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Snake Believe

Monster Between the Sheets

Karla Doyle

ISBN 9781990500343 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Snake Believe, Copyright © May 2023 by Karla Doyle

Editor: Amanda Young • Cover Design: Elle Christensen at Clover

Book Designs

This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. The unauthorized
reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No
part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the
Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the
publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including
infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by law. With the
exception of

quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in

whole or in part by any means existing without written permission

from the publisher, Karla Doyle.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living

or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the
author’s imagination. Locales are fictitious, and/or, are used
fictitiously. For questions and comments about this book, please
contact the author at [email protected].

Snake Believe

CORA

Sent to Screaming Woods to write a magazine piece on its resident

monsters, I’m ready to meet hairy

beasts, ogres, vampires… Heck, I even have an interview scheduled

with an actual invisible man.

What I’m not prepared for? A snake man. I’m terrified of snakes.
Now I’ll have to talk to a man-sized

one on a daily basis, because he owns the motel where I’m staying
and there are no vacancies

elsewhere in town.

Once the initial shock of coming face to face with a walking, talking
snake passes, I start to see Leroy

for the man beneath the monster exterior. And the more I get to
know my snake man, the more I realize

my biggest fear would be losing him.

LEROY

At nineteen, I unknowingly drank the poisoned party punch that

turned many of Screaming Woods’

residents into monsters. My future as a human vanished when I

became a snake man. Twenty-plus
years later, I wouldn’t change back if I could. I have the best of both
species in me. My new anatomy

has definite advantages, and because of them, I’m frequently

propositioned. But that’s not the kind of

proposal I seek.

I’m the loneliest snake in town until the day Cora walks into the
motel I own—and promptly faints at

the sight of me. The lovely magazine reporter is only in town to

interview monsters for an article, but

I know from the first day that I won’t want to say goodbye to her.
My charms have never failed me

before, but I’m a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound embodiment of her

biggest fear.

That won’t stop me from trying. Anything is possible in Screaming

Woods.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7
Epilogue

Monster Between the Sheets Series

Also by Karla Doyle

About the Author

Chapter One

CORA

A s the “fluff” girl for a popular online magazine, I write about topics
that get quick clicks.

Fashion, hair, and makeup trends. Dating dos and don’ts. Tips to
improve your sex life. All

things I have zero expertise in, because I rarely leave the snug
safety of my one-bedroom

apartment. My wardrobe consists of clothing designed for sloth-level

comfort, it’s been over a year

since I set foot in a hair salon, and the closest thing to makeup I
own is a cherry ChapStick. As for

dating and sex tips… Let’s just say, I’m the last person who should
be giving recommendations.

Real-life me is about as cool as an unplugged refrigerator. Based on

my articles’ clicks and the

affiliate earnings from the products I endorse, my online persona is

hot as city pavement in

summertime. So much so, my boss asked me to write a piece for the

front page. A legit piece of
journalism with actual interviews. My first opportunity to flex the
degree I busted my butt to earn.

Of course I jumped at the offer. I blurted a yes as soon as my boss

said he had a “monster of an

opportunity” for me. In hindsight, I should’ve listened a longer. Then

I would’ve known he meant the

words literally.

Would I have said yes anyway, even if I’d known everything this
assignment would entail? Abso-

freaking-lutely, with emphasis on the freak part, based on the

subject material. Turning down the

chance to see my byline on the front page would be crazy. This

could be my shot at something bigger

than the Trending page—not that there’s anything wrong with that
chunk of real estate. Trending has

paid the rent and kept the Uber Eats flowing to my door regularly. I
have no regrets. But I also

wouldn’t be sad to move on.

I’m up for the assignment, even though it required me to put on

pants with a zipper instead of an

elastic waistband, and heeled leather boots instead of slippers with

terrycloth-covered memory-foam

insoles. My usual messy bun is on hiatus, replaced by a freshly

coiffed style that brushes my
shoulders. I’m even wearing real makeup—okay, just mascara, but
still—and yes, it is the brand I

promised would change my readers’ lives in last month’s column.

And you know what? I do feel like my life is about to change.

Cosmetics and clothing don’t get

credit for the fluttery feeling in my stomach, though. This sensation

is bigger than shining up my

exterior. I’m at a turning point. The turning point. This is where I

pivot.

First, I need to write the article that requires leaving my apartment

for something other than

curbside grocery pickup or a drive-thru run to meet my caffeine

quota. I tried convincing my boss that

I could do this piece remotely. I’ve proven myself with three years of
pajama-powered, super-

clickable content. Travel was mandatory for this gig, and not by my
editor’s choice.

Turns out, he didn’t pluck this concept from his brain or borrow it
from a competitor. This piece

is by request. The mayor of Screaming Woods reached out to the

magazine, looking for some positive

spin on the town in return for what will undoubtedly be extremely

clickable content. Now that

Screaming Woods’ two-decades-long secret is out in the open,

they’d rather not have visitors armed
with wooden stakes, silver bullets, and pitchforks. They want the
world to understand that monsters

are people, too.

That’s the story. Certainly not one I ever imagined writing, but when
the universe drops gold in

your lap, you grab that nugget and run to the bank with it. Or take a
two-hour flight followed by an

ass-numbing drive with it, in this case. But I’m here now. Ready to
spin Screaming Woods’ monsters

into my personal gold.

The town unfolds around me as I drive. At a glance, there’s nothing

unusual. Same blue sky, white

clouds, green grass you’d find pretty much anywhere. The trees,
buildings, cars… everything’s

normal. Until I spot my first monster.

At least seven-feet tall with dark fur, he has insanely broad

shoulders, glowing red eyes, and a set

of horns that’d make even the biggest elk jealous. The man—I
should call him a man, right?—is

walking his dog. A small, fluffy dog with a yellow bow wrapped
around a tiny ponytail atop its head.

Talk about opposites. The monster man must feel me gawking,

because he turns his head at the exact

moment I pass. Meeting my gaze, he smiles—at least I think that’s a

smile, though the rows of jagged
teeth are menacing—and raises one hand to wave.

Okeydokey, shit is officially real. I quickly return the gesture before

focusing on the road ahead.

When I accepted this assignment, I had to sign a contract stating I

understand that all the town’s

monsters were once human, and therefore, will be treated as such.

No problem there. Journalists

don’t have bias. Not the good ones, anyway, and I’m great at my
job. Besides, I’ve never been afraid

of monsters. Not in books, TV, or movies. I’m the perfect candidate

for this opportunity—aside from

the leaving my apartment and having face-to-face interactions part.

By the time I arrive at the small motel where the town’s

administration has reserved me a room,

I’ve seen monsters with horns, wings, fur, tails, and hooves. They
didn’t all randomly wave at me like

the first one, but aside from their appearances, they seemed like
normal people going about their

lives. Zero scariness factor. I understand the mayor’s concerns for

the reputation and safety of

Screaming Woods and its citizens, but I can’t imagine anyone being
fearful here. Any niggling

concerns I had when I committed to delivering a positive article are

gone. This piece is practically

going to write itself.

I park my rental car, collect my bags from the trunk, then head into
the main office of the cheery,

charming building. The front desk is vacant—or is it? One of the

monsters I’m scheduled to interview

is an invisible man who owns a coffee shop downtown, but maybe

he’s not the only one.

“Hello?” I ask, shaking my head when silence ensues. Of course

nobody answers, because I’m

alone in the room. An invisible man would’ve greeted me when I

walked in, obviously. Plus, I’d see

his clothes. In town less than five minutes and already, my mind is in
monster overdrive.

I step to the counter and tap the classic silver bell sitting on the
desk, then pull out my phone to

appear busy and nonchalant. Eager as I am to get settled in, I don’t

want to seem pushy or impatient.

Peopling isn’t my strong suit, even in familiar situations. Peopling

with monsters takes it to a whole

other level.

“Be right with you,” a man calls from down a short hall.

I lean over the counter, ready to assure the owner of the smooth
voice that there’s no need to rush,

but all that comes out of my mouth is a strangled little sputter.

Forming words is impossible now that

he’s walking toward me.

He’s just a man. He’s just a man.

No matter how many times I internally say the words, my mind

refuses to believe them. I’m not

afraid of monsters, but I am afraid of snakes.

“Welcome to The Sunnyside Motel,” he says once he’s behind the

check-in desk.

Nope, I can’t do it. I feel my mouth opening and closing, but

nothing’s coming out. And I’m

shaking. Head-to-toe trembling.

“You must be Ms. Ravin, the journalist from the magazine.”

I manage a small nod, then he—smiles? I think? It’s hard to tell

because his mouth is wide and

almost lipless. Every inch of visible skin is green and scaly, and he
stares at me with unblinking

yellow eyes.

No screaming. No running. He’s just a—

Before I can mentally complete the sentence, a long, black, forked

tongue slithers out of his mouth.

Only for a moment, but that’s all it takes for my knees to buckle and
the world to go dark.

LEROY

For a small woman, she made one hell of a thud when she dropped.
I should’ve seen it coming. Every
drop of color drained from her complexion when I walked into the
room. Then there was the

speechless fish-gaping. She’s not from Screaming Woods, but she

knows it’s a town full of monsters.

That’s why she’s here. And, as monsters go, I’m not the scariest one
around. If she faints at the sight of

me, she might as well skip check-in and go back to wherever she
came from. That’s a suggestion for

later. Making sure she’s okay is my first priority.

“Ms. Ravin…” Given her extreme response to my appearance, I

shouldn’t be the first thing she

sees when she opens her eyes, but there’s no one to take my place.
Aside from the cleaning staffer

who left several hours ago, I run the motel alone during the day.
One person is enough with only six

units to rent.

A soft groan passes through her parted lips, and she turns her head
side to side on the folded

sweater I slipped beneath it.

“Ms. Ravin, my name is Leroy, I’m the owner of this motel,” I say as
her eyelids flutter. “I’m the

man who spoke to you before you fainted. You went down quite
hard, so don’t sit up too quickly.”

No worries about that. Her body stiffens, and she clamps her arms
over her chest. Rather than
open her eyes, she pinches them closed tighter.

It’s been over twenty years since the fateful night I morphed in to a
snake man, and nearly as long

since somebody reacted to me so dramatically. If this woman wasn’t

an invited guest of the mayor,

I’d… well, I don’t know what I’d do. Not be rude, that’s never been
my style, even as a young human

male.

I rise from my crouched position, then put distance between us. “I’m
standing behind the counter

now, Ms. Ravin. It doesn’t appear that you’re bleeding, but you have
a large goose egg on the back of

your head, so I advise you to take your time sitting up.”

“Would you—” She exhales, the action deflating the rigidity of her
form. Even in her supine

position, her shoulders seem to slump. “Never mind.”

“Would I what? I can’t guarantee I’ll accommodate your request, but

neither of us will know until

you make it.”

“Turn around.” The words are barely a whisper, yet they’re

unmistakable.

This woman is in my hometown, in my place of business, and she

has the audacity to ask me to

spare her the discomfort of viewing my face?

