44. THE HOUSE KNOWS HOW YOU’LL FOLD
THE HOUSE KNOWS HOW YOU’LL FOLD
Ihadn’t slept much; my mind couldn’t settle and kept circling back to the way Father Cyrus had looked, to the words he spoke, to the warning he left behind.
I stayed near the window, listening, trying to hold my thoughts in place while Violet sat at a small table, carefully drafting a letter. The pen moved slowly, each word deliberate, as she crafted the perfect message to lure Father Frederick to the brothel.
I watched her closely, worry tightening behind my eyes. Violet was eager, she wanted to do her part in this, but I couldn’t help but feel a deep, protective instinct.
Maeve, Elona, Nell, and Emil were in the back room making sure everything was in order. Tonight’s plan wasn’t just to orchestrate Father Frederick’s fall, it would also be a test of how far we were willing to go to change the power dynamic in this town, and I knew the stakes were high.
“Violet,” I began, breaking the silence, “are you sure about this? This isn’t just some game. We’re playing with fire.”
Violet paused, her pen hovering over the paper as she looked up at me. There was a dark hunger in her eyes. “I’m sure, Bernadette. I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
I stepped forward and sat across from her, looking at her intently. That fire in her eyes, I’d seen it before, in women who wanted to prove they were strong. And she was strong. But this was different.
“I know you want to help,” I said softly.
“And I know you believe you’re ready. You’ve come through so much, and I’ve seen how hard you fight.
But not all fights are the same, Violet.
Some don’t leave bruises you can see, and the ones that don’t .
. . those are the ones that stay with you the longest.” I paused before asking gently, “Are you sure you understand what this could cost you?”
Violet’s lips parted, but before she could answer, Maeve’s voice came from the hallway. “Bernadette.”
I turned to see her standing in the doorway. Elona and Nell lingering just behind her, listening in silence as Maeve stepped into the room slowly.
“She’s not some wee girl anymore. She’s earned the right to decide what she stands for.
” Her eyes swept to Violet, lingered for a second, then returned to me.
“You taught us to be strong, to hold our ground when it counted. That’s all she’s doin’ now, ain't it?” She paused, her expression softening.
“I know you’re worried for her; I am too.
But maybe the best we can do now is stand with her, not in front of her. ”
I looked at Maeve, then back at Violet. “I know she’s strong.
” My voice was firm. “I know she can handle more than most ever should have to. But strength doesn’t mean she should carry everything alone.
” I reached out, resting my hand lightly on the table.
“Violet, this isn’t just a clever plan, it’s dangerous.
You’re not just writing a letter, you’re putting yourself in front of a man who would see you torn apart if it served his purpose.
Father Frederick may be a man of God, but that doesn’t make him a good man.
You’ve seen what he stirred up in this town. ”
My voice splintered into a whisper. “I just need to know this isn’t about proving something. I need to know you’re doing this because it’s right for you, not because you feel like you owe it to the rest of us.”
Violet hesitated; her pen still paused in midair.
Her eyes moved from me to the letter, then back to me again.
“I’m not doing this to prove anything,” she said.
“And it’s not about being fearless. I’m scared, but I know what kind of man he is, and I know what he’s already done.
” She looked toward Maeve, then Elona and Nell, drawing strength from them.
“This isn’t just about me,” she continued, her voice softer now.
“It’s about all of us. If I can pull back the mask he hides behind, even just a little .
. . then maybe I can stop him from hurting anyone else ever again.
” She met my eyes again. “I’m not rushing into this.
I’ve weighed everything carefully. But I need you to trust me, Bernadette, I need you to believe I can do this. ”
Elona, who had been quietly leaning against the doorway up until now, spoke up. “Violet isn’t asking for our permission, Bernadette, she’s asking for us to stand with her.”
Nell, standing a little further back, nodded in agreement. “She’s thought this through. We all have. And maybe . . . maybe this is the way forward. Father Frederick’s words have been closing in on us for a while now. Maybe it’s time we turn the tables.”
