“I don’t understand many of the things my father believes. He makes no sense. For instance, he’d have my hide if he caught me talking to you.”
“Me?”
“You’re an Roses, aren’t you? That most certainly would not fly with him. He wishes the Roses family had disappeared long ago. Again, depraved.”
Perhaps it was this thought that made the two edge farther into the woods for some privacy. All of a sudden their discussion felt secret and important. The light fell through the leaves in green bands. They could hear the mourners singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?”
“We’re related to Hawthorne,” the boy went on, “but I’ve never been allowed to read his books. I’m grounded for life if I do. Or at least while I’m in this town, which believe me will not be long. My father has all sorts of rules.”