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she says softly. “I—” Wrinkles form at the
bridge of her nose, then she

sighs. A defeated sound, as if she had all her money on red and the
ball dropped on black. “I’m

terrified of snakes.”

“Then I’d say we have an ‘it’s me and it’s you’ problem, Ms. Ravin.”

“I’m so sorry.” She claps both hands over her face. “I shouldn’t have
asked you to turn around.

That was incredibly rude and insensitive of me. I’m a hot mess in
more ways than I can count, but I’m

not usually an asshole. This is a total me issue. I’ll make sure you’re
still paid the full amount for my

stay, but it’s probably best if I find another hotel, so I don’t treat you
horribly again.” She shifts onto

her side so she’s facing away from me, groaning as she sits up.
“God, this is the worst hangover

ever.”

Cute. Humor is a good sign. “Can I get you some water? I’ll roll it
across the floor for you. No

direct contact required.”

“No, I’m fine.” Clearly interpreting the comment as a dig instead of a

genuine offer, she hurries to

stand—a movement that her body rejects. “Sorry, I want to get out
of your way, I just need the room to
stop spinning first,” she says, plunking onto her ass.

It’s a nice ass, even in this position. Since I know she won’t turn
around and catch me staring, I go

right ahead and look my fill. I’m an appreciator of the female form in
all variations, but her shape is

my favorite—a curvy silhouette that begs to be traced. I’m a sucker

for a cuppable waist and

grippable hips. So much so, I have to rub my palms against my

pants to calm the itch to touch her.

“You’re not in my way,” I say. “And the offer of a drink was sincere.”

“Well…thank you. I’m fine, really.” She touches the back of her head
tenderly. “You weren’t

kidding about the goose egg.”

“I never kid about eggs.” The small joke earns me a soft laugh, and
the sound gives me a spark

I’m an idiot to feel. “Fortunately, you stumbled over your bags on

the way down. If it’d been a direct

drop, you’d likely be leaving on a gurney.” There’s no reason for me

to feel warmth toward this

woman, but the thought that she could’ve been seriously injured
twists me up. “Take a few minutes to

regroup while I make some calls to find you another room. Once
that’s taken care of, I’ll arrange for a

non-snaky taxi driver to get you there safely. Sound good?”

“It sounds like a lot more than I deserve after treating you the way I
have. I really am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know you didn’t walk in here intending to
faint in fear at the sight of my

face.”

She groans again, this one sounding pained strictly with

embarrassment. “Are you sure you want

to help me?”

“One hundred percent,” I say, pulling up the number of the nearest

B&B.

“Thank you for being so kind and understanding.”

“No thanks necessary. I’m only a monster on the outside.”

“Oh. Of course. You know about the article.” Her hair moves like soft
brown waves while she

nods. “Just for the record, I take full responsibility for this mess. I
know I’m the problem. I’m only

going to write good things about you and your motel; you don’t
have to worry about that. If that’s why

you’re helping me find another place to stay—”

“It’s not, Ms. Ravin.”

“Okay, and…call me Cora. Or if that’s too personal, given the

circumstances, then Miss Benton

will do. That’s my real name. Ravin is a pseudonym for the

magazine. The owner likes all the writers
to have ‘cool’ names,” she says, complete with air quotes.

Just like that, the urge to smooth my hands over her curves returns.
The Miss prefix doesn’t

guarantee she’s single, but it improves the odds. Not that her
relationship status matters. She finds me

repulsive. Can’t even look at me. When she walks out of here, I’ll
never see her again, because I’m

the last person on earth she’d want to lay eyes on, let alone other
body parts.

“Sit tight while I make some calls, Miss Benton.”

“Will do,” she says quietly, tucking her chin downward.

I’d like to think that’s regret in her voice, in her posture. I’d like to,
but I’m smarter than that now.

Wanting something doesn’t make it real. Not twenty-plus years ago,

when I prayed every damn day for

a way to change back from a snake to a regular man. Nor the times
I believed I was at the beginning of

a relationship, then realized that the woman was only interested in

the pleasure my snake anatomy can

provide.

The best thing I can do for both of us is to find Cora somewhere to

go. Then do what she’s doing

right now—never turn around to look back.

Chapter Two
CORA

T he dizziness has worn off by the time Leroy ends another call with,
“Thanks for checking.”

This time, though, he doesn’t immediately tap the next phone

number. That can’t be a good sign.

“No luck yet?” I ask from my embarrassing position, sitting on the

floor in the middle of his

lobby area. Thank goodness nobody else has come in since I lost my
shit.

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Miss Benton. There are no
vacancies.”

That can’t be possible. Maybe he’s only calling the nicest places, or
is trying to stay within the

same budget as my reservation here. “I’m not picky. I can stay

anywhere. Five stars, one star, bed-

and-breakfast, luxury suite… Heck, it can be a roach motel.”

“Got it. Roach motel—good. Immaculate, well-appointed motel

owned by a snake—bad.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” I pinch my eyes closed, but really, it’s my
mouth I should keep sealed.

This is why I should only be allowed to work from the safety and
seclusion of my apartment. Live, in-

person communication always gets me in trouble, and this is

definitely the worst time ever. I’m being
a horrible person, plain and simple, and I hate it. “You have a cute
motel and you’re being so nice…

This is all me. I had a terrible experience with snakes when I was
young, and now I’m just—” I

shudder at the memory of that day in the field with my older

brothers and the rattlesnake. “It was a

long time ago, and I’m overreacting. I just need a few minutes to
turn off my brain.”

Behind me, he exhales, long and slow. “I understand. Everyone’s

fears are different, and

unfortunately, I’m yours.”

“You’re being way more understanding than I deserve.”

“Would you do the same if our positions were reversed?”

“Absolutely,” I say without having to give it any thought. I’d probably

have a bag over my head

already, to put him at ease.

“Then don’t give it another thought. As for the vacancies, there are
literally none of any level or

variety in Screaming Woods. I also checked availability in the nearest

town, but no luck on that front,

either. There is a campground, if you’d like me t—”

“Definitely not.” A shiver runs up my spine. “Sorry. Just… camping is

a hard pass for me. But

thank you for asking.”

“I’m afraid you’re out of alternatives, Miss Benton. For this week,
anyway. Maybe you can

reschedule your interviews and do the article at a later date.”

“That’s not an option.” If I don’t deliver on this assignment, I’ll be

lucky if my boss lets me slink

back to the Trending page. I’ve got one shot at this, and it’s now.
Meaning, it’s time to pull up my big-

girl panties. Stop being a neurotic mess, if only for the next few
days.

Carefully, I get my legs under me. Then, even more carefully, I turn
to face him. He’s built like a

man, but with green scaly skin, yellow eyes with slit-like pupils, and
that mouth…

He’s just a man. Not really a snake.

I hold my breath to suppress a squeak when his tongue darts out. Is

it an involuntary thing, or is he

purposely tormenting me? If it’s the latter, I deserve it.

It’s only a few days, and I shouldn’t have to see much of him. I can
handle this. Unless that’s not

an option anymore. “Would you be willing to let me stay here? I

understand if you aren’t, after all the

unintentional, but still awful, things I said.”

“The room is yours.” His attention shifts to the computer. After a few
clicks, he places a tablet
and stylus on the customer side of the desk, along with a keycard.
“If you would just sign the

disclaimer, Miss Benton, I’ll finish checking you in so you can get
settled.”

Is it my imagination, or did he kind of hiss all those words with an S

sound? Of course, it’s me.

No news flash on that. It’s always me.

LEROY

I haven’t seen or heard from Cora since sending her off to unit
number two. Unless she snuck out via a

rear window, she’s still in her room. Even if she had climbed out a
window, I would have seen her

get into her car and drive away. The motel’s layout provides a full
view of all six units from the front

office.

And I’ve been watching. Because I’m a considerate businessman and

she’s a valued guest in

Screaming Woods. That’s the lie I’ve been telling myself for three
hours.

The truth is, I want to see her again. Which is pointless, and frankly,
a bit on the masochistic side.

I’ve never had trouble attracting women—not as a young human

man and not in my twenty-one years

as a snake man. Once the dust settled on our monster-filled town,

single women of all shapes, sizes,
and species realized there are benefits to my new physiology. If I
want female companionship,

particularly of the physical variety, I can have it. Easily.

Maybe that’s the reason I want Cora’s. She finds me so repugnant,

she would rather have stayed in

a roach motel than be forced to see me again. She’s a lovely, soft,

curvy challenge.

After turning things over to my night employee, I step into my office

and close the door, then use

the desk phone to call Cora’s room.

“Hello?” she answers on the second ring.

The front of my pants becomes instantly tighter at the sound of her

voice. It’s been too long since I

was with a woman, that’s all. “Good evening, Miss Benton, this is
Leroy. I hope I’m not disturbing

you. I wanted to check and make sure you’re okay. If you’re feeling
any nausea or other abnormal

symptoms, I can call a physician.”

“That’s so thoughtful, thank you. Aside from the goose egg and a
sore elbow, I’m okay. I’m sure

I’ll be fine.”

“Good to hear. If that changes, or you need anything, please call the
front desk, regardless of the
time. My night clerk will be there until eight in the morning and I’ve
already informed him of your

situation. He’s at your disposal. His name is Fred, and he’s a blob
monster.”

“A… blob monster? ”

Based on the incredulous inflection in her question, I’d guess she’s

wearing a wide-eyed,

openmouthed expression. I bet it’s adorable. “Yes. Are you afraid of

blobs, Miss Benton?” I ask in a

tone I hope she interprets as teasing.

A soft, feminine groan fills my ear. “I don’t even know what a blob
is. I’m so unprepared for this

assignment. I had to sign a form saying I’m not afraid of monsters,

and I thought I wasn’t, but it never

occurred to me that the term monster could mean practically

anything. What if I am afraid of blobs?

What if it turns out I’m afraid of everyone in town?”

“I’m sure that won’t be the case. You were startled by me because
of a preexisting snake fear, not

because I’m a monster. Why don’t you come into the lobby and meet
Fred? I’ll tell him you’re on the

way, and I’ll stand down the hallway near my private office. I’ll be
close enough to help if needed,

but out of your view.”

“I don’t deserve your concern and help. Why are you being so nice
to me?”

I lean back in my chair, massaging my temples with my free hand.

I’m only doing this because

she’s the first challenging woman to come my way in years and I

could use the distraction, not

because I care about her. Besides, the article she’s writing will be a
boost for business. Mine, and

everyone else’s in town. If it’s inevitable for the world to become

aware of our monster population,

I’d rather it be at the hands of someone down to earth and genuine.

Cora certainly seems to fit that

description.

“There are a lot of good people in Screaming Woods who deserve to

have their stories told. I’d

hate to be the reason you don’t hear them.”

“Okay,” she says softly. “I’ll come over and meet Fred.”

“I’ll let him know.”

“You’ll be there? Just in case?”

