her hair undone and streaming behind her. I had never seen her so unkempt, and the look in her eyes was enough to put my stomach in knots.
She leapt from her horse and threw something at me. Some shimmery, dusty powder, which sent me into a coughing fit. It still burns in my lungs as I write this, miles away at a shabby inn.
It was a gypsy curse, she claimed. Her eyes were wide and frightening as she told me I would be as lonely and miserable as she was then. That I would pay for trying to steal her betrothed. I tried to tell her it was he who pursued me, but she would have none of it.
I have little to my name, but so long as Will keeps his promises to me, all will be right.
Charlotte
February 15, 1750
I have been unable to find Will. He has been away from his home for more than a week. I have rented a small room over a tavern, as it was all I could afford. I am but a few miles from Will’s home, just down the coast, near the Exmoor Cliffs. I had originally planned to travel inland, but I could not bear to leave the sea behind. Odd, as I had always loathed the smell of the salt in the air.
Charlotte
The lump in my throat grows. This is it. This is how it all started. Two hundred and fifty years ago. My fingers tremble as they slide across the curled yellow paper. I flip the page.
March 21, 1750
I found myself in the sea last night, swimming for no reason at all. I am lucky I did not drown for I have never learned how to swim. I want to go home, but I do not have a home anymore, and I must remember that.
I think I may be with child, and I do not know what to do. I have sent two letters for Will, but he has not answered. I suspect Julia is somehow intercepting my correspondence.
Charlotte
March 30, 1750
I cannot stay here any longer as I am nearly out of funds and I will be thrown out on the street soon. I must travel south to find my cousin and pray that she will take me in.
But I will not leave just yet. I cannot bear to go without seeing Will again. I am going to Varmoth Manor one last time in the hopes that he has returned.
I must know if he will truly marry Julia as the papers say.
Charlotte
April 2, 1750
He is dead. I’ve done something terrible. I do not understand what has happened to me, but I must flee.
Julia did something to me. I should have known by the crazed look of her she was desperate, that she’d done something so much worse than I had believed.
I must find her immediately. Before I am hanged for murder. I am but a servant and he a duke. They will not rest until they uncover the truth.
Until they uncover me.
Charlotte
I flip the page, but there are no more entries in Charlotte’s dark, angled cursive. I flip back and forth a few times, trying to figure out what happened.
The next dates are from late 1766. These entries are written in a different handwriting, lighter, curlier than Charlotte’s. I turn back to her entries and do the math.
Sixteen years. There’s a sixteen year gap. I hold my breath as my eyes scan the first entry.
It’s Charlotte’s daughter. Will’s daughter. Cursed to the same fate. My chest tightens and I stop midsentence. I flip several pages, until I spot a new script. This time, it’s eighteen years later. A new girl. Same story. She recaps the last couple of years on the first page. She tells about the first one she killed.
I flip back a few pages. Why did Charlotte stop writing? Did she die, or simply pass the book along to her daughter?
My fingers flip faster and faster as the writing changes again and again and again. I can’t bear to read the stories, not today. I expect they’ll all be painfully familiar.
Just as I am about to slam the book shut, I glimpse the final set of entries.
My mother’s handwriting stares back at me.
The entry isn’t dated on top, like the others, but rather scribbled to the side, as if done in haste. It’s over sixteen years old. I wasn’t even two yet when she wrote it.
I jerk back. It’s the
She leapt from her horse and threw something at me. Some shimmery, dusty powder, which sent me into a coughing fit. It still burns in my lungs as I write this, miles away at a shabby inn.
It was a gypsy curse, she claimed. Her eyes were wide and frightening as she told me I would be as lonely and miserable as she was then. That I would pay for trying to steal her betrothed. I tried to tell her it was he who pursued me, but she would have none of it.
I have little to my name, but so long as Will keeps his promises to me, all will be right.
Charlotte
February 15, 1750
I have been unable to find Will. He has been away from his home for more than a week. I have rented a small room over a tavern, as it was all I could afford. I am but a few miles from Will’s home, just down the coast, near the Exmoor Cliffs. I had originally planned to travel inland, but I could not bear to leave the sea behind. Odd, as I had always loathed the smell of the salt in the air.
Charlotte
The lump in my throat grows. This is it. This is how it all started. Two hundred and fifty years ago. My fingers tremble as they slide across the curled yellow paper. I flip the page.
March 21, 1750
I found myself in the sea last night, swimming for no reason at all. I am lucky I did not drown for I have never learned how to swim. I want to go home, but I do not have a home anymore, and I must remember that.
I think I may be with child, and I do not know what to do. I have sent two letters for Will, but he has not answered. I suspect Julia is somehow intercepting my correspondence.
Charlotte
March 30, 1750
I cannot stay here any longer as I am nearly out of funds and I will be thrown out on the street soon. I must travel south to find my cousin and pray that she will take me in.
But I will not leave just yet. I cannot bear to go without seeing Will again. I am going to Varmoth Manor one last time in the hopes that he has returned.
I must know if he will truly marry Julia as the papers say.
Charlotte
April 2, 1750
He is dead. I’ve done something terrible. I do not understand what has happened to me, but I must flee.
Julia did something to me. I should have known by the crazed look of her she was desperate, that she’d done something so much worse than I had believed.
I must find her immediately. Before I am hanged for murder. I am but a servant and he a duke. They will not rest until they uncover the truth.
Until they uncover me.
Charlotte
I flip the page, but there are no more entries in Charlotte’s dark, angled cursive. I flip back and forth a few times, trying to figure out what happened.
The next dates are from late 1766. These entries are written in a different handwriting, lighter, curlier than Charlotte’s. I turn back to her entries and do the math.
Sixteen years. There’s a sixteen year gap. I hold my breath as my eyes scan the first entry.
It’s Charlotte’s daughter. Will’s daughter. Cursed to the same fate. My chest tightens and I stop midsentence. I flip several pages, until I spot a new script. This time, it’s eighteen years later. A new girl. Same story. She recaps the last couple of years on the first page. She tells about the first one she killed.
I flip back a few pages. Why did Charlotte stop writing? Did she die, or simply pass the book along to her daughter?
My fingers flip faster and faster as the writing changes again and again and again. I can’t bear to read the stories, not today. I expect they’ll all be painfully familiar.
Just as I am about to slam the book shut, I glimpse the final set of entries.
My mother’s handwriting stares back at me.
The entry isn’t dated on top, like the others, but rather scribbled to the side, as if done in haste. It’s over sixteen years old. I wasn’t even two yet when she wrote it.
I jerk back. It’s the
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