8. Petra
PETRA
The sign comes a week later on my windowsill.
Just as I open my window to let in the night air, I find a small bundle resting on the sill.
Frowning, I take it in my hands. It’s the shape of a book, wrapped carefully, and nestled inside is a letter.
I hesitate. I live on the second floor. Who could have reached my window to leave this? Certainly no one in my family.
Curiosity gnaws at me. Quickly, I open the letter. The handwriting is crisp, masculine. I don’t even need to read past the first sentence to know who it’s from.
Once you read this, burn it. Leave no evidence behind.
Who else could it be but him? He knows the danger. He knows the cost of getting caught. And yet, he still sent this.
Before reading further, I stick my head out the window, scanning the grounds.
The air is cold and clean. The silence is unnerving.
There’s no sign of anyone. We have dogs—big, aggressive beasts trained to attack at the slightest provocation.
No one dares to enter our property, not with those dogs, not with the armed guards stationed near the barn protecting us from the sinful outside world.
And yet, the dogs are silent. Asleep or undisturbed. If someone had been here, they would have barked. They would have raised the alarm. But they didn’t.
How did he get here? How did he reach my window? More questions pile up the longer I think about it. Not only did he avoid the dogs and the guards, but he knew exactly which window was mine. He knew I didn’t share my room. He knew I would be the one to find this.
He knew.
Just as he knew I had a fireplace to burn this letter.
His words from before echo in my mind.
I’ve been watching you. For a long time, I’ve been watching you.
I don’t know how to feel. Fear prickles at the edges of my thoughts. Someone has been watching me, lurking in the shadows, tracking my every move. It should terrify me. And yet . . . I am curious.
There it is again—that word. Curious.
Why me? What does he want? What is his goal?
Last week, in the church, we were alone. He could have done anything he wanted. He could have hurt me, and I would have been powerless to stop him. Worse, I would have been unable to say anything, for fear of being branded a harlot. A Jezebel.
But he didn’t hurt me. On the contrary, he helped me.
The ointment he gave me not only healed my busted lip and the scrapes on my body, but it soothed the pain. I’ve never had an injury heal so quickly.
For that alone, I don’t fear him.
Is that dangerous? Perhaps. Perhaps I am so starved for kindness, for knowledge, for anything beyond the rigid confines of my life, that I am willing to accept that a stranger has been watching me.
I glance at the book and the letter. Taking a deep breath, I continue reading.
I will not let you get caught. Not again. It was a mistake on my part not to foresee what could happen to you. Please accept my apologies. Or better yet—don’t. Not yet.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I recall our last meeting.
The letter continues.
I don’t want you to give up what you want most—knowledge. I don’t want you to abandon your curiosity out of fear.
Every night, I will leave a book on your windowsill. Every morning, I will take it back. Read to your heart’s content, and when you are done, return it to the windowsill.
Perhaps, in time, you will find it in your heart to forgive me—little by little.
Perhaps you will start to be curious about . . . me.
There is no signature at the bottom. Just one word.
Yours.
I blink.
Yours?
I know it’s just a customary way to end a letter. But here, without a name, it feels more intimate. More meaningful.
What did he mean by it?
Yours.
The word echoes in my mind, over and over again. But it is not my voice I hear—it is his. A whisper looping in my thoughts.
Yours.
I shake my head, forcing the feeling away. I place the book back on the windowsill, the letter with it.
This is unseemly. I should not even be entertaining this. He is taking too many liberties with me. Liberties I never granted.
I should put an end to this now.
Perhaps I won’t be caught today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But eventually, I will be. And when that day comes, I do not want to face the consequences.
I return to my bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep.
“Sleep,” I command myself.
But no matter how hard I try, my thoughts drift back to the book on the windowsill.
It is the same book as before. The one he bought for me at the bookshop. The one I hid. The one that led to my punishment.
The one I only got halfway through.
If it were another book, I might not care as much. But because it is that book, I need to know. I need to know how it ends.
After what feels like an eternity of tossing and turning, I finally make a decision.
Slipping out of bed, I return to the window and pick up the book.
As per his instructions, I go to the fireplace and toss the letter into the flames, watching as the embers flicker and devour the paper, turning it to ash.
