Page 2 of Junie

Chapter Two

The main house at Bellereine is all refined right angles, slicing through the twisting oak trees and curving red dirt. Violet’s old governess said that the house was built to look like a Roman temple, stark white, identical back and front, with six Corinthian columns placed on the wraparound porch to frame black shuttered windows and towering double doors. Look at the balance, she would say, pointing to a faded drawing of a facade in an ancient history book. The design represents culture, a republic like ours, where everything is equal.

To Junie, the house has two faces, both watching.

She crouches outside the garden gate, shoving her nightdress into a bush and changing into her black maid’s dress. The wool pricks her skin like the loose straw from her sleeping pallet. The mistress loves England, a love that forces the housemaids to wear English maid outfits in Alabama summer. She wraps her long braid into a knot and shoves it into her white bonnet, careful to hide the baby hairs under the ruffled edges. White folks don’t like that nappy hair, Muh’s voice echoes in her head. Make sure it don’t poke out where the mistress can see it . By the time she sneaks to the cookhouse to start serving breakfast, she’s already slick with sweat.

If the mistress loves England so much, she ought to be the one to dress up like its people instead.

There is far worse work you could be doing. It’s Minnie’s voice, or an echo of what Junie remembers of it. You wasn’t never meant to be a maid. You only get to be in the house because of Violet loves you.

Minnie was all lightness, milky brown skin, hazel eyes, soft curls that wrapped around a knitting needle. Junie looks down at her hands, dark as the underside of a mushroom, meant for the baking sun and cotton thorns. She tries to swat the words away, but the more she fights, the louder the criticisms get, until they swarm her mind like fruit flies over a rotten peach.

I am ungrateful; Minnie was humble.

I am sloppy; Minnie was perfect.

I shouldn’t be alive; Minnie shouldn’t be dead.

“Where the devil have you been?” Auntie Marilla, the Bellereine cook and Junie’s great-aunt, stands with arms crossed over her chest at the cookhouse door, the white scarf around her head already soaked in sweat at the brow.

Another person to tell her what a catastrophe she is.

“I’m sorry, Auntie. I didn’t intend to be late, I—”

“I ain’t got the time or the energy to hear your excuses, Miss Big Words. Go on and make yourself useful to your cousin. She’s been working since before day like she’s supposed to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Junie says with a nod.

Sloppy and ungrateful, as always. The familiar lump struggles down her throat with a swallow, a fattened rabbit shoving itself into its shrunken burrow to escape the hunter’s rifle.

The mistress takes her tea in the breakfast room overlooking the wraparound porch and rose garden. Junie yanks back the brocaded curtains to present the garden, brimming with sunset-tinted blooms, white buds, and dripping wisteria. She gives the gardener their signal, three taps on the glass to tell him to leave. He grabs his tools and runs out like a thief. The mistress prefers to imagine her own delicate hands nurturing her prize flowers.

“Where the devil have you been?” It’s Bess, Auntie’s daughter, Junie’s older cousin, and a constant pain. Does Bess know that she talks just like her mother?

“Christ, you shouldn’t be sneakin’ up on people like that.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d been here an hour ago to help me with the laundry like you said you was!” Bess hisses.

“Bess, you don’t understand—”

“Understand what, Junie? That you ain’t concerned about my time?”

“The mistress’ll be down here any minute, you ought not to—”

“You in the woods again?”

Junie chews the inside of her cheek. It’s the question she hoped Bess wouldn’t ask. There’s a hint of excitement in Bess’s tone, like a cat that’s cornered a chipmunk. She loves any opportunity to prove she’s superior.

“Leave me be,” Junie says. She’s too tired to fight Bess off today. The tears want to come, and Junie’s not strong enough right now to hold them back. She snatches a placemat and storms toward the linen cabinet, hoping Bess won’t follow.

“I won’t ’til you answer me,” Bess growls. She grabs Junie’s wrist the way her sister used to when she’d wander off.

“Quit it, Bess!”

She hates crying in front of Bess. Even as her cousin looks sympathetic, with her head tilted and eyes soft, Junie knows that underneath, Bess relishes this.

“You up thinking about Minnie again?”

Junie wipes her eyes on her apron. She doesn’t answer; Bess won’t get any more satisfaction out of this.

“You know, at some point, Junie, you gonna have to start sharing with people again. It ain’t like you to be so long-faced all the time.”

The grandfather clock chimes eight o’clock.

“Auntie Marilla will have the food ready by now,” Junie says.

“It can wait. We can’t have the mistress see you lookin’ fit for the barn,” Bess says. “Your bonnet’s all crooked, too, that wild hair of yours is comin’ out all in the back.” She’s right, of course. Junie hasn’t come across a mirror yet, but she’s sure she looks like hell. Bess dunks her kitchen rag into the water pitcher.

“Do you have any idea how foolish it is to be in the woods, not knowing what or who could be out there?” she asks, wiping away the tears and dirt from Junie’s face.

Junie bites back a chuckle. Of course, it’s foolish to sneak off the Bellereine grounds, hiding in the woods until dawn. What no one seems to understand is she does it for the wildness, the anonymity. Her cabin is predictable. The same straw poking into her back, the same creaky wood-plank floors, the same memory of Minnie’s sick body, splayed next to her, skin pale and fever-slicked. There is nowhere to go but the woods.

Bess can disapprove all she wants; Junie’s grandparents are the only ones who she doesn’t want to hurt. After Minnie died, Junie promised herself she would do anything to protect them, to keep them from more pain. It doesn’t make any sense that she runs away every night, knowing how much it scares them, which is why she tries to hide it from them as best she can.

She already failed with Granddaddy; she can’t hurt Muh, too.

“Can you tell Muh I was with you this morning?” Junie asks.

“Now, why would I lie to my auntie?”

“Please, just don’t tell her, Bess.”

Auntie rings the cookhouse bell. If they wait much longer, they’ll both get chewed out.

“Fine. You got to stop crying now. No tears in the food,” Bess says.

—

They lay out silver serving dishes overflowing with peeled hard-boiled eggs, crispy corn cakes topped with butter and honey, fragrant rosemary sausages, thick slices of fried bacon, and golden-brown biscuits. Auntie Marilla even sliced fresh, sugar-topped peaches from the orchard. Junie’s stomach gnaws; she hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

The mistress’s heels strike against the wooden staircase just as Junie finishes straightening the place settings. She and Bess dash to the wall opposite the main door, hands folded behind their backs. Junie uses a free nail to dig into her palm’