Chapter 27
“You have the most beautiful hair.”
Rosalind felt a tug on the back of her head, then turned to look over her shoulder at where Freya sat behind her, running a brush through her dark gold tresses.
She still couldn’t believe her father was allowing her to be here, but he hadn’t even hesitated when she’d asked for permission to pack an overnight bag, walk to Millicent’s, and stay the entire night.
Millicent had transformed the parlor at the top of the stairs into a girlish dream, with pillows scattered across the floor, a roaring fire in the hearth, and a tray of pastries and hot chocolate resting on the low table between them.
At the moment they were taking turns brushing each other’s hair, something that made the time it took to brush their usual one hundred strokes go faster.
“Thank you, Freya.” Rosalind glanced over her shoulder again at her friend. “But your hair is far prettier than mine. It’s so light.”
“It’s lighter, but it’s fine and thin. Yours is wavy and thick.” Freya’s brows furrowed as she worked through a snarl near the bottom of her hair.
“She’s right, Rosalind,” Millicent said from where she sat braiding Jane’s already-brushed hair. “It’s prettier than all of ours combined. Mr. Vandermeer is going to melt when he sees it down for the first time.”
The warmth that had been filling her chest evaporated, never mind the heat from the fire. What would her friends say if they knew Leeland had already seen her with her hair down?
If they knew he’d been more taken with the idea of stopping her from breathing than he had with the thickness of her hair? She pressed a hand to her throat, where her bruise hadn’t quite faded.
“Oh yes,” Freya agreed. “He’ll love your hair.”
“Are you counting down the days?” Jane asked.
Rosalind blinked. “Until my wedding?”
“Until your wedding. Until your fiancé returns. Any of it.”
“I know Mr. Vandermeer is older than you, but he’s so big and strong. He’s almost like one of those characters from a dime novel.” Millicent sighed dreamily.
A hard ball settled in Rosalind’s stomach. He was big and strong, yes, but he didn’t remind her of some dashing hero in a novel. If she had to pick someone who reminded her of that, it would be Yuri Amos.
After all, he was the one who agreed to get her away from Sitka, and now she only had two days to go.
“Oh, some of these dresses are so pretty, I swear you could wear one for your wedding. Here.” Jane handed her a magazine opened to a fashion plate. “What do you think of this one?”
Rosalind took the magazine and studied the page. The bride wore a fitted bodice with pearl buttons, and the skirt was layered in delicate lace that trailed into a long train. “It’s lovely, but I don’t think it would survive Sitka’s muddy streets in May.”
Jane laughed. “Well, maybe you’ll ride in a carriage the whole time. A white one. With roses pinned to the door.”
“Ooh, and ribbons.” Millicent reached for a pastry. “Pink ones, like in that issue of the Ladies’ Gazette. Wouldn’t that be dreamy?”
“I think I’d rather ride in a sled pulled by huskies,” Freya said, tossing the brush aside and grabbing a cup of hot chocolate.
“If I ever get married in Sitka, I want a winter wedding, and that’s how I want to arrive.
Then I won’t need to worry about getting mud on my dress—just snow, and that melts. ”
“Dog sleds aren’t romantic,” Millicent said, licking raspberry filling off her fingers. “They’re just cold.”
“And you’d have to get married halfway up a mountain if you wanted to make sure you had snow,” Jane said. “Everyone in California thinks Alaska is full of snow, but it mostly just rains in Sitka and Juneau, even in the dead of winter.”
Freya’s lips turned down into a pout. “I still want snow and a dogsled for my wedding.”
“Then maybe you should marry a trapper from the interior.” Millicent spoke around her mouthful of pastry. “They get more snow away from the coast, and there are plenty of dogsleds that run along the Yukon River once it freezes.”
“What about your wedding cake?” Jane nudged Rosalind’s shoulder. “Have you thought about what you want? There’s a drawing here of a cake with three tiers and sugared violets.”
Rosalind glanced at the magazine, then nodded absently as she reached for a pastry.
She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to cake.
Leeland would probably order it. Just like he’d ordered her gown to be made down in Seattle—and followed it with a reminder that he expected her corset to be laced to sixteen inches on their wedding day.
She took a large bite of the pastry, purely out of spite.
She’d lost track of how many sweets she’d snuck from the kitchen since Leeland had left.
