaps you should ask Betty for another lecture on how it is between a man and a woman.”
    Anne looked horrified. Laughing, I wrapped my arm aroundher shoulders and helped her hobble to the bed. She started laughing, too. After I’d guided her onto the edge of the mattress, I picked up my clothes and papers.
    “We have a houseguest,” I told her. “He’s come from Florence at Father’s invitation. And yes, he’s handsome,” I said quickly, knowing Anne would want to know. Her face brightened. “Probably, like most good-looking fellows, he knows it and is therefore insufferable.” I held up the stack of papers. “May I hide these in your clothespress?”
    She nodded. “Y-y-you show.”
    “You know I can’t show these to anyone but you. Everyone else would mock me.”
    “We—we best.”
    I kissed her cheek so she wouldn’t see the tears gathering in my eyes. “Yes, because we’re best friends. Forever, Anne.”
    From the village the church tolled the hour, twelve slow notes that hovered in the air, each trembling before being swallowed by the next. It was time to fix the midday meal. I groaned, realizing I’d forgotten to buy bread from the baker. Betty would box my ears, no doubt.
    “We’d better get to the kitchen,” I said.
    As always, when Anne clambered down the ladder after me her uneven legs buckled. From a few rungs below, I kept a steadying hand on her backside.
    In the kitchen, Luce stood at the table, slicing a loaf of bread—someone, probably Mary, had remembered to go to the bakery—and Deborah was arranging sliced beef and sweetmeats on platters. Mary was fussing with a bowl of salad greens. Betty was nowhere to be