Opening a drawer, I retrieve a candle. Our house is powered by gas, but turning on the lights would make noise, and then everyone would know I was awake.
So I settle for the glow of the fire and the soft flicker of candlelight.
I only leave my seat when the first light of morning seeps through the window. Letting out a yawn, I rise, tidy the room, place the book back on the sill, and slip into bed. Exhaustion pulls at my body, yet sleep remains elusive.
Something gnaws at me.
Eventually, I get back up, take a pen, and turn to the last page I read. In the corner, I write a small note: *Thank you.* Satisfied, I return to bed.
When I wake, the book is gone. No sign remains of anyone having been here. Just like before, I have no idea how he managed to get past the dogs, past the guards, and up to my second-floor window.
Yet, despite the mystery, I still find myself checking the window again the next night. And once more, after darkness falls, I find another book—and another letter.
You have lovely handwriting, Petra. Thank you for gracing me with it. I hope I shall be the object of your writing in the future, too. Read on, my beautiful darling, read on.
And once more, it is signed,
Yours.
I stare at the letter. Yours. No name. Just that word.
Why won’t he write his name?
And yet, I read the letter again and again.
“My beautiful darling,” he called me. The words stir something warm inside me. Too warm. I shake my head, trying to dispel the strange heat curling in my chest.
I take the book to the fireplace and start reading.
By the third day, I have finished it. I close the cover, a pang of disappointment settling in my stomach. It’s over. And with it, perhaps, this entire exchange. Maybe he will not leave me another book. Maybe this was it—his apology.
And yet, the night after finishing it, I still check the windowsill.
This time, there is another book. A different title. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
Tucked within the first page is a letter.
Have I perhaps contributed to that curiosity of yours, my beautiful darling?
Perhaps this will help me put myself in your good graces again. It is a story of appearances that deceive. A story of immortality, but not as one might imagine. Because immortality, though desirable, can be lonely.
I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Just remember one thing—appearances deceive. You are not who you seem to be, and I am not who I seem to be. We are all far different than what the world perceives us to be.
And at the end, again,
Yours.
I trace my fingers over the word before picking up the book and settling in for another long night of reading.
When daylight creeps through my window once more, I return the book to the sill—this time, with my own note.
If appearances deceive, then who are you, stranger?
I don’t sign it. I leave it at that. Even though I itch to write the same appellation he uses.
Yours.
But I cannot, can I? I am not his. He is not mine. We are just two strangers playing a game, wondering how long we can continue before we are caught.
The next letter, though, surprises me.
So you are curious about me, my beautiful darling.
If you are curious, then perhaps I should let myself be known. But not now. Not yet. I like the shadows far too much. I like watching you wonder about me.
I continue reading, and when I finish the book, I leave another letter.
Yes. I am curious. I want to know why you are watching me. How you are doing it. I want to know—why me?
When the next letter comes, I unfold it with bated breath.
Why you?
He writes,
Why not you?
Why not you, the beautiful girl who cares for others far too much and for herself far too little? Why not you, the girl who would rather suffer punishment than silence her curiosity? Why not you, the lost lamb searching for guidance?
I want to be that for you, my beautiful Petra. I want to be the recipient of your kindness. I want to be your guidance, your beacon of light. I want to be everything you think of, from morning until night, and from night until morning. I want to be the sole object of your curiosity.
The letter ends, once more signed,
Yours.
I read it again. And again. Each time more confused, yet more curious at the same time. If he meant to arouse my curiosity, he’s certainly achieved it. So now, he should quench it, too.
I take a pen and write just one word.
Why?
When the next letter arrives, the response is just as brief.
Yours.
I frown. What does it mean? Why would he write that? Why would his answer to my question be this word? I don’t understand. Perhaps I am not worldly enough to grasp its meaning. Perhaps this is the kind of seduction spoken about in hushed tones.
Perhaps this is what drives women to jeopardize their virtues, all for the attention of one man.
And to my great shame, I can see why.
Because I crave his attention. I crave his next letter as much as I crave my next breath.
Taking a deep breath, I put pen to paper once more, this time with firm resolve.
If you do not tell me the reason why you are so interested in me, I will stop replying to your letters. I will stop taking your books. I will stop interacting with you. So please, tell me. Who are you? And why are you so concerned with me?
