Page 3 of Liar Byrd
“Your mother says you’re a gifted pianist.”
My fingers tighten around the tray in my hand. For a brief moment, I feel betrayed that Mom would tell this man—thisstranger—about a hobby I do only for myself. I don’t like to perform. I don’t even tell anyone that I play. The piano has only ever been just for me.
My dad left her when I was five. I barely remember what he looks like now. The photos my mom tossed were the only lifeline to him, and with them gone, so are my memories of the man who brought me into this world.
He scarred her so badly that she never forgot—could neverletherself forget—the agony of someone she loved so deeply choosing to walk away. All my life, she’s lived with the constant fear of someone else leaving her, so she will do almost anything so they will stay.
“Thank you,” I say again, hating Jeremiah for making my mom choose him over everything, including me.
I release a quiet sigh of relief when the man beside him asks about yesterday's sermon, and he shifts his penetrating gaze from mine to answer.
I know I will get in trouble for it, but I slip away, heading toward the kitchen and hoping no one will miss me.
My mom is helping serve the men on the other side of the barn. I try to catch her eye, but she’s so focused on her task that she doesn’t notice me. Slowing my walk not to draw attention when I would rather run, I cross the barn. I’m inches from the doorway when a hand grips my arm, halting me.
Mentally screaming, I twist around with a polite smile.
“Jeremiah is ready for you to play now,” Jason, one of his acolytes, tells me, his fingers tightening around my arm.
I frown. “But I didn’t…”
Agree.
People smile at the loud announcement, anticipation softening their tired faces, expecting me to do something I did not agree to.
And I see then that Jeremiah always intended for me to perform for him.
Another of his acolytes is carrying in a dusty-looking keyboard, a small wooden stool, and a table, and setting it up opposite Jeremiah’s table. It’s not my keyboard.
My reluctant steps carry me to the keyboard, and only when I’ve sat down does Jason return to his place beside Jeremiah.
My eyes dart to the table where all are eating except Jeremiah.
He is watching me.
Again.
Chapter 3
Byrdie
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…" Deacon, one of Jeremiah’s eldest acolytes’ words tumble in and out of my mind.
He leads the ceremony as Jeremiah grieves Rachel, his fifth wife, but I’m too distracted to listen. Jeremiah has his head lowered, hands clasped in front of him. I haven’t taken a breath without nerves twisting my belly into countless knots since I learned she was dead.
The childbirth was hard, the women said, but it seemed like she had gotten through the worst of it.
Jeremiah left her to nurse; he went back minutes later, and she was dead.
I am afraid of what this means for me, but what do I do?
My eyes slide to Mom.
She’s sitting, her leg raised, skin white. The accident in the garden was only a few days ago. The bleeding is constant, her wound slow to heal.
The accident means I can’t grab her and go. She can’t run, and I can’t leave her.
My eyes return to the acolytes standing beside Jeremiah.
