In the morning, Effie stood hugging herself. Out the window, Rev. Jackdaw slid Nell’s tail through the crupper and began inspecting the leather lines. Once again the journal—his precious journal—lay open on the table. His pen propped across the inkbottle as if he still had some vital writing to do. She hated the book, all those words she couldn’t read. His fancy script—loops and curly cues and scratches—not printed like the clear lettering she could read on a can or sack: Sugar, Flour. His thoughts kept secret, yet flaunted at the same time. The book was a mistress.
Bridget had stolen pages a couple of months back, but Effie hadn’t asked to have them read. She didn’t need, or want to hear, the crowing. She didn’t need or want to hear what he wrote about her. She’d told Bridget to get rid