Damn, her voice does things to me. “I’ll be there, Miss Benton. Right
down the hall.”

“Thank you. For everything. I’ve been staring at my suitcase since I

came to my room, trying to

decide if I should call my editor and tell him to reassign the story.”
“You won’t need to make that call.” I’ll make sure of that, no matter
how many strings I have to

pull or favors I have to ask.

“I wish I had as much confidence as you do.” She laughs lightly, and
I swear to God, I feel the

sound all the way to my core. “I’m just going to splash some cold
water on my face, then I’ll be right

over.”

“No rush, I’ll wait for you.” In the hallway beside the front lobby.
That’s all those words mean,

no matter how much bigger they feel when I say them.

CORA

After all my ridiculousness, his kindness doesn’t make sense. I think

he believes I didn’t mean to be

rude. Even so, most people would have told me to fuck off, or at
least washed their hands of me.

Leroy continues to do the opposite.

The least I can do in return is try to get a handle on my fear. After

freshening up a pinch, I unpack

my notebook and pen. If I’m going to meet a blob monster, I might

as well be prepared to take notes

for my article.

It’s just past seven o’clock when I leave my room. The September
evening is an idyllic
temperature, and the twilight sky is painted in swaths of blue and
gold. The Sunnyside Motel sits on a

quiet street near the edge of town. A strip of manicured lawn runs
along the rear side of the building,

and beyond that lies a wooded area. I don’t know if any monsters
live among the thick trees, but birds

certainly do. The air is alive with their happy songs.

I don’t hear many birds where I live. My apartment is on the

fifteenth floor and overlooks a

concrete jungle. The lack of nature was part of the appeal when I
signed the lease. I had my fill of

wilderness growing up, thank you very much.

The lights are on inside the motel’s main office, making it easy to
get a look at the monster behind

the front desk as I approach. Despite Leroy’s green scales, yellow

eyes, and black forked tongue, he’s

still humanoid. He has two legs, two arms, two hands. He wears
normal clothes. The same can’t be

said for Fred.

There’s no sign of Leroy when I open the door and step inside. I
glance toward the hallway where

he promised to be. The area is darkened, but the tingly warmth

spreading through me makes me

believe that he’s there, watching over me. My very own guardian
snake. Oh, the irony.
I focus my attention where it should be—on the large, translucent
pink monster behind the desk.

He has two big, exaggeratedly round eyes and there’s an indent a

few inches below that might be a

mouth. Other than that, he’s just… a blob.

“Hi, I’m Cora Benton, the journalist from B:Here magazine, doing a
story on Screaming Woods

and its residents.” I extend my arm, embarrassment flooding my

cheeks when I realize what I’ve done.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. Habit. Geez!”

“No problem whatsoever,” he says as his gelatinous body forms a

stumpy arm with three fingers,

which he presses against my outstretched hand.

I stop breathing when his cool, smooth substance connects with my

skin. At least I didn’t pass out

or make an inappropriate, insulting comment. Yet. The night is still

young.

“It’s nice to meet you, Cora.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” Eyes wide, I watch the semi-firm pink jelly
retreat, to be absorbed into

his essentially shapeless form. Holy shit, I just shook hands a blob
monster.

On that note, I open my book and click the button on my pen.

“Would you be willing to answer
some questions for the article? The tone of the piece will be positive,
and you can remain anonymous,

if you want.”

“You can call me Fred for your story. Better leave it at my first name,
though. I have some family

members out there who’d probably prefer the world doesn’t know
they’re related to a freak of

nature.”

“By ‘out there,’ do you mean outside of Screaming Woods?”

He doesn’t have a distinct head or neck, but the motion of his

blobbiness makes it clear he’s

nodding. “Has anyone told you about the night we became

monsters?”

“Not directly, not yet. The mayor’s office provided a statement of

events, along with setting up

interviews with several residents who changed at the community

Halloween party almost twenty-one

years ago.”

“Ah. I’m sure the documentation about the night we changed is

factually correct. Might be lacking

personal perspective, though.”

“I’d love to hear yours.”

Movement in the hallway catches my attention. I glance over again,

this time seeing a glimpse of
Leroy’s back as he turns and walks away. Likely, assuming he’s not
needed, since I didn’t faint or

insult his employee. The man probably wants to go home for the
day, but rather than come through the

lobby and leave, he’s waiting where I can’t see him. Continuing to be
considerate, even though my

fearfulness is a direct insult to what he is.

“Fred,” I say, turning my head toward him. “May I record our

conversation? I’m the only person

who will hear it, and I’ll delete the recording after I’ve transcribed
my notes.”

“Sure.” He moves backward and sits—or his version of sitting,

anyway—on a stool behind the

desk.

My palms are already sweaty, and watching his pink jelly body semi-
swallow the dark wooden

stool unnerves me to the point of fumbling my phone as if I’m

juggling. “I promise I’m much more

professional and collected when working behind a computer than I

am in person.”

“You’re doing fine,” Fred says with a laugh that’s surprisingly human,
just like his voice. “I guess

you didn’t know monsters are real until you got this assignment?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I smile while setting the phone to record,
then place it on the counter.
“Don’t beat yourself up about having perfectly natural reactions to
us monsters. We’ve been there.

You should’ve seen the mass pandemonium when half the town
morphed all at once. It’s been a

couple decades, but we were human once upon a time. We know it’s
a lot to digest.”

“Thank you. You and Leroy are both so understanding.”

“Well, everything rolls off of me,” Fred says, winking one of his big,
cartoon-like eyes.

I laugh because it’s clearly the reaction he was going for, plus it’s
funny. I doubt I’d have such a

good sense of humor if I suddenly turned into a blob monster.

“And Leroy’s a good guy. One of the best,” Fred says. “The
Sunnyside Motel is a nice place to

stay, but I bet the mayor set you up here because of Leroy, not our
4.8 overall star rating on

TripAdvisor.”

My first instinct is to ask more questions about Leroy. Once my initial

fear wore off, I could see

he’s more man than snake. Logically, I know he’s not really a snake
at all. Tonight isn’t the time for

my questions about Leroy. I’ll come back another night for that. This
is Fred’s time in the spotlight.

“Tell me about the night you became something other than human.”
“It’s okay to say monster. When it became clear there was no way to
reverse the changes, most of

us learned to embrace them, along with the word monster. If anyone

hasn’t, well… they won’t be on

your list of interviewees, so you don’t need to worry about them.”

“Noted, thank you.”

His wide, gummy form shifts side to side, as if he’s trying to get
comfortable on the stool that’s

about one-quarter the width of his body.

I have so many questions, most of which are probably far too

personal, so I bite my tongue and

wait for whatever he decides to share.

“I was seventeen when I went to the town’s annual Halloween party

with a bunch of buddies. We

spent most of the night talking too loud, trying to stand out in the
crowd and get the attention of girls

from school. Typical teenager stuff. It was going pretty well, too. A
cute redhead was laughing at my

bad jokes and she smiled when I put my arm around her. I
remember thinking ‘tonight’s the night’ as

we grabbed a couple of drinks from the refreshment table, then

headed for somewhere private to

make out. Turned out it was the night for something big to happen,
just not the thing I had in mind.”
Nothing about Fred’s tone suggests he’s looking for pity or sympathy,
but my heart tightens for

him, anyway. “Can you tell me about the actual change? Where you
were, how it felt—unless you’d

prefer to keep those details private.”

“I don’t mind talking about it. As you can see, I’m a fairly
transparent guy.” His form shakes with

amusement at his own joke. “Not the most transparent monster in

town, but I’m sure the mayor

scheduled you an interview with Roan, our invisible man. He’s a

pillar of the community. His coffee

shop, Lucky Beans, was one of the first businesses to adapt and
cater to all the monster needs and

preferences.”

“Yes, Roan Byrne is one of my interviewees. I’m excited to meet

him, but I’m surprised you

weren’t on the list.”

He does another of what I assume is a shrug. “The mayor’s office

probably forgot about me. Most

people do.”

“How is that possible? Are there a lot of monsters like you in town?”

“Nope. I’m the only one.”

“Then I don’t see how anyone could forget you, Fred. I know I
won’t.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” His body ripples as he does what I think
is a semi-bow.

“I apologize if I’m staring. I’m so intrigued by your…substance. What

is it?”

“Nobody knows. Dr. Karloff tried taking a sample to analyze, but

needles don’t penetrate the

surface. I can’t be damaged and I don’t get sick. Whatever I’m

made of, it’s completely self-

sustaining, so I don’t need to eat or drink.”

“Wow, that’s incredible. Is it possible for you to ingest food or

liquid?” This time, I manage to

rein in my tendency to blurt out whatever pops into my head, and

don’t mention his lack of a real

mouth. Though I do wonder how it all works, because it really

shouldn’t.

“Nope, I literally can’t swallow anything. Part of that whole, nothing

can penetrate the surface

thing.”

“How do you get around? Is that question too personal?”

“Go ahead and ask whatever you think people will want to know—
and that your magazine is

willing to print,” he says with a laugh. “I can shift my mass in minor,

general ways, like I did to shake

your hand. So I do that at the bottom of my mass when I moving

from point A to point B, or to answer
the phone, use the keyboard, open a door, etcetera. But I can only
hold those transformations for short

periods of time. I can’t shape myself into a full person. I’m a basic
blob. Not the most exciting or

active monster around, so I mostly keep to myself.”

Okay, now my heart is twisting for him. I’m sure my feelings are
written all over my face. This

poor man. Does he think nobody would want his company? Have
people in town made him feel that

way?

“As for the where and how,” he continues, either oblivious to my

expression or simply lost in his

memories, “I was kissing that cute little redhead when the

transformation started. It felt like the worst

indigestion in the world, and I had to leave her in the front seat of
my dad’s truck—where we’d been

steaming up the windows pretty good—to bolt for the woods nearby.
Thought I was going to puke or

shit my guts out, maybe both. Then I watched my skin start to

change and my clothes tearing apart as I

bloated up and my legs disappeared. I thought I was tripping, that

somebody had drugged my drink.”

“I can’t begin to imagine how terrifying that was,” I say, hugging

myself around the middle. Not a
very professional or impartial stance, but oh well. In-person
interviews about people becoming

monsters aren’t exactly part of my average workday.

“There I was, alone in the woods, panicking and unable to do

anything because of the changes

happening to my body. Then the screaming started. From my truck,

from the party beyond the parking

lot…” He exhales, his oversized eyes doing a slow blink. “Things got
kind of chaotic after that. Most

of the people who didn’t turn into monsters left town pretty quick.
Some stayed for family. Some tried

to stay, but just couldn’t do it.”

“You mentioned your dad. Were any members of your family

affected?”

“No. Fortunately for my parents, they’d skipped the town party that
night.”

There’s a lump in my throat, blocking the question I have no right to

ask, except that I do. That’s

why I’m here—to ask questions. “Are they still in Screaming Woods?”

“No. Unfortunately for me, they also skipped town. Couldn’t handle
living among monsters, or

having a blob for a son.”

