My shoulders drop, clench, drop again. I dare one more peek, and I’m glad I did. They’re out of formation, smiling and laughing as if at themselves. I find myself attempting a grin too, in a weak, tentative way. I could pretend I just arrived. Give a bemused wave, maybe even admit to my little nicotine habit as a bit of currency, a fair trade for an explanation.

Lannie Joiner shifts to the right, offering an arm to Diana, exposing the view through the clearing.

There it is, behind them. What they’re here for.

That flat, dented, jutting, gray nothing.

The tithe stone.

It’s not completely gray today. There’s something clotted on top of it. Dripping down the side. Livid red.

My throat locks iron tight.

I need to go, I need to go. I wait until all their backs are turned, one, two, five, seven, my mind listing each neighbor so quickly the names no longer land, then I slink backward through the grove, stealthier than I ever thought I could be.

I hit the open heath and fight the urge to run, forcing myself to walk instead along the dirt path with loose, languid strides, nothing to see here, nothing to have seen. Let them think I hiked past the grove on my way from the archaeological site. No, the lighthouse. Maybe I was up having a cup of tea with Matthew Clare, two old chums. There is no explanation that isn’t ludicrous! I have to get home.

That last glimpse of the grove clearing is printed in my brain, that bright crimson smear on the altar stone.

A car honks. I gasp so hard I nearly fall over, but as I clutch my chest, I realize it’s only John Ashford in his truck. He wasn’t part of that gathering back in the grove. At least I didn’t see him there. He’s wearing his usual forester blue. No white. He’s fine. It’s fine. They’re all fine people! I just need to breathe.

“Want a lift?” John sticks his arm out the open truck window.

I shake my head. “I need the exercise!”

He gives a jolly wave and continues on his ramshackle way. Something in his flatbed is rattling around, bouncing up every time he hits a rut and smashing back down against the metal.

I realize too late that I should have let him take me. Then nobody would know I was here.

Who cares if they know? Defiance spikes through me, even as my step quickens into a jog. I have a right to see it. I’ve lived here nearly seven years.

That nearly is so damn important to them.

I wonder if Hugh knows. This might actually be a custom reserved for people who aren’t titled. A peasant thing. Holy shit, I really just thought those words.