Page 35 of The Women of Wild Hill
“But you’ve told us there are many women like us,” Ivy said. “And we have other kinds of power.”
“Yes, and someday we will liberate the others. Until then, we must all keep our skills secret. I know three ghosts in a castle dungeon who could tell you what happens when men discover what we can do.”
Rose and Ivy knew the story of their murdered ancestors back in Scotland. “They don’t burn witches at the stake anymore,” Ivy argued for argument’s sake.
The crystal beads on Sadie’s dress caught the candlelight. “They would if they could, darling. I don’t think any of us want to find out what they’re up for.” She turned her attention to the oldest of her twins. “The point I’m making, dear Rose, is that beauty is a form of power. It’s a wonderful lure, and it will help you attract a mate so our line can continue. But beauty won’t separate bad men from good. And whatever type of man you get, there will always come a day when one’s beauty no longer holds sway over them.”
Sadie raised her wineglass to her daughters. “So, my darlings. If your daughters have a choice of gifts, encourage them to choose something other than beauty. There are far more lasting forms of power—and none of the others are nearly as dangerous.”
“But I never had a choice,” Rose said.
“No, neither did I,” her mother pointed out. “And yet, somehow, I’ve managed to make the best of it. I suspect you will as well.”
ROSE SUSPECTED SHE WOULDN’T. AFTERthat conversation, she began wearing veils in public—when she went out in public at all. She avoided the men who came to Wild Hill to see Sadie and the women who snuck in when no one was looking to buy the potions, ointments, and fragrances that Ivy had started selling. Among those wares was a perfume that Rose made from the flowers thatgrew on the walls of the mansion. It was said the scent was impossible to resist, just like the young woman who’d crafted it. The girls knew there was nothing magical about the perfume. But it provided cover for their other offerings—some magical and others illegal.
One afternoon, Rose was on a tall ladder, gathering blooms from the side of the mansion, when she heard the crash of wood on rocks. Within seconds, a man’s voice was shouting for help. From her vantage point, she could see a sailboat had smashed into a large rock off the estate’s beach. Rose called out to her mother and sister, then raced down to the shore. When she got there, she noticed a man clinging to the wreck. Without a pause, she stripped down to her slip and dove into the waves.
When she reached the survivor, she saw a gash across his forehead, but no other injuries that might have prevented him from swimming to the beach.
“Come with me,” she told him. “I live nearby. My sister and I can take care of your wound.”
He stared at a spot just over her shoulder. “Would you mind guiding me in?” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my glasses, and I can’t see very well without them.”
“Of course,” Rose said. “Roll over and float on your back. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m much obliged.”
Positioning her body beside his, Rose ferried the young man to the shore. She couldn’t help but think of how nice it felt to interact with another human being without her face ruining everything. And as they began to move, she realized he trusted her to save him. And he didn’t seem to mind being rescued by a girl.
She kicked them both back to shallow water, then stood up and gave him her hand. When they reached the beach, she bandaged his head with strips of fabric she tore from her dress.
“It’s a short walk to the house, but it’s all uphill,” she warned him. “If you need to rest just let me know.”
“You’re very kind,” he told her.
Rose guided him off the beach and into the meadow. He seemed surprised to feel the plants brushing against his legs, and his grip on her hand tightened.
“It’s just grass and flowers,” she told him. If he couldn’t see her face, he couldn’t see the mansion at the top of the hill. As far as he knew she was just an ordinary girl, Rose realized.
“I’m sorry, miss, but may I ask your name?”
She hesitated. “Rose Duncan,” she finally said.
“Miss Duncan,” he repeated as though the name meant nothing to him. “I’m feeling a bit weak. Would you mind if we sat down for a moment?”
“Not at all,” Rose said.
He lay down among the wildflowers. As his hair began to dry, it revealed itself to be a dark blond. She imagined his face with glasses and decided he looked very intelligent. The corona that surrounded him was a color she’d never encountered before—the rich, velvety red of lips and hearts and living tissue.
“Should I go for help?” she asked.
“I think I’ll be fine if you stay with me,” he said.
That was exactly what she was hoping he’d say. At some point between the wreck and the meadow, Rose had fallen hopelessly in love with him.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Henry Jansson.”