Emil, who had been silently watching from the hallway, stepped into the room, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.
“Violet’s got a point.” He said. “We all know what Father Frederick’s done here and what he’s capable of.
I won’t pretend this isn’t dangerous, but sometimes doing nothing feels like losing.
” He gave Violet a nod that was equal parts caution and trust.
I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat as their arguments outweighed my concern.
I’d walked through enough fire, known enough pain, to be wary of the path we were about to take.
Still, I understood the power this moment held.
If we could draw Father Frederick out, if we could expose him for what he truly was .
. . maybe, just maybe, we could turn the tide.
I looked at Violet once more, my expression softening. “I’ve protected you girls for so long,” I said, almost to myself, “and I will continue to protect you, even if I have to burn every bridge in this town to do it.” I placed a hand on Violet’s, a silent vow in my touch.
Violet gave a small, appreciative smile, squeezing my hand in return. “I know you have, Bernadette, and I don’t want to let you down. But this . . . this is something I have to do for myself. For that little girl in Illinois.”
I nodded, then turned my attention to the letter on the table.
“Alright then, we do this carefully, we do this right. No mistakes. We use his pride and his arrogance against him, and when he walks through that door, he’ll be stepping straight into a hell of his own making.
” I stood and took a couple of steps away from the table.
“Emil,” I called over my shoulder, “I need you to make sure the house is ready. Everything has to be perfect. No mistakes.”
Emil nodded with a sharp jerk, his eyes steely with determination. “You got it, Bernadette.”
As he left to prepare, I turned back to Violet. “When you give him that letter, there’s no going back. Are you ready for that?”
Violet’s voice was ironclad. “I’m ready.
He won’t know what hit him.” She turned back to the table and folded the letter, her hands were steady as she reached for the small stick of sealing wax I used when I had letters to send out, a deep blood-red.
I watched her hold the wax to the flame of the nearby oil lamp, melting it until it dripped thick onto the envelope.
Without a word, she pressed the brass stamp into it.
Sealing it with a single kiss impression.
She lifted the stamp and held the envelope up to me. “It’s done.” She offered.
For something made of nothing but paper and ink, it felt impossibly heavy in my hands.
I looked down at the seal, feeling the power of everything it represented before slipping it into the pocket of my coat.
I didn’t waste any time. The sun had barely cleared the hills when I slipped out the back door, coat drawn tight, boots silent on the stone.
I stayed close to the buildings, away from the main streets, cutting through alleys and empty yards until I reached the center of town where St. Ann’s quietly sat.
Father Cyrus had told me about a side entrance once, back when we were still learning to trust each other. Said if the day ever came when I needed to reach him without being seen, I was to come to this door and knock twice.
I found the narrow wooden door half-hidden behind the overgrown hedge, exactly where Father Cyrus had promised it would be.
Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, I stepped closer, the leaves skimming my sleeve.
The wood was old and warped, its years carved into every line of the grain as I rapped twice against it, the sound cracking through the silence like a snapped twig.
I stood still, listening to the wind tug at the leaves behind me, to the ghost of distant footsteps somewhere on another street, and after a long breath, I heard it—a faint scrape, metal against wood, then a soft click as the door opened an inch, just enough to reveal a familiar eye through the crack.
Father Cyrus stood in the doorway; his exhausted face wore an expression like he had aged several years overnight.
His eyes met mine briefly, before dropping to my hand, to the envelope that I held pressed flat against my chest. The red wax glinted faintly in the gray morning light.
He didn’t speak, just opened the door wider.
I stepped into the space between us and placed the letter in his outstretched hand.
His fingers closed around it with unsettling care, as though he expected it to sear straight through his skin.
We stood there a second longer, watching each other. No words were exchanged, but we communicated the intention. The letter was in his hands now, just like we’d planned. He didn’t need instructions; he already knew what it meant, where it needed to go, and what would come of it.