Page 29 of Charlotte

Still, Lottie woke up alone.

For five years, Delly had been the first sound she heard every morning. Delly stirring a pot on the stove. Folding yesterday’s shawl before putting on today’s. Muttering at a dull pencil or a mislaid receipt. Reminding Lottie toast burned while one was reading just as surely as it burned while one was idle.

This morning there was only the other half of the bed, cold and undisturbed.

Lottie stared at it for longer than she meant to.

Her sister was married.

It shouldn’t have startled her, since Lottie had stood in the church and watched it happen. She had heard the vows and cried into Val Sutton’s handkerchief. She had threatened Jebediah Simms with a botany volume if he hurt Delly, which, in retrospect, may not have been the most delicate beginning to a brotherly relationship.

The church had held flowers, cake, sunlight, and people.

The hotel room held Delly’s absence.

Lottie rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling. The plaster had a crack which began near the corner and wandered toward the window without apparent purpose. Delly would want to know whether the crack indicated settling, dampness, or future collapse. Lottie decided it looked like a river on a map and let it be.

A folded paper lay on the small table beside her Bible.

Mr. Peterson’s shelving list.

Lottie reached for it before she reached for anything else.

The paper had been handled more than once before he gave it to her. He had folded it neatly, then folded it again, as if a man could make a list less personal by adding creases. The handwriting was cramped in places, but careful. He had measured properly. Thought ahead. Accounted for heavy books, damp walls, and children leaning on shelves because children always leaned on shelves.

Lottie smiled at that note each time she read it.

Children will lean. Build for it.

She could hear him saying it, low and dry, as though children leaning on shelves were a known hazard to civilization.

A tap sounded at the door.

Lottie tucked the paper under her Bible so quickly she knocked Tennyson to the floor.

“Come in,” she called, then scrambled down to retrieve the book.

Felicity Hogspeth opened the door and looked in. She was already dressed, her hair smooth, her expression more awake than any person’s had a right to be before breakfast.

“Mrs. Schulte is organizing the dining room,” Felicity said.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is. She has columns.”

Lottie sat back on her heels. “Columns?”

“Brides. Grooms. Lodging. Wedding readiness. She tried to make one for temperament, but Mrs. Hanford objected to being assessed without a proper scale.” Felicity’s mouth curved. “Your sister would be delighted.”

The pang came fast enough to embarrass Lottie.

“Yes,” she said. “She would.”

Felicity’s expression softened. “I suppose it is strange, waking without her.”

Lottie looked down at Tennyson in her hands. “A little.”

“A great deal, I imagine.”