Page 97 of Charlotte

That one word undid the last of Lottie’s composure.

She turned toward the shelf instead of her sister and pretended to straighten the primers. “I am well.”

“You are not.”

“I am better than I was.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Lottie closed her eyes.

Of course, Delly would notice. Of course, she would set down the pen, leave the ledger, and move straight toward Lottie like a woman carrying bandages into battle. Her sister did not know how to do otherwise. For five years, Delly had been provider, guardian, watchman, shield, and wall.

Lottie loved her for it.

She was also tired of being protected from her own life.

“It was Peterson,” Delly accused.

Lottie turned sharply. “Do not say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“As if his name explains the tears.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

Delly’s eyes narrowed. “What did he do?”

“He’s building me a library.”

That stopped her sister. For one tiny, satisfying moment, Odelia Simms had nothing to say.

“He what?”

Lottie pulled the folded drawing from her bodice and laid it on the table. “Beside the schoolhouse. Stakes, twine, window placement, shelves along both walls. Mr. Stafford knows. Luke knows. Olsen knows. Apparently, the entire town knew before I did.”

Delly unfolded the paper.

Her gaze moved over the sketch with practiced speed: door, windows, stove, lending desk, shelves.

Then her eyes caught the lower corner.

C. Peterson.

Lottie saw the moment she noticed it.

Delly looked up. “C?”

“He gave me the name.”

Her sister’s expression grew careful. “He did?”

“Yes.”

“To use?”