“In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection—”
“—to eternal life.”
The priest looked at Turner and actually flinched. Turner wondered what, exactly, he’d seen in his face. Nothing good, that much was clear.
There was a chorus of amens, and then the service was over. Everyone looked at the priest, and then everyone looked at Turner, and then everyone looked at the priest clasping Turner’s hands in his own as he said, “She will be missed.”
“Not,” Turner bit off, “by me.”
I can’t believe he said that.
Miranda looked down at the words she’d just written. She was currently on page forty-two of her thirteenth journal, but this was the first time—the first time since that fateful day nine years earlier—tha
t she had not a clue what to write. Even when her days were dull (and they frequently were), she managed to cobble together an entry.
In May of her fourteenth year—
Ate breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon.
Sense and Sensibility, authored by unknown lady. Hid
Sense and Sensibility from Father. Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.
Conjugated French verbs.
Composed letter to Grandmother.
Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.
Sense and Sensibility, author’s identity still unknown. Retired.
Dreamed of him.
This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November of the same year—
Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.
Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.
Spent much of the time staring out the window.
Ate lunch: fish, bread, peas.
Conjugated Latin verbs.