“Oh, Fred, I’m so sorry.” How am I supposed to write a positive,

fluffy article about this town
after hearing his story? Because I’m sure there’ll be others like it.

“I appreciate it, but I’m okay. I don’t get out or do much, but I’ve
got a few good friends. I’ll

leave my number on the desk here. If you feel like a game of chess
or Mario Kart while you’re in

town, give me a call.”

“Two of my favorites. I may take you up on that,” I say, picking up

my phone and ending the

recording. “Thank you for the offer and for the interview. If you
leave your email address for me, I’ll

send you a copy of the article. And if you don’t, I’ll make sure to
send it to the motel, too.”

“Will do, Cora.” He forms the stumpy arm again, this time using it to
make a hat-tipping motion

before reabsorbing the temporary appendage into his mass. “Have a

good evening, and just call over

here if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” I have so many more questions to ask him. Maybe

they’d seem less intrusive during

a game. Or maybe it’s just that I’d feel like less of a prying intruder
under those circumstances.

“Goodnight, Fred,” I say, giving him a little wave as I leave.

Outside, the peaceful silence wraps around me as I walk the short

distance to my ground-floor
room. Emotional exhaustion from all the steps I’ve taken out of my
comfort zone slams into me as I

turn the key. There’s an oversized tub in the beautifully renovated

bathroom and it’s calling my name.

Still, I can’t help looking back at the motel office’s plate-glass

window instead of heading into my

cozy room.

There are two monsters in that office. Two men, involuntarily

transformed to creatures, now

forced to remain in Screaming Woods for the rest of their lives

because of humans like Fred’s parents.

Humans like me.

From here out, I’ll do better. No matter what kind of monsters I

meet, I’ll treat them like the

people they are. As for the damage I did today… maybe I can mend
that, too. Now that I know what to

expect when I walk into the motel office, I can control my reactions.
It’s not Leroy’s fault he’s a man-

sized embodiment of my biggest fear. If he could change back to a

regular human, I’m sure he would.

I can change, though. I can be a better person than the one who
had the gall to ask Leroy to turn

away. I’m not just kicking that version of me off the job, she’s fired
from my life. I knew this
assignment was a turning point, but I assumed it was career related.
Now I’m wondering if I’m not

here for a bigger pivot…

Chapter Three

LEROY

T he motel has six rental units and no vacancies. That’s how it’s
been for years, despite the

secluded nature of Screaming Woods. Though some guests only stay

short term, others settle in

for longer stretches. I prefer it that way, even though the income is
less because I reduce the

rates. The long-term guests feel more like friends. Like family.

Because of that, I often dress casually for work. There’s no need to

wear a suit to answer the

phone, work on the computer, or exchange a few pleasantries with

the handful of people I’ll see

during the day. Even when new arrivals are due to check in, dress
slacks and a crisp shirt are

adequate. Yesterday, knowing my incoming guest had been

handpicked by the mayor, I wore a suit. I

may as well have been naked, because the only thing Cora saw was
my skin. And she hopes to never

see it again.
Yet, here I am, once again wearing a suit. The odds she’ll set foot in
the office while I’m here are

slim. But if she does, maybe she’ll keep her eyes open long enough
to see past my scales.

Her feelings about me shouldn’t matter. She’s nothing more than a

client. In a few days, she’ll be

gone.

Yet, there’s more to my attraction than the challenge she presents.

More to it than simply finding

her beautiful, or realizing that I’ve reached the limit of my self-

imposed celibacy streak.

Despite her reaction when we met, I believe she’s a good person.

Compassionate. Considerate.

Both traits were obvious and sincere during her conversation with
Fred last night.

I heard every word from my position in the darkened hallway. Even

after I retreated to my private

office, I lingered in its doorway, hungry for more of her soft voice.

I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, but I do. I want her to see
me the way she saw Fred—as

more than a monster. Watching their interaction should have been a

relief. Instead, my stomach coiled

with inappropriate, unjustified jealousy. The urge to insert myself

into their conversation, to force her
to look at me—to see me—was so intense, I had to get out of
earshot. My suite is tucked away in the

rear corner of the building, and after locking myself in, I stripped to
my skin as a deterrent to leaving

the room.

Cora fainted at the sight of my face. I can’t imagine her reaction to

the rest of my snake anatomy.

Even after a long soak in the tub, sleeping was impossible. I tossed
and turned for hours, unable to

push her image and the sound of her laughter from my mind.
Stroking myself off while envisioning a

woman who finds me repulsive shouldn’t even be possible, but it

was. It absolutely fucking was. I

haven’t come that hard by my hand since the early years of being a
monster. Back then, it was because

of being young, overloaded with testosterone, and fascinated with

my new anatomy below the belt.

Cora was responsible for last night’s shake-me-to-the-core release.

Pointless as it is, I can’t deny

my attraction. I want to strip her bare—of her clothes and her

misgivings—and taste every inch of her

softness, then sink inside and make her body sing a song just for
me. It doesn’t make sense, wanting

her this way, this much. Illogical things happen. The monsters of
Screaming Woods are proof of that.
The motel’s main lobby has large panels of glass on two sides, and
even though it’s unlikely any

of my guests would be looking out their windows and into mine, I’m
not taking the risk. Some guys

can do a quick adjustment when they get an inopportune hard-on.

My anatomy requires more finesse.

I’m in my private office rearranging myself when the bell out front
chimes with someone’s entrance.

Once everything is repositioned, I step into the hallway. And

immediately need another adjustment.

Cora stands at the front desk, chin tipped upward and eyes straight
ahead, hands in a clenched ball

on the countertop. Not the posture of a woman who wants to be

there. Of course she doesn’t. Knowing

she’s about to face me, she’s probably struggling to keep her shit
together.

Her stature should be enough to deflate my desire. If anything, I get

harder with each step toward

her. Good thing she’s not interested in looking closely at me,

because I doubt my recent repositioning

is hiding the hardness pressing against my zipper.

“Good morning, Miss Benton,” I say, taking refuge behind the high
desk. “How was your first

night—was everything to your satisfaction?”

Pink floods her cheeks and a small squeak sounds in her throat.
“Yes, um, yes. The room feels so

homey. And the tub is amazing. I’ve never been in one that big. It
was very enjoyable.”

An image of Cora flashes in my mind. Naked and relaxed in the bath,

her creamy skin shiny with

moisture, the swell of her full breasts breaking through the water,
her hard nipples beckoning from

just below the surface…

My tongue darts out from my mouth, an involuntary reaction I regret

the moment her eyes go wide.

“My apologies. I’ll try to control the snakier aspects of my physiology

in your presence.” It’s a

legitimate offer, but right now, I savor the scent captured by tongue.
Thanks to my snake-like senses, I

can practically taste her—and she’s delicious.

“No, please don’t apologize or modify anything for my sake. I’m the
visitor here. I’m the one who

needs to change, not you.”

“I admire your viewpoint, Miss Benton, but I don’t want you to be

uncomfortable around me, so

—”

“Then call me Cora,” she cuts in. “Please,” she adds, the softness in
her voice making me
unbearably hard.

My use of her formal name has been intentional. A method of

maintaining a professional distance,

since that’s the limit of our connection.

“I’d really like it if you’d call me Cora. Please, Leroy?” If she were
another woman, the flutter of

her dark eyelashes might be considered flirting.

Even with a large volume of my blood currently in residence

between my legs, I’m not foolish

enough to think she has any interest in me beyond necessity. “Cora

it is,” I say. I like the way her name

feels on my tongue. Too much. But that’s not her fault. “I’m glad you
enjoyed the oversized tub. I had

all the rooms remodeled to be monster-friendly when I bought the

motel. Although I’m the same height

and build as before my change, some of the town’s residents

increased in size considerably.”

“Like Fred.”

“And others,” I say, redirecting the conversation as unreasonable

jealousy flares hot inside me.

“Screaming Woods is home to a lot of large monsters. You might

have interviews with some of them.”

“I don’t know. Except for a note beside Roan Byrne’s name that he’s
invisible, my list of contacts
only has names, not… species designations.” Her face is bright pink
now. “But on my way into town,

I did see a really large, um…”

“Monster, Cora. It’s okay to say monster. It’s what we are.”

She huffs in what sounds like internal frustration. “It feels wrong,
but fine. The first monster I saw

was a very large man with dark fur, red eyes, and a huge set of
antlers.”

“Were you scared?”

“No, I wasn’t. But I did gawk at him, of course, because I have no

self-control, as you’re well

aware.” She finishes with a light laugh that makes her self-
deprecating comment sweet and endearing.

“He caught me staring and waved.”

“Sounds like Van Bristol. He’s a wendigo.”

“A wendigo. Another creature—I mean monster—term I’m not

familiar with.” She sighs.

“What monsters are you familiar with?”

“Vampire, werewolf, ogre, orc, gargoyle,” she says, ticking them off
on her fingers. “Zombie, yeti,

fairy, invisible man… oh, and phoenix.” Her proud nod is adorable.

“We have all of those in Screaming Woods. Plus a lot more.”

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brighter side of her fall.
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about every kind of sin. Should I say the Act of Contrition?”
Little Anne looked ready to fall on her knees and do penance with
hearty enjoyment, and Anne said, hastily:
“Better ask your mother about that, too, dear. What a queer child
you are!”
Then Anne’s changeable little face lost its elfin look of mingled
regret and satisfaction, her eyes dilated and were raised, her lips
quivered, a flush slowly spread to her hair; she clasped her thin,
quick hands and said:
“Just to be good! Just to be so good that there never would be
one stain on me and I’d never be mad, nor make Peter-two mad, but
be a white, loving soul in the world!”
Anne looked at her, startled. She was accustomed to little Anne’s
flights, her strange, unchildlike aspirations and depths of
understanding, and her mercurial falls into human mischief. But
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child’s hair and little Anne came down to earth without the loss of a
moment.
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tiny, tiny hand, hard to read, though every letter is clearly formed.
He uses paper with raised lines, else his lines would run together. He
does not often try to write; he writes to a few friends, to Mr.
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you. It was on the floor, upstairs in the hall. I went upstairs and I
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it up.”
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FOR ANNE
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Which sings itself the livelong day;
There is a plea I must not bring
Which ev’ry breath I draw must pray;
There is a word past uttering
The only word my tongue would say:
Oh, sweetest, fairest, dearest, best, in silence I must go my way!

Oh, blinded eyes deprived of light;

Oh, hunger that is never fed;
Oh, love that yearns, denied the right
To kiss a tress upon that head;
Oh, broken life, creep far from sight
To hide where pity makes thy bed
For glory, fame, and wealth are stones to me, a beggar craving
bread.”