She didn’t even know why she was worried about how tightly she was going to lace her corset.
It wasn’t as though she was planning to actually marry the man.
“I want a lemon-flavored cake for my wedding. But rather than talk about cakes, there’s something else I want to know . . .” Millicent leaned in close, a wicked grin on her lips.
“Don’t ask it,” Jane warned.
“Have you thought about your wedding night?” Millicent blurted.
Rosalind nearly dropped her pastry. “I . . . ah . . .”
“Millicent!” Jane hissed. “It’s not proper to ask such a thing.”
“We were all thinking it!” Millicent grinned. “Don’t blame me for being the only one brave enough to ask.”
“I was thinking it.” Freya giggled, then looked at Rosalind.
In fact, all the girls were looking at her.
She opened her mouth, never mind that she hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. But before she could utter a word, clanging split the air.
They all froze for a moment, looking around the room.
“Is that . . . Is that the fire bell?” Millicent finally asked.
Shouting sounded from outside, and Rosalind’s heart thudded against her chest. Where had the fire started? Was the town in danger of burning?
Freya bolted toward the window and pressed her face to the glass. “I can’t it see from here.”
A door shut down the hall, and Millicent’s father charged through their cozy little parlor, his shirt not tucked fully into his trousers.
“Come on, girls. Get your coats on and come help,” he called as he thundered down the stairs.
“Your father’s right.” Millicent’s mother appeared next, her hair pulled into a sloppy bun. “You’re old enough to carry water, all of you.”
They jumped from their spots and rushed down the stairs behind Millicent’s mother, pausing just long enough to pull on their boots and coats.
The scent of smoke greeted them the second they stepped outside, and dozens of people had already flooded into the street, running toward the harbor at various speeds.
Rosalind’s nightgown whipped against her legs as she kept pace with Millicent, Jane, and Freya.
Was one of the warehouses on fire? Hopefully not.
Not only was a warehouse large and likely to catch other buildings on fire, but there would be thousands of dollars of valuable inventory lost with such a blaze.
They kept running, passing houses with doors thrown open and people rushing into the night, all while the fire bell continued to toll over the chaos.
Shouts rang out from the harbor, first someone shouting for more men, then another voice asking for more buckets.
The crackle of flames hadn’t yet reached them, but the smoke thickened until it stung her eyes.
Millicent split off from the main road, taking a less crowded side street that ran parallel to the harbor. Rosalind didn’t know if she was wheezing from running too hard or from the smoke, but she could barely breathe as they raced closer to the giant plume of smoke billowing into the sky.
She didn’t like how far they were running either. Even without being on the road that ran along the harbor, she could tell they were moving farther and farther away from the commercial harbor and closer to the Amos family’s warehouse and shipyard.
Please, God, don’t let it be the Amoses.
It might not be them. There were a few buildings past where their facilities sat on the water that could have caught fire too.
But what if it was?
“Here.” Millicent reached a street that connected the road they were on to the harbor and pointed, her chest heaving for breath. “It’s the shipyard.”
“No.” Rosalind slid to a stop beside her, following the line of friend’s finger. Flames clawed at the side of a wooden building, climbing toward the roofline, while smoke billowed overhead.
She couldn’t tell which building it was, didn’t even know how many buildings the Amoses had inside their shipyard, but she recognized the fencing. There was no question about the building on fire belonging to the Amoses.
Men had taken axes to the fence, and a line had already been formed, with people handing buckets inside the fence.
“Let’s go.” Millicent started toward the blaze, and Jane raced to catch up.
Rosalind stayed rooted to the ground. What could cause such a fire in the middle of winter, when all they got was rain and snow?
What was the chance of this being an accident?
“Are you coming?” Freya paused beside her.
Rosalind only shook her head, acrid air pressing against her face. “I . . . I’m sorry. There’s something I have to do first.”
Was her father behind the fire? She had to know.
“Come back as soon as you can,” Freya called over her shoulder as she rushed toward the blaze.
Rosalind turned on her heel and ran, racing up the side street until it ended, then turning down another street and running back the direction she’d come. Her feet pounded over the uneven road and her breath burned in her lungs, but she pressed forward, higher and higher up the hill.
Had her father done this? Had he targeted the Amoses?
Why? Did it have something to do with her? Had he discovered the missing ledgers and figured out what she’d done with them? Was this some kind of retaliation?