I don’t sign the letter.
Yet, as I reread my own words, I realize that concern is not the right term. It is not concern, is it?
It is something else—something far closer to obsession.
The next day, I go about my chores, waiting for nightfall. And when it does, I rush to the window, expecting another book, another letter.
But to my surprise, there is nothing.
No book. No letter. No sign of him.
Did I—did I do something wrong? Did my last letter upset him? Was I too direct? Too demanding?
Or was this all just a game to him? Had I simply been an amusement, something to be toyed with and discarded?
The following night, still nothing.
Each evening, I check the windowsill, and each evening, I am met with silence. No words, no stories, no letters.
Day by day, my mood darkens.
I think back on our exchanges, replaying every word he wrote, every word I wrote in return. Now I regret burning those letters. They are gone, reduced to ash, and yet the questions remain.
What went wrong?
Perhaps he has finally realized that I am not so easy a target.
But why does that thought bring no relief? Why does it not make me feel victorious? Why does it only leave me feeling hollow?
Two weeks pass in silence.
And that is when I give up hope of ever hearing from him again.
It is early morning when I prepare to go into town with the other girls from my congregation, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Jenkins.
We are heading to the town fair, where vendors have set up their stalls, displaying the bounty of the new season.
With spring’s arrival, everything feels renewed, fresh—a stark contrast to the heaviness lingering in my heart.
Flowers bloom, and even the trees bear the first tender buds of life.
We wander through the fair, taking in the sights, the chatter, the lively bustle. With the little money I have, I purchase a new pen.
A strange choice, isn’t it? Especially given that I have no one left to write to. And yet, the moment I saw it, my mind drifted to him.
I shake my head, pushing away the thought. I must stop thinking about him.
The other girls are deep in conversation, sharing the latest church gossip. Mrs. Jenkins haggles over a hairpin, her attention fixed on bartering. Once we’ve made our purchases, we begin walking through the town square.
That’s when the commotion erupts.
A loud noise rings through the air, drawing attention. Mrs. Jenkins immediately tenses.
“Ignore it,” she says. “Perhaps it’s best we return home.”
But the girls are too curious. They point toward the crowd gathering ahead, and after some urging, they take off toward the scene.
Mrs. Jenkins shouts after them, but she doesn’t seem particularly determined to stop them.
Perhaps she is curious, too.
So, I follow.
I weave through the growing crowd, pushed forward by the throng of onlookers, until I find myself at the edge of the circle.
In the center, a fight rages. Two men, both finely dressed, locked in struggle. One grips the other by the throat, his expression dark with violence. The other man, equally well-dressed, looks terrified.
And then I see him.
The man strangling the other. It’s him.
My stranger.
A cold wave crashes over me. He is not mine, I remind myself. He never was.
But he is here.
People shout around me. Their voices blend into a fevered chant.
“The devil.” “The devil must be vanquished.” “Cast him out.” “Cast out the devil!”
A chill creeps down my spine.
I turn to an older woman beside me, her face twisted with concern. “What devil?” I ask, my voice low.
She glances at me, intrigued, then leans in conspiratorially. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head.
She scoffs. “He’s the new professor at St. Anselm Hall.”
Confused, I ask, “Why does that make him a devil?”
She tsks, leaning even closer. “Because he studies demonology and other pagan things. I don’t know how someone like that was allowed into an institution like St. Anselm. And in Radcliffe, no less! They should throw him out. They should stone him.”
I flinch at the vehemence in her voice. A professor?
But more than that, I am stunned by another revelation.
Demonology. Pagan things.
Before I can fully process the thought, my gaze lifts to him once more.
He is already looking at me.
His expression shifts. Recognition, yes, but something else. Something deeper.
He didn’t want me to see this.
His grip slackens. The other man breaks free, throwing a punch. My stranger stumbles to the side, but his eyes remain locked on me.
Another blow.
His gaze never leaves mine.
The crowd surges forward, throwing stones, objects—whatever they can find.
“Devil.”
“Demon.”
“Cursed.”
A sharp object strikes him, splitting the skin just above his brow. Blood trickles down his face.
And still, his eyes remain on me.