“I love poetry,” hinted little Anne, but checked herself when she
saw the elder Anne’s face.
It had turned quite white, tears stood in her dark eyes, her lips
quivered.
“Oh, little Anne, what can it mean? Who is it? Why didn’t I have it
to copy?” Anne murmured. “Oh, he mustn’t know we read it!”
“I didn’t,” said little Anne, reproachfully, and Anne kissed her,
grateful that the child made her smile.
“Promise me on your honour, little Anne, that you will never speak
to any one of having found these verses. Promise! And remember
that a promise is a sacred thing, faithfully to be kept,” she said.
“I never in this world break my promises,” declared little Anne,
proudly, but truthfully. “I promise! Not even Mother?”
“You may tell her that you found the verses, but that no one is to
know it; you can say that you did not know what they were like,”
Anne said, wisely deciding that this concession would be a safety
valve to little Anne’s unimpeachable honour.
 “Do you know where you found the paper, Anne? Then take it into
the house, please, and lay it where it was, and come back to me.
Hurry, little Anne! Oh, if Mr. Latham should come in before you did
this!”
“He can’t find it on the floor, can he?” little Anne demurred.
“Then Stetson will. Don’t delay, dear; please be quick!” Anne fairly
turned the child around by the shoulders and pushed her toward the
house. Little Anne was speedy; she was back before Anne had time
to worry over the likelihood of Richard’s coming, or Cricket to fall
into utter despair at being abandoned by his small mistress.
“I think I’d better go home now,” announced little Anne on her
return. “I heard the Angelus down at our church quite a long time
ago, so it’s ’most my lunch time. You look kind of pale, Miss Anne,
dear. Was that bad for me to pick up that paper? I thought it was
only neat when it was lying around like that. Was that a sin? Like
troubling Peter-two? It’s very, very awful hard to walk sinlessly in this
world, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Anne, darling, of course it was only neat!” cried the girl,
kissing little Anne heartily.
“Well, you can’t do sins unless you know they are wrong and just
go ahead and mean to, but I kind of forget that; only when I recite
it, you know,” said the thin theologian. “I’ve got to tell Peter ’was me
took his these is, and nobody can tell what he’ll say to me! Mother
won’t let him do anything, but she’ll talk to me, and that’s worse. It’s
the most fearfullest of all when mother’s sorry! But I’ve got to be
willing to bear it, if I didn’t do right, and I can offer it up. Good-bye,
darling Miss Anne. I hope I didn’t make you sick with that paper; you
look sicky.”
“Not a bit, funny little Anne. Good-bye, and come soon again,” she
said, cheerfully.
Little Anne looked worried, she went slowly toward her
acknowledgment of wrong-doing and her penance, but she forgot all
about it as new thoughts took possession of her. She flew at her
customary speed down the street, Cricket breathlessly running after
her.
 To Anne’s inexpressible relief Richard Latham telephoned to her to
say that he would lunch out, and that there would be nothing to
keep her within doors that lovely afternoon.
She gladly availed herself of this chance to get away from the
familiar beauty of the garden and adjust her perturbed mind to her
dismaying discovery. She went down through the garden and let
herself out by the small gate at its rear that opened on a path which
led to a pretty bit of woods of which she was fond. It must be set
down in honesty that before she went out Anne went upstairs,
picked up the paper which little Anne had faithfully laid exactly
where she had found it, and made a copy for herself of the two
stanzas which had so stirred her. Then she, like the smaller Anne,
put the paper on the floor and went away.
She walked swiftly to the spot in the woods which she had in mind
in setting forth and dropped on the mossy sod to think. She was not
a vain girl, not prone to believe herself admired, not consciously
seeking admiration. She was singularly direct in mind and simple in
motives. She accepted herself, the fact that she was pretty, that she
had several accomplishments and was generally liked, as a pleasant
thing, but not to be emphasized more than any other pleasant fact
like sunshine, or good green grass.
In her silent way Anne held strongly to strong purposes in life;
young as she was she “had found herself,” as it is expressively put
nowadays. And the person who is thus balanced, who actually has
“found herself,” is not likely to waste time looking for other things or
people.
In her close intimacy with Richard Latham for almost a year, she
had been flooded with a pity for him that was always at high tide
within her. She admired him for his beauty of character as much as
for his gifts of mind. His gentle courtesy, his sweetness, the modesty
that persevered in spite of the plaudits that he received, had inspired
in her a passion of affectionate pity for him that rather excluded than
led to love for him. Of herself in connection with him—beyond her
ability to be useful to him, to serve him in his work, to brighten his
days—she had never thought. That his reliance on her, his
appreciation of her personally, as well as of what she did, might
mean love for her, had never till that day crossed her mind. He was
to her a man removed from this possibility no less by his misfortune
than by his genius.
Anne laid her head down on the moss and cried miserably. It was
unbearable to think that she had brought pain into this afflicted life.
True, it would be easy to assuage it. Yet not so easy. She did not
love Richard. She held him as one of the dearest of her earthly ties,
but she did not love him. She felt sure that if she were to try to
make him happy, if she devoted her life to him, that he was far too
sensitive not to feel the lack of the right sort of love in his wife; far
too high-minded to be less than wretched at being the object of her
immolation. A strong word, an absurd one to use in connection with
marriage to Richard Latham, Anne knew that most people would say,
yet to a girl like her any marriage without the love that marriage
implies and demands would be immolation. She cried with all her
might into the soft moss.
Presently Anne heard a footstep and raised her head to see Miss
Carrington near her, standing looking down on her with sincere
amazement, but also with carefully arranged sympathy in her face.
“I suppose there is no use in denying it, but don’t mind me, Miss
Carrington. It’s only a bother that will probably prove more bearable
than it looks in perspective; most things are less unendurable than
you expect them to be when they come to close range,” Anne said,
checking her tears.
“My dear child,” said Miss Carrington, coming over to put her arm
gently around Anne with an intense desire to get at the cause of her
emotion, “you are young, and I am at least elderly. You are alone in
Cleavedge. Won’t you trust me, my dear, and tell me what is wrong?
I can hold my tongue, I assure you, and I know what it is to be
alone.”
“It isn’t myself only, Miss Carrington,” said Anne.
“How could it be? Did you ever hear of a human experience that
was? My dear, it’s my opinion that we not only cannot be separated
to ourselves in this world, but as a rule we should not have troubles
if it weren’t for other people! Won’t you let me try to help?” Miss
Carrington persisted.
Anne shook her head. “Thank you, nevertheless,” she said. “This is
not the sort of thing that any one else can help, nor I, either, I’m
afraid.”
“Let me guess!” Miss Carrington took Anne’s hands, cold from hard
weeping, between her silky palms, the soft, cool, frail hands of an
old gentlewoman. “Let me guess! At your age there can be but one
cause of such violent weeping, so I can easily conjecture. You have
just discovered what I have known all along, that Richard Latham
loves you.” She hoped that this was a good guess and not that this
weeping concerned Kit; she held Anne’s hands fast in spite of her
attempts to pull them away, disregarding her protesting: “No, no,
no!”
“Known all along?” Anne repeated her last words, startled out of
her caution.
“Surely, my dear. My nephew and I have discussed it; we hope
that it is true,” Miss Carrington assured her, stretching the small “we”
to fit her need. “It frightens you? You are such a dear, maidenly, old-
time girl that I suppose we must allow for your first shrinking when
you learn that you are loved. Then, of course, it awes you to think
that it is a poet, Richard Latham, who loves you, a poet and a blind
poet! But, oh, my dear, my dear, how inappropriate are your tears!
How blessed, how exalted you are! By his genius, certainly, but by
his need of you more. A woman is blessed exactly in proportion to
the need of her in those she loves. Mr. Latham not only loves you, as
we all saw, devotedly, devoutly—that is the better word!—but he
loves you with such complete dependence upon you that it is no
exaggeration to say that, though he might not die if he lost you, he
would in no real sense go on living if he were deprived of you. To be
the life of such a man! To be his inspiration and his repose! Indeed I
congratulate you, I would envy you were I not done with life. And I
am sure from what I know of you that perfect happiness could not
come to you except in the opportunity to devote yourself. You are
not ambitious, like, for instance, the handsome girl who will be Kit’s
wife. Of course her ambition will help Kit, who is going in for a
career. It is a most satisfactory arrangement to me, but it would not
do for you! I don’t mind admitting to you that Helen’s ideals are less
fine than yours, but I am glad to have her marry Kit. Don’t think I’m
underestimating Helen. And of course what has slipped out to you is
in confidence; it is not to be made public yet. Dear child, dear little
namesake, with all my heart I rejoice that Richard Latham has his
compensation in you. We have all feared to conjecture what might
happen to him if it were the wrong woman. I can’t say more of you
than that you are supremely the right woman. I am deeply thankful.
Never another tear, my child! You would have slain our poet if you
had failed him; you don’t know how glad I am!”
Anne, exhausted from weeping, stunned and frightened by what
she was hearing, made some feeble attempts to check this torrent of
delight. She heard, with terror and a sense of being engulfed, that
Richard Latham’s life was in her hands. It came upon her with
overpowering force that if this were so clear to these sharp old eyes,
there was no alternative before her but to marry him and do her
best. She also heard with a numb ache that bewildered her that Kit
was to marry Helen Abercrombie, who was so far removed from his
simple kindliness, his goodness, his warmth of heart. This secret was
for Anne to keep!
How strange a day of endings and beginnings!
Patiently Anne submitted to being kissed by Miss Carrington. She
fancied there was an infusion of a salute to the bride in the embrace.
Slowly she went back to her boarding place, weary in brain and
body.
 CHAPTER XI

