The Gleaning by Heidi R. Kling Page B

peeked through the door and asked if we’d like to take the scenic route. My terse companion replied, “I like the way the fields look at night.” The driver responded swiftly with the snap of his whip across the beasts’ backs. I felt the sting, too, as the horses neighed and bucked into the crisp ink air.
    I was jerked back into my seat as the mighty hooves pounded on the frozen dirt road, and the carriage took off once again into the night.
    “You alright there, Rose?”
    “Yes, thank you. Just a swift rush I hadn’t anticipated.”
    The boy watched me from under thick dark lashes as we bounced along. When I could no longer bear looking away, I caught his eye and his amethyst eyes flashed so briefly I thought I might have imagined it. But I knew I hadn’t. He was a warlock after all. He was capable of much more than that. Why had he chosen this scenic route? Why would he spend more time alone with me when he seemed to care not a bit about getting to know me? Or, shivers ran down my spine, was he planning something dangerous? I’d heard rumors that warlocks weren’t as kind and righteous as they appeared; that they manipulated the witches who loved them with their charms.
    I’d hoped the rumors weren’t true, but this boy had a darkness about him that was both seductive and frightening.
    I smiled agreeably, trying to even out the energy. His brow furrowed as his curious eyes tried to sum me up, too.
    Everyone knew warlocks were only to court witches, and I, though I practiced small oddities, was certainly no witch.
    I imagined he was as curious as I was about the meaning of tonight’s arrangement.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, turning from the window, “I do not know your name.”
    I flushed, ashamed. “But you wrote it on my invitation?”
    “Ah, yes.” He lied. “Right, it’s…”
    “Rose,” I said. This strange creature possessed an air of authority that I’d never observed in a boy his age, a boy who couldn’t be much older than I was, much more than sixteen.
    The carriage rambled on through a dark and barren wood. We rode in silence. He stared at me for a moment, before looking back out the window. I suspected these were the fields he wanted to see. The corn reflecting in the moonlight did create a pretty picture.
    “And you are William Gavin Jefferson the Third.”
    “Ah, you did your homework.”
    “It, too, was on the invitation,” I smiled shyly. “And besides, my mother wouldn’t let me out of the house with a nameless boy in a strange carriage now would she?”
    “Wouldn’t she?” He looked me straight on.
    He knew as well as I did. She didn’t have a choice.
    “Though knowing my name isn’t exactly to know me.”
    “Well, the Jeffersons are well known and proper and I suppose she felt that was enough.”
    “I suppose,” he repeated, as if he didn’t agree. “It’s nice to meet you, Rose.” He took my hand in his left and shook it gently, the proper meeting of a gentlemen. My stomach burst into a fit of butterflies as he lifted it to his lips, but then lurched when, instead of pressing his red mouth to my hand, he froze. His handsome face twisted into disgust. “These gloves won’t do” He frowned.
    Shame blushed my cheeks. “Why?”
    “This mark here?” he said, turning my hand over in his palm. “It is stained. A lady should never wear stained gloves.”
    I wrinkled my nose and brought my hand closer to my eyes. I saw nothing but pure white, and I had excellent vision. The eyes of a hawk, mother was always saying. “Have Rose find the thimble, she has the eyes of a hawk.” If nothing else, I was secure about my eyesight. Besides, Mother spent so much time bleaching and preparing my gloves. Everything I wore might be hideously uncomfortable, but it was perfectly clean right down to my shoes. My gloves were snow white.
    “They are lily white,” I said. “You are blind as a bat.”
    He laughed suddenly, and then stifled it, not wanting me to feel I’d made an