head and not on his brother's. But he'd quickly learned not to gainsay
her when she was in a mood, or she would beat them both until they were bruised and
bloody.
Once, she had said he might not see them, but they were there, crawling on him, in his
hair, in his ears.
More than once, in a frenzy, she had scraped his scalp with a dry blade, her movements
jerky and unsure. She had drawn blood, and then the knife grew slick and red, while he
and his brother sobbed and pleaded.
He shuddered at the memory.
Again, he ran his fingers through Sarah's hair. Shiny and glossy from the oil. He wanted
it soft and pretty.
With a frown, he wondered if the liniment had done its work yet, if the vermin were
destroyed. He could not recall the length of time required. It had been so long ago.
His frown deepened.
Surely a full day was long enough. Leaning close, he peered at her hair. He saw no
vermin, no nits, no crawling things.
Bright gold. So pretty. Her hair was almost perfect.
He raised his head, stared out the window. His preference ran to lush curls, thick, coiled
ringlets that gleamed like moonlight.
Sarah's hair was a shade too dark, and the curl was missing. Nonetheless, she would do.
She would most certainly do.
Lifting the pitcher, he turned his attention back to his task and poured water into the
basin before him, immersing all that lovely hair. The water was cool on his hands. He
closed his eyes, ran the strands through his fingers, worked a lather with a cake of soap,
allowing himself to savor the tactile pleasure.
After a time, he opened his eyes, set the soap aside, rinsed her hair, once, twice. He
wanted no residue to dull the color.
With a smile, he added a splash of vinegar. The pungent scent wafted up to tickle his
nose. His mother had always said that a splash of vinegar brought out the fairest lights of
her hair.
He wanted that for Sarah, wanted to draw out the fairest lights.
When he was done, he squeezed out the water and stared at the long tresses. Wet as it
was, Sarah's hair looked dark, almost brown. Dry, it would be soft gold once more.
He sighed. He did regret the lack of curl. Her hair was so straight, he wondered how it
had ever held a pin.
With a final twist, he wrung out the last drops of water, wrapped the length in a large
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 53 of 103
square of linen, and pressed until the cloth dampened.
An evening breeze carried through the open window, fanning across his face. It was less
than perfect weather, cloudy and damp, though it had cleared a little since he had been in
Northallerton earlier in the day. He thought that with the breeze, it would take her hair less
than an hour to dry.
Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, he set aside the damp linen, crossed the room,
and stood by the window, looking out. There was nothing to see but trees. A veritable sea
of them.
He pushed the window wide, breathed deep. The scent of fall was in the air. With a grin
he turned to the nail he'd hammered in the wooden window frame and hung Sarah's
severed scalp to dry, watching as the damp strands of her hair danced in the wind.
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 54 of 103
Chapter 8
Burndale, Yorkshire, September 6, 1828
B eth found that the routine of Burndale Academy varied little from day to day. First off
were prayers and hymns in the largest schoolroom, with Miss Browne playing the piano in
accompaniment.
Hymns read and done with, the girls whispered and giggled as they marched into the
refectory, a great, long room that spanned the entire depth of the building. Narrow tables
were neatly placed throughout, with low benches alongside and stout stools at either end.
The room was lit by large windows along one side, with an enormous hearth on the other.
No fire burned there now, for the morning—Beth's third at Burndale—had dawned mild
and bright. Still, Beth thought she would be glad of the hearth's warmth during the cold
winter to come.
In groups that were
her when she was in a mood, or she would beat them both until they were bruised and
bloody.
Once, she had said he might not see them, but they were there, crawling on him, in his
hair, in his ears.
More than once, in a frenzy, she had scraped his scalp with a dry blade, her movements
jerky and unsure. She had drawn blood, and then the knife grew slick and red, while he
and his brother sobbed and pleaded.
He shuddered at the memory.
Again, he ran his fingers through Sarah's hair. Shiny and glossy from the oil. He wanted
it soft and pretty.
With a frown, he wondered if the liniment had done its work yet, if the vermin were
destroyed. He could not recall the length of time required. It had been so long ago.
His frown deepened.
Surely a full day was long enough. Leaning close, he peered at her hair. He saw no
vermin, no nits, no crawling things.
Bright gold. So pretty. Her hair was almost perfect.
He raised his head, stared out the window. His preference ran to lush curls, thick, coiled
ringlets that gleamed like moonlight.
Sarah's hair was a shade too dark, and the curl was missing. Nonetheless, she would do.
She would most certainly do.
Lifting the pitcher, he turned his attention back to his task and poured water into the
basin before him, immersing all that lovely hair. The water was cool on his hands. He
closed his eyes, ran the strands through his fingers, worked a lather with a cake of soap,
allowing himself to savor the tactile pleasure.
After a time, he opened his eyes, set the soap aside, rinsed her hair, once, twice. He
wanted no residue to dull the color.
With a smile, he added a splash of vinegar. The pungent scent wafted up to tickle his
nose. His mother had always said that a splash of vinegar brought out the fairest lights of
her hair.
He wanted that for Sarah, wanted to draw out the fairest lights.
When he was done, he squeezed out the water and stared at the long tresses. Wet as it
was, Sarah's hair looked dark, almost brown. Dry, it would be soft gold once more.
He sighed. He did regret the lack of curl. Her hair was so straight, he wondered how it
had ever held a pin.
With a final twist, he wrung out the last drops of water, wrapped the length in a large
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 53 of 103
square of linen, and pressed until the cloth dampened.
An evening breeze carried through the open window, fanning across his face. It was less
than perfect weather, cloudy and damp, though it had cleared a little since he had been in
Northallerton earlier in the day. He thought that with the breeze, it would take her hair less
than an hour to dry.
Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, he set aside the damp linen, crossed the room,
and stood by the window, looking out. There was nothing to see but trees. A veritable sea
of them.
He pushed the window wide, breathed deep. The scent of fall was in the air. With a grin
he turned to the nail he'd hammered in the wooden window frame and hung Sarah's
severed scalp to dry, watching as the damp strands of her hair danced in the wind.
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 54 of 103
Chapter 8
Burndale, Yorkshire, September 6, 1828
B eth found that the routine of Burndale Academy varied little from day to day. First off
were prayers and hymns in the largest schoolroom, with Miss Browne playing the piano in
accompaniment.
Hymns read and done with, the girls whispered and giggled as they marched into the
refectory, a great, long room that spanned the entire depth of the building. Narrow tables
were neatly placed throughout, with low benches alongside and stout stools at either end.
The room was lit by large windows along one side, with an enormous hearth on the other.
No fire burned there now, for the morning—Beth's third at Burndale—had dawned mild
and bright. Still, Beth thought she would be glad of the hearth's warmth during the cold
winter to come.
In groups that were
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