Penitential

IF a Roman general ever went out certain of conquest and returned

defrauded of his triumph to be chained to the wheels of a chariot
and dragged through the city in disgrace, instead of gloriously
striding that chariot, then that general and Peter Berkley the Second
would have understood each other’s bitterness.
Little Anne’s heart sank lower when she heard the outer door
slam, though by the time that she had reached home and had
waited, dreading to hear Peter’s step, it was already sufficiently
despairing. To make matters worse, Mrs. Berkley had gone to lunch
with Joan, leaving Bibiana, Anne’s former nurse, now serving as
waitress, to see that the children were comfortable. Children,
indeed! Peter was a ruined man. He came into the house with a
tragic stride, gloom upon his brow, but in spite of his mature sense
of catastrophe—he demanded his mother instantly as Anne might
have done, while he threw his books and hat in different directions
and himself into a chair, like Napoleon after Waterloo.
Little Anne rose from a dark corner looking white and small. She
was trembling, but she did what was required of her, albeit her voice
was faint and it quavered.
“Mother went to Joan’s, Peter. I’m sorry, Peter-two,” she said.
“So am I. I’d like to talk to her,” growled Peter. “But of course
she’d go when I need her so bad.”
“No, Peter; she’s ’most always here for our lunch, but Babs has a
cold,” little Anne was still able to justify her mother. “And you don’t
have to talk to her, Peter; I shall tell her myself, and I am sorry,
truly.”
 “Heh?” cried Peter, arousing to the fact that Anne was not sorry
only that her mother was absent. “What are you sorry about? What’ll
you tell her? See here, did you——”
Little Anne nodded hard, choking. Peter looked dreadfully fierce
and grown-up, and she became sharply aware that she was only
seven.
“You stole——?” Peter’s emotions again choked his speech.
“Your these is—are,” said little Anne, miserably.
“What for?” Peter fairly roared at the trembling child. “What good
did it do you, you—you—bad, meddlesome monkey?”
“It was because you said I couldn’t make you mad,” said little
Anne, rallying slightly. Peter calling her names was more familiar, less
formidable than Peter inarticulate. “I never thought it would make
you trouble till Miss Anne said so. I am dreadful sorry, honest I am,
Peter-two! I’ll give you my new blank book with the red cover to
make rusti—resti—to make up. And your these is—are—is not hurt.”
“Good heavens!” burst out Peter. “You might think it was bric-à-
brac! You’d suppose even a kid would know it had to be turned in at
school to-day, and isn’t a thing to be harmed. I’m harmed, I’ll tell
you that, Miss Anne! I’m disgraced, that’s what! Heaps of the fellows
have been getting out of doing these, so the heads made a rule that
the next one that didn’t have his paper ready would be made an
example. I was it! It’s a thing a fellow can’t live down; I was
disgraced. And I hadn’t even a slim excuse to offer. I’d no mortal
idea where it was, went to get it out—gone! When I said I’d written
it, made a donkey of myself generally, looking like a gibbering idiot,
it settled me; ’course they thought I was lying!”
“Tell them it was me, tell them, Peter!” begged little Anne. “I don’t
want them to know, but it’s truth, so I must. Tell them, Peter-two, I
took it and it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, I guess!” Peter derided her. “I’d look well saying my kid sister
was allowed to rummage my things and steal my papers, now
wouldn’t I? I’d look well hiding behind you, my kid sister, wouldn’t I!”
“Kind of like Adam,” said little Anne, absent-mindedly. “Then what
can you do, Peter-two?”
 “Bear it,” said Peter through his closed teeth.
It had such a fearful ring that little Anne began to cry softly.
“Oh, Peter-two, Peter-two,” she moaned. “I honest-to-goodness
didn’t mean to be wicked. I just wanted to make you mad, ’cause
you said I couldn’t. And oh, dear, oh, dear, I did, I did! Don’t you
think you could forgive me, Peter, when I’m so awful sorry and
confessed, and give you my book for repar—resti—making up?
Couldn’t you forgive me, not anyway at all, Peter-two?”
“You’re spoiled,” said Peter, sternly, not hard-heartedly precisely,
but with a sense of obligation to make the most of this opportunity.
“I’ve said all along you were dreadfully spoiled, and you are. You’re
getting worse, Anne, and this was pretty bad. It won’t hurt you to do
penance.”
“All right, Peter-two,” said little Anne, swallowing her rising sobs.
“Wha—what’ll I do?”
“Oh, I don’t care what you do! Think of the harm you’ve done. Go
sit in a tree, or stand in the river. I don’t care what you do! I’m sick
of the whole business, and I’m going to get some gingerbread and
study. Go on and let me alone.”
Little Anne looked at him with mournful dark eyes; the hollows
which so quickly showed below them deep and dark.
“Before I go, Peter-two,” she said, softly, “won’t you please, please
kiss me and tell me you’ll forgive me by and by, after my penance?”
“Anne, I’ve told you not to bother me!” Peter spoke in a sternly
parental tone. “Certainly I shall not kiss you; why should I, when
you’ve put me in such a position? I will decide about forgiving you
when I see whether or not you mean to behave yourself in the
future.”
Feeling that he had dealt with little Anne in a manner that was for
her welfare, and regretting that his mother could not see this object
lessen in the proper way to discipline her, Peter left the room and
little Anne’s stricken face to go after gingerbread, in the consumption
of which his adult manner was lost.
He was in his room when his mother returned. She called him to
ask if he knew where Anne was.
 He did not. He had been too busy to think about her, he said,
appearing at the head of the stairs. He further guessed she was
around. But she was not. Bibiana, the waitress, had not seen her
since she gave her lunch. She admitted having thought that the child
was not so hungry as she might have been.
Mrs. Berkley telephoned the mother of Monica, little Anne’s
favourite playmate, but Anne was not with Monica. She called up
other houses, but there was no news of the child.
Peter, listening to the telephoning with his bedroom door open,
began to feel an uneasiness which he did not intend to betray to his
mother. It was uncomfortable not to know where Anne was,
remembering how sternly he had disciplined her for her confessed
and repented fault, had refused to forgive her immediately or to seal
the forgiveness with the kiss that she had implored.
Peter sauntered downstairs with a manner exaggeratedly casual,
his cap on the back of his head.
“Oh, don’t go away, Peter!” cried his mother. “I am beginning to
feel uneasy about Anne.”
“Oh, Anne’s all right!” Peter assured her. “I won’t be long. I
thought maybe I’d make her hurry home; I thought you were getting
worried by the way you were telephoning all over. I’ll tell her to
hurry in and not worry you.”
“Oh, Peter, it sounds as though you did know where she was!”
cried Mrs. Berkley.
“Not hard to guess,” said Peter, and slammed the door before his
mother could ask what his guess was and he should have to confess
to having in mind nowhere that she had not already interrogated.
Once out of sight his nonchalance fell from him like the mask that it
was. He pulled his cap down over his forehead and set out on a run.
He made speed to find Anne Dallas, feeling that in some unforeseen
way she could help him.
“Gee, if only I had kissed the kid!” he thought, nameless
forebodings gripping him.
Anne Dallas knew nothing of little Anne; Mrs. Berkley had already
called her to ask, she told Peter. He thought that she looked ill and
her eyes were swollen; there was reason for his own fright, then, if
Miss Dallas was worried to this extent over Anne.
“Oh, I knew Mother’d call you up,” Peter said, shifting from foot to
foot as he stood. “But I sort of thought if you didn’t know where she
was maybe you’d come home with me, talk to Mother till Father gets
there—though Anne must come before he does!” he interrupted
himself hastily. “Joan couldn’t come at this time very well—baby
goes to bed, and Antony gets in early—and Mother’s kind of worried.
Women do worry a whole lot over their children.” Peter gave Anne
the benefit of his unique experience.
“I’ll go this minute,” said Anne. “My hat is right here.”
“You see Anne was feeling down in the mouth on account of
something she’d done to me,” Peter said as they walked along,
unable to restrain this confidence.
“She took your thesis. Yes, but she went home to tell you and beg
for forgiveness, so that’s all right now. Isn’t it?” Anne cried,
frightened by Peter’s expression. Then, as he did not answer, she
understood.
“Oh, dear! And she is such an emotional child! Oh, poor Peter! But
of course no harm can have befallen her,” Anne said, laying her hand
on Peter’s arm.
Mrs. Berkley welcomed Anne without many words. She clasped
her hand, and said: “Thank you, dear!”
Peter went past them up to his room again. It was getting late.
After lunch that day Kit Carrington had found his home and its
inmates beyond his power to endure. He was seized with an attack
of nerves, made evident by his restlessness of body and complete
repose of tongue.
In vain had Miss Carrington tried to involve him in plans of her
own. Equally in vain had Helen offered suggestions that were
practically requests to Kit to do one of several things which would
have sufficiently amused her. Kit had one of his most obtuse fits; he
met both his aunt and Helen with polite obstinacy and mental
deafness.
 It ended in his going off to his room and getting himself into his
fishing clothes, taking his rod, and starting off to fish the river for a
long afternoon of his own unshared companionship.
He was too unused to introspection to know what ailed him;
indeed the symptoms were confused and contradictory. He felt at
once unhappy and glad; heavily dull and restless; filled with vague
expectation that seemed to urge him on, he did not know whither, as
