Silas Kember's Arc

Chapter 3 of 10

Silas came back at dusk with the wildflowers still in his hand. He meant to wait until the bakery emptied, then say the rest out loud. But the lamps inside glowed full of people. Half of Ivywood had crowded in. They leaned on the counter and stared at him through the window. Someone had seen the flowers that morning. Now everyone wanted to watch. Vera stood behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks were pink. She caught his eye and gave him a small, helpless look. There would be no private word here. Not with the whole village packed between them. Silas felt his old fear rise. His throat tightened. He could not say such things in front of a crowd. He turned to leave. A voice stopped him. "You picking these or just carrying them around?" It was the orchard keeper, leaning in the bakery doorway with dirt on his knees. Owen Hale. Silas knew his face. Half the town whispered about the rival family's name carved on the fence where Owen stood each morning. Owen understood something about wanting what the village watched too closely. Owen looked at the crowd, then at Silas. "They won't give you room," he said low. "So take her out of the room." Silas stared at him. "There's a willow by the water," Owen said. "Past the cottage with the swans. Nobody goes there at dusk." He stepped aside from the door. "Go on. I'll keep this lot talking." Silas looked at Vera. He lifted the flowers a little, like a question. Then he said it, loud enough to carry across the shop. "Vera. Walk with me." The room went quiet. Vera untied her apron. She did not look at the staring faces. She came around the counter and took his arm. Owen turned to the crowd and started asking loud questions about bread prices. The villagers turned toward him, hungry for talk. Silas and Vera slipped out the door. They walked until the voices faded. The willow stood by the water, its long branches brushing the ground. Beyond it the cottage glowed, and white swans drifted on the dark lake. No one else was near. Silas stopped under the branches. His heart pounded, but the crowd was gone. Only Vera remained. He pressed the flowers into her hands again. "I wrote you for a year because I was a coward," he said. His voice held steady now. "I'm done writing. I love you, Vera. I want to know you. Every ordinary day." Vera's eyes shone. She stepped close and kissed his cheek, soft and quick. "Then stop handing me flowers and hold my hand," she said. He did. For the first time his hands were empty of paper, and he did not reach for his satchel. But the letters were still inside it. Dozens, unsent. And now she would want to know why he had kept every one.