Healing Grace by Elizabeth Courtright

you should.”
    “Harry won’t be forthcoming with you. If he does know who’s leading the Klan, he’ll have been sworn to secrecy. Getting information may require some… how shall we say this… persuasion on your part.”
    “Are you suggesting I bribe him?”
    “That’s one way of putting it,” Etienne said slowly. “You were… married. I wonder, did you find your husband to be more… obliging while being… er … charmed? Most men are.”
    “I see.” Constance could feel her pulse racing. She understood. She understood very well.
    “It may not come to that,” Etienne added. “I hope it doesn’t, but if it does…”
    Abruptly Constance stood up. She couldn’t look at him anymore so she crossed to the window. But seeing through the pane was impossible in the darkness. The only thing left to focus on were the droplets, countless tiny droplets, like tears, shimmering on the glass. Perhaps that’s what the pressure in her chest looked like—teardrops splattered on a frozen heart?
    Constance didn’t want to be intimate with Harry. She didn’t want to be intimate with anyone. Ever. The very thought twisted her gut into a thousand knots. Oddly, however, it wasn’t this dreaded possibility causing the strangled cries inside of her. At least, not entirely. It was something else, something she couldn’t define.
    “Constance?” Etienne was behind her. She could feel his presence. She could smell him, like dew and pine trees. “Will you help me? Will you help my brother, my family? Please. I will forever be in your debt.”
    She wanted to tell him to go to Hell. She wanted to tell him she hated him. Because she did suddenly, vehemently. But she didn’t say either of those things.
    “I will consider it,” she murmured.
    “Thank you,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”
    Silently she took a breath, then pasted a smile on her face and turned around. “Shall we finish the game?”
    “It’s already done.” Etienne’s lips quirked, either apologetically or wryly, Constance wasn’t sure. Then he said, “Checkmate.”

THIRTEEN
    “Sacrifice”
    I am you, but you don’t know me.
    You don’t know me, because I was gone.
    I was gone, but I’ve come back.
    I’ve come back, because I’m guilty.
    Tonight, I cry.
    I am guilty, but I can’t tell.
    I can’t tell, because I must protect.
    I must protect, but I’m afraid.
    I am afraid, because I’m not worthy.
    Tonight, I hurt.
    I am not worthy, but you don’t know.
    You don’t know, because you’re young.
    You’re young, but you’re not innocent.
    You’re not innocent, because you are me.
    Tonight, your pain will be mine.
     
    The boy read over what he’d written one last time and closed the raggedy notebook, thinking as he did that he’d need a new one soon. There weren’t many empty pages left. He blew out the candle on the desk, rose and set the notebook on the spindly chair. It was dark, but he didn’t need light, not here in this room. He may not have been here for many years, but he knew every corner, every crack in the floorboards, every dent in the plaster, every nick and scar in the furniture. He wasn’t a boy anymore, not on the outside, but here he had to be.
    Silently he sidestepped to the open window, and for a long time stood there staring out at the rain, breathing in the dewy scent filtering through. Then one at a time, he shrugged out of his suspenders. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it over his shoulders. Still taking his time, he folded it neatly and laid it on top of the notebook. Bending over, he removed his boots and set them by the chair. His trousers followed. Just as he’d done with the shirt, he folded them and laid them on top of the growing pile. All that was left was his underwear. He folded them as neatly as the rest of his clothes and added them to the chair. The breeze coming through the window whispered over his skin and chilled him. He shivered but didn’t move away. Not yet.
    He closed his eyes