if something glorious awaited him just around the corner; yet pain
that was almost despair flooded him, as if all the meaning and value
were out of life.
“Well, good gracious, I wonder what’s wrong with me! Must be
getting sick,” thought Kit as he realized the civil warfare within him.
All day long Anne Dallas had been before him, alluring, desirable,
close to his mind, yet removed, as if she had died.
“Funny!” thought simple Kit.
Later, his aunt returning from a walk in the woods, might have
offered him a solution, if he would admit telepathy as a premise.
He began to find the quiet of fields a balm to his perturbed spirits.
The woods, when he came to them and entered them, quieted him
still more.
“Why didn’t I bring poor old Sirius? What a brute I am to forget
him when he so loves this sort of excursion and gets so few!” Kit
reproached himself. “Just the trip for a dog! Well, that’s queer!
There’s little Anne’s beagle, Cricket. Wonder if I could persuade him
to join me? He’s such a scared beggar! Still, he’s getting reconciled
to me. Here, Cricket, Cricket, you bundle!”
Cricket came cautiously in wide loops toward Kit, wagging his
body deprecatingly, expressing a hope which he was not convinced
had sufficient foundation.
“Flattered, I’m sure, that you trust me to this extent, young
misanthrope!” Kit patted the dog with a finger tip, and followed it up
with his palm. “Seems to me you act queer, but then you are always
such an absurdity that it’s hard telling! I suspect that you came out
after rabbits, sir, and are properly ashamed! Though a man with a
fishing rod is no moralist to impress you, eh? Well, Cricket, I admit
your reasoning.”
Kit got out his bait and began to fish. Cricket left him, returned,
whined, and curved himself imploringly; went away again, returned
again, barked, and finally disappeared.
Kit paid slight attention to the beagle’s vagaries. He fished along
the bank, waded out into the stream, sat for a time upon a rock and
fished from there, whistling softly, forgetful of the perturbation which
had sent him out to look for peace.
“Pretty good fun to invite your soul and have no one else at your
exclusive party,” thought Kit, recognizing his own pleasure and that it
was satisfying, though he had taken no fish. “Must get back, I
suppose, when there’s a fair lady to dine. But I’m going to try that
other place first.”
“That other place” lay farther up the river. It was a quiet spot,
shaded by over-hanging branches. He strode to it in his rubber
boots, his walking shoes hung across his shoulders by their knotted
lacings. He walked in the water, finding it more comfortable with his
boots on than land; he noticed how cold the river was still, although
there had been several days of considerable warmth.
“Well, now for a last try!” Kit thought as he came to the spot
which he had in mind.
There on the river bank sat Cricket piteously whining.
“Anne! Little Anne!” shouted Kit.
Mid-stream stood little Anne, her skirts gathered up in her hands,
her bare, slender legs shaking beneath her as the ice-cold river
lapped them to the knees.
When Kit called her name she turned to him a disfigured, tear-
swollen face and fell forward into the water. He strode out to her and
gathered her up in his arms. She was unconscious and her poor little
body was as cold as the dead.
“Oh, Lord, and so far from everything!” thought Kit.
He did not dally to consider. Casting away his rod and basket he
set out on a run toward the town, holding Anne close to his breast.
Cricket streamed after them, but Kit had been a sprinter and an all-
around athlete; the beagle’s short bowed legs stood no chance at
keeping up.
It seemed to Kit that he made no sort of time; he cursed his
impeding rubber boots fervently; in reality, he covered the distance
to the nearest drug store at a record speed.
He laid little Anne on the counter, still unconscious, and supported
her head on one arm.
“Brandy!” he gasped.
“Artificial respiration,” said the bland but frightened druggist,
prompt with first-aid knowledge.
“She’s not drowned; it’s exhaustion. She fainted, fell into the river.
Brandy, man! Don’t stop to talk!” Kit ordered.
“You know, Mr. Carrington, I can’t sell brandy without a doctor’s
prescription,” said the druggist with finality.
It is certain that Kit’s exclamation was accounted to him as
righteousness, for it sprang from love for little Anne.
“Give it and don’t sell it then, you idiot!” he said, savagely. “Give
the child brandy and I’ll give you a present later. Good heavens, is
this child to lie here in this state while I stalk a doctor? Who’s to
know what’s done here, anyway? You use my name; you know me.
I’ll be responsible. But I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do
to you if you don’t get a move on you, quick! And I’m some boxer, if
you want to know.” Kit glared furiously at the small man with the
timorous air and the druggist got down a bottle.
“It’s the law, Mr. Carrington; I’m not to blame, and I certainly
don’t want to get into trouble breaking laws,” he said, pouring a little
brandy into a glass.
“Get a spoon,” Kit ordered, disregarding him.
He poured the liquor down little Anne’s throat and chafed her
wrists. The druggist rubbed her legs.
“What happened to her?” he ventured to ask, plainly doubtful of
Kit’s patience. “Who is she?”
“Mr. Peter Berkley’s child. I don’t know what happened. She was
standing in the water and fainted just as I came along to fish,” said
Kit. Little Anne opened her eyes with a sigh.
“Was it enough? Is it all right?” she murmured and closed her eyes
again.
“It was a heap too much, little Anne,” said Kit, tenderly. “Help me
get off her wet dress and lend me something to wrap around her,
can’t you? Haven’t you a coat?”
“I have a blanket which I use when I sleep in the store,” said the
druggist. “Easy to see you have no little girls, Mr. Carrington. Now I
have; two. You unbutton their dresses this way.”
“Oh, please don’t, Kit! I’d much rather be undressed at home,”
little Anne implored.
“You shall be. Only this wet dress, Nancy-Bell, and then I’ll roll you
up in a blanket——”
“Seventy times as high as the moon,” murmured little Anne, feebly
submitting.
“Another 'wee deoch and doris,’ Anne!” said Kit putting the
teaspoon to her lips. And this time little Anne could help herself.
Kit rolled her up in the blanket which the druggist produced and
which he could not help being glad to see was a bright-coloured
Navajo; he wanted little Anne to be wrapped in something cheerful.
“I’ll be back to-morrow and bring the blanket and some money. I
haven’t any with me. I beg your pardon for cussing you, but time
counts in such a case—so does a stimulant!” said Kit, as he
shouldered his precious burden and went away.
Little Anne rallied enough to want to explain.
“It was penance, Kit, dear,” she said. “I did a fearful thing to Peter-
two and he couldn’t forgive me yet. He told me to do penance and
said stand in the river when I said what kind. He wouldn’t kiss me.
So I did it. It’s a cold, an awful cold penance, Kit!” Little Anne
shuddered.
“Oh, little Anne, didn’t you know Peter didn’t mean that? Fancy,
penance! It sure was cold! What a foolish child you were! If only it
hasn’t harmed you! Were you there long?” demanded Kit, anxiously.
 “I don’t know; I think so. Peter-two gets home half-past two, or
something, and I went pretty soon. I’m sleepy, Kit. Is Mother
worried? I forgot my mother.” Anne spoke wearily.
“Dear, I don’t know about going to sleep; perhaps it would harm
you. You see I don’t know what it might do to you. Keep awake, little
Anne! Let me tell you how worried your Cricket was about you, and
how he tried to say there was something wrong.” Kit accompanied
the homeward journey with chatter about the beagle to which little
Anne faithfully strove to listen, but her heavy lids would not stay
open.
When Mrs. Berkley, her husband, Peter, crowded to the door with
terror-stricken faces, seeing Kit coming and what he bore, little Anne
was asleep.
“Kit?” Mrs. Berkley managed the word, but could ask no more.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Berkley; she’s not hurt; she may be harmed,”
Kit answered her.
He relinquished little Anne to her father and watched her family as
they gently turned away the blanket from the thin face, now
crimson, with pinched lips.
“I found her standing in the river. She had some sort of an idea of
doing penance; of course, one of little Anne’s queer notions,” Kit
said, for with a groan as his words to little Anne came back to him,
Peter bolted.
“We’ll put her to bed. Sometime I can thank you, Kit, dear,” said
Mrs. Berkley.
Little Anne’s father did not speak and he had no hand to give. He
nodded to Kit, tears streaming down his face, and carried the child
upstairs.
From the corner where she had sat, forgotten, Anne Dallas now
emerged.
She looked haggard; it had been a day of intense emotions. She
felt embarrassed to speak to Kit. She had just learned that he was to
marry Helen Abercrombie, and that she herself was beloved by
Richard Latham. The face of the world had changed. But Kit looked
so surprised, so glad to see her, he seized her hand so cordially, that
she could not help responding to his warmth. Why had she been
disinclined to speak to him in the first place? she wondered. He was
the same fine boy; nothing had happened to alter their friendship.
“Are you going?” he asked. “I’ll walk with you, please. I’m troubled
about little Anne. She fainted dead when she saw me, been standing
no end of time, and the water is like ice to-day. Good heavens, if she
has pneumonia!”
“Heaven forbid!” said Anne.
Her heart leaped with pleasure at Kit’s kindness, his anxiety, the
warmth of his love for the child. She glowed with joy that he was so
good.
“Saint Christopher bore a little Child out of the water, across to
safety, you know. Let us hope he will bless this Christopher’s rescue,”
she said, softly.
Kit stared. “What nice things you think of; sweet, womanly, lovely
things,” he said, simply, and took Anne home.
 CHAPTER XII

Making Alive

DURING three days and for as many long nights Anne Dallas lived
intensely in unrealities. Richard Latham was not inclined to talk; she
herself was submerged in feeling that silenced words. It seemed to
her that it blanketed thought, yet all the time she was thinking
intently and, unknown to herself, was reaching conclusions. She
worked fast, for Richard was working fast; she rapidly took down
notes for the first part of his third act, and was aware somewhere in
her brain behind her absorption that he was dictating to her lines
which surpassed himself at his previous best.
Little Anne Berkley was dangerously ill. Pneumonia had developed
on the second day after her pitiful penance, and, little-Anne-like, she
was having it hard. Anne Dallas and Richard Latham were surprised
to find what a large place in their days and hearts the child had
filled. The thin little body as it lay prostrate in its fight for life cast a
shadow over the house in Latham Street. His anxiety stimulated
Richard to better work, but in Anne’s mind fear for little Anne
aggregated to her personal anxiety and benumbed her further. The
world had grown still, hushed by anxiety; she was feeling so
intensely that she seemed not to feel.
Nor did the shadow of little Anne’s suffering darken only the poet’s
house. Kit was so afflicted by her danger that he hovered constantly
around the Berkley door, getting bulletins many times a day, bringing
preposterous gifts to the child who could not see them.
Once, when she was sleeping, Mrs. Berkley took Kit up to look at
her. She lay with a disreputable doll beside her, her face so pinched,
her breathing so laboured, the look of suffering, of imminent death
so stamped upon her that Kit groaned aloud. Mrs. Berkley led him
away as little Anne stirred.
“It’s bad, Kit, dear, but we are hoping and praying,” she said with
such a brave smile that when Kit got down to where Antony Paul
was waiting for him he broke down.
Peter sat with his head in his hands, bowed over his knees. He
looked up fiercely as he heard Kit sob.
“She isn’t your little sister. How do you suppose I feel?” he
demanded. “There never was such a kid as Anne. Joan isn’t in the
same class, Antony, no matter what you say. More brains than all the
other children in town put together, and never a fresh thing about
her; sweet, obedient, pious! And I wouldn’t forgive her for a clever
little trick that I ought to have enjoyed; yes, been proud to think she
was smart enough to work it! Wouldn’t kiss her! Oh, my Lord! Anne,
Anne! Told her to go stand in the river for penance, when she was
so sorry, the little saint! Wouldn’t kiss her!”
Down went Peter’s head again and his shoulders heaved.
“See here, old chap, we haven’t lost her yet. You know what to do.
Get out and do it. I believe she’ll be given back to us,” said Antony,
his arm laid across poor Peter as tenderly as a woman’s. Kit watched
and wondered, but Peter understood Antony. He drew his arm across
his eyes, got his cap, and went out without a word.
Kit went miserably home. Aside from his sense of personal loss, it
seemed to him unbearable that a child so young, so vital as little
Anne should die. He had not meditated so profoundly on the
mysteries of life in all the brief time that he had lived it as he found
himself doing on his way home that afternoon. He distinctly shrank
from going into the metallic brightness of his aunt and Helen’s
presence from the sublime patience that he divined in Mrs. Berkley,
and the solemnity of little Anne, clothed in the mystery of suffering
and death.
He was met at the door by Helen, her face all gentle
commiseration.
“I am sure that you have nothing good to tell me, Kit, but Anne?”
she asked.
 He shook his head. “Not either sort of news. Of course there’s a
chance she may pull through.”
“Kit, don’t feel so sorry. I can’t bear to see it. But if you are sorry
don’t exclude me as you do. What makes you? I’m not absolutely
inhuman!” Helen smiled, but she looked hurt.
“She’s a nice child. You don’t like children,” said Kit, dangerously
near to rudeness. “It’s not excluding, Nell. What’s the use of talking
about things, anyway?”
Kit went upstairs, leaving Helen where she stood. As he went he
was conscious that he would not have asked Anne Dallas what was
the use of talking about things; he knew that it would be the
greatest comfort to him to go to her and discuss little Anne and his
recent thoughts. But, he reminded himself, this was explained by
Anne’s love for the sick child.
The next afternoon he did go to Richard Latham’s. He was shown
directly into the peaceful room where Anne Dallas and the poet were
sitting.
“Do I interrupt work?” Kit asked, pausing in the doorway.
“No, indeed; all done for to-day,” said Richard. “Kit, have you bad
news?” he added.
“Oh, your face says so!” exclaimed Anne; Richard had caught the
note of strain in his voice.
Kit came in and dropped heavily into a chair.
“I don’t know; I suppose it is not anything portentous. They are
waiting for the crisis, now; it’s near. Poor little girl!” He paused, and
Richard patted him on the shoulder.
“We are all broken up here, too,” he said.
“But there is something else, some change?” Anne asked.
“She was conscious this morning and in the night,” said Kit. “She
has been conscious a good deal, they say. She asked what day this
was, and when they said Thursday, she asked if it was Corpus
Christi? I don’t know what that means, but——”
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it kept abroad, processions, and——” Richard
began, but Kit interrupted him.
 “Well,” he said, indifferently. “But the point is that this was the day
on which little Anne and some other children were to go to
Communion for the first time, and that through her pain the poor
mite had kept track of the days, somewhere in her fevered brain.
And Joan told me that the priest came and she did—what do they
say?—make her First Communion this morning. And afterward she
said—isn’t this like her?—'I didn’t know my white dress for to-day
would be my nightie.’ That sort of broke me up.” Kit choked, and
neither Anne nor Richard spoke.
“Well, little Anne’s father and Antony Paul were to get flowers for
her to give to the church. So they bought them for her room. Her
mother took me up. It was full of flowers, but Anne was not
conscious when I was there. They said she’d asked to have them
taken to the church; Peter was going to take them. They—the priest
—he gave her—what did Joan say? He anointed her for death. Little
Anne!”
Kit’s voice had been getting more unsteady; it stopped altogether
and he dropped his face into his hands.
Anne was crying softly, but Richard said, though the effort was
audible:
“I’ve been told they often recover, those who receive Extreme
Unction. I am unable to believe that little Anne will die. Something
tells me that she is coming here one of these fine summer days to
tell us extraordinary things of her fight with death, just as she has so
often said strange things of her experiences in life. We won’t grieve
till we must, dear Kit, and dear other Anne. I am hopeful.”
“Poets have visions withheld from us. We will trust this poet and
hope!” said Anne, trying to smile. “I wonder why this slender little
creature has so deeply entered our hearts? It really seems to me
that I could not bear to see little Anne lying dead.”
“I only know that she has crawled into our hearts,” said Kit. He
went away comforted. Not only was Richard Latham’s hopefulness a
relief when he had felt that little Anne was doomed, but in an
intangible way it seemed to Kit that Anne Dallas had drawn near to
him, that her tears had been shed so close to him that he had wiped
them away, comforting her. It was not a reasonable feeling, but
reason and feeling are often opposed terms. In their love for this
little child he and Anne were one. How easily that oneness might go
further!
Kit’s simplicity accepted the oneness and rested upon it. His was a
nature inclined to believe in all that was good, even in good things
coming to him. And perhaps the impression of sympathy was not
mistaken, whatever might come of it. He slept little that night. The
greater part of it he spent in a chair at the window, gazing out on
the silent world, at the watching stars.
It seemed to him now like something inconceivably solemn, rather
than sad, that little Anne might have passed out from this visible
beauty. He had only the vaguest ideas of what the sacraments which
the child had received meant, but “anointing for death” had a sound
as awesome as the sweep of Azrael’s wings. It lifted the child
beyond the little creature whom he had known and loved, the
precocious, innocent, elfin, spiritual child, full of contradictory charm;
she was now become merely a soul, a passing soul, set apart and
chosen to know at the dawn of life all that man had yearned to
fathom.
He no longer cared to keep her. It was as if it were too
stupendous a matter for human desire to interfere in it, that little
Anne must be left alone to go on or come back, the decision
untrammelled.
Kit’s thoughts turned calmly to Anne Dallas; they partook of the
mood wrought by little Anne’s apotheosis. Anne Dallas loved him!
Wonderful, impossible once to have believed as this was, it seemed
to Kit quite certain. He did not know why, he could not have given a
reason for this certainty, but when one knows a thing beyond
question it would be absurd to ask for proof.
He felt uplifted. Little Anne was close to infinity; he and Anne were
blessed in their closeness to each other. It was a profound, a restful
conviction. There would flow from it, Kit realized, intensely vital
action, but now it sufficed to rest in it, conscious feeling absorbed.
In a frame of mind in which he did not recognize himself Kit passed
the night. It was not unlike the vigil of a youth beside his arms on
the eve of knighthood.
As the east began to redden Kit dozed, his arms on the windowsill
pillowing his head. He roused and shook himself as boys and dogs
shake themselves after a nap, and went downstairs, winding his
forgotten watch as he went, setting it by the tall clock on the
landing. He was surprised to see that it was after seven.
He went out on the steps, intending to go to the Berkley house to
ask for news. He shrank from ringing the sharp telephone bell in that
house which he pictured as filled with the silence of oppressive grief.
For now, though the rising sun usually brings hope after the night’s
despair, Kit felt sure that little Anne was dead.
As he came out he saw on the bottom step of his aunt’s house a
figure. It sat huddled, arms folded, head pillowed, knees drawn up,
bowed forward in a heap that for a moment prevented recognition.
Then Kit saw that it was young Peter Berkley.
“Peter!” he cried, and went down to lay his hand on the boy’s
shoulder.
Peter jumped and sat up, rubbing his eyes, bewildered.
“Must have dropped off,” he apologized. “I’m not used to being
awake all night, and this was the third one. I was awake pretty much
all of the two before this one. I thought I’d stop and see you, but I
hated to ring, didn’t hear any one stirring in the house. When I sat
down I guess I went right off.”
“Have you been here long?” asked Kit, not daring to ask the
question that was uppermost in his mind.
“Don’t know what time it is now,” said Peter. “I got here about ten
minutes to seven, I suppose. I went around to serve Mass at six.
That’s the first one. I had to go.”
“Did you?” Kit’s voice was as softly pitying as Peter’s mother’s
could have been. “Is that what you do when——”
“It’s what you want to do. You can’t thank God yourself; you’re not
big enough,” said Peter, simply. “What I came to tell you, Kit, is that
Anne’s pulled through.”
“Living? Going to live?” Kit shouted.
 Peter nodded. “The crisis was last night about one. She got
through it like the little sport she is. The doctor stayed and helped all
he could, but he said it was her heart won out. He says her heart’s
fine this morning, so it’s sure she’ll get well with proper care. Think
she won’t get it? The doctor doesn’t know how true what he said
was. Say, don’t you think it was little Anne’s heart? She’s such a
good kid and tries so hard to do what she’s told.”
Kit nodded. He found it hard to speak, but he patted Peter’s
shoulder steadily, as though something would go wrong if he
stopped.
“I knew how you’d feel,” said Peter, stretching his weary muscles.
“Got to go on home now. I haven’t had anything to eat yet, and I
don’t believe we had dinner; I can’t seem to remember. Isn’t that
funny? I didn’t go to bed; I lit right out for the six—Mass at six, I
mean. I’m going to serve that one for nine days; it takes something
to get up at five. That’s a novena I’m going to make.”
Kit understood the boy’s elisions, being still a boy in spite of his
approaching third decade.
“Well, Peter, I’d know you’d be thankful,” Kit said. “I am, too. I’d
like it if I knew how to do something to show I’m thankful.”
“Oh, thankful!” Peter seemed to inhale the word. “Well, say! If
Anne had died from standing in the river when I was such a fool and
a brute as to say what I did to her—— Thankful! Well, say!”
The boy walked away, head up, but shoulders heaving.
Kit stood for a few moments on the steps, his head thrown back,
the sunshine on his face. He looked radiant but stunned.
“I didn’t think she’d make it!” he said aloud. “I was sure when I
saw Peter sitting here she hadn’t made it. Gracious, but I am glad!
Anne will be glad. I must call and tell her.”
Anne received Kit’s message at her boarding place. She hurried
her breakfast and went to Latham Street earlier than usual to take
the joyful news there.
Richard Latham received it as a twice-told tale, not the less
welcome.
 “The dear little thing!” he said. “But I felt sure that she was safe.
The first thing I thought when I wakened was that little Anne was all
right. But it is joyful to be confirmed by certainty. How glad you are!
I can feel the happiness radiating from you like an electric current!”
“Indeed I am happy!” cried Anne. “I love the child, but it’s not that
alone. That is such a dear family, so simple, so united, so loving that
I couldn’t endure the thought of their loss of little Anne. Though
perhaps it would have been better to let her slip away to the heaven
she’s so fond of talking about.”
“Nonsense!” said Richard, briskly. “That’s a morbid, wrong notion.
Life is a gift. A wicked life is the gift thrown away, but do you really
think there is great danger of little Anne’s conscience ever
abandoning her to a misspent life—or of her abandoning her
conscience, more correctly? Anne’s conscience is as intrinsic to her
as her heart, or any other vital organ! She’ll be a good woman. So
I’m mighty glad she’s to live to make a happier world, as her mother
has done. How good it will be to have her around again! How did
you hear about her?”
“Kit Carrington telephoned me. Peter Berkley had been there to
tell Kit, and he knew that I—we—would be eager to hear,” said Anne.
“Ah! Well, that was kind of him; we were eager to hear,” said
Richard. Anne did not see his face; he turned and left the room as
he spoke, but she heard the change in his voice that answered to a
drooping body.
“You do not feel too perturbed to work to-day?” Richard suggested
when Anne followed him to the living room a few minutes later.
There was no note of regret in his voice now.
“Dear me, no!” laughed Anne. “I feel more like work than usual;
there is a load rolled off, isn’t there?”
Anne had set down her problem in accurate figures, and had
solved it. There was nothing in the way of her making Richard as
happy as she could make him, except selfishness. She wanted the
love that had not come to her, which was to her the ideal approach
to marriage. This ideal was the true one, but her case was altered by
circumstances. First of all, there was no one whom she loved better
than Richard Latham. If there were, she could not have been untrue
to that love, whether or not it led to joy. Richard Latham was not
only a man to be honoured for his genius, pitied for his blindness,
but he was a man to be loved for himself. Rarely would any woman
find in one person the qualities which he united in himself; the
manliness with the delicacy; the tenderness with the courage; the
unbending austerity with the unfailing mercy. He could love a woman
as few men could love one; he would idealize her while protecting
her; serve her in all humility, yet expect from her all the goodness
and strength that was in her. Anne had decided that if Richard really
were giving her this power and wanted her, it was not for her to
refuse his wealth, nor further impoverish one who had been so
bereft. Having reached her decision, she went serenely on her way,
characteristically debating it no more; ready to give if the demand
were made, desiring nothing except not to fail either Richard or
herself.
This morning Richard resumed the dictation of his third act; Anne,
pen in hand, set down the cabalistic signs which Richard had once
accused of signifying more than he could produce.
Suddenly she paused, her pen suspended, a shocked expression
on her face.
“But, Mr. Latham, why are you saying this?” she cried. “What are
you doing with this act? This dialogue? You are turning it all wrong!”
“No,” said Richard. “I am not going to follow my first plan. Our
friend, the hero, is not to be made happy, after all! I am separating
him from his beloved. They are not to marry, as we meant them to.
It won’t affect the two preceding acts; it will merely make another
play of it, perhaps a sadder one, but not a weaker one—better, I
think. Don’t you approve?”
“Indeed I do not!” cried Anne. “Why do you want to martyr him?
And to frustrate that beautiful, ideal love! It’s unbearable! I can’t
take the dictation that does this! And really, Mr. Latham, it will
frustrate the play as well as the hero’s life. Don’t you think we all
want the happy ending? It is always possible to get it in a play or a
story! I’m sure the public will rebel, that your play will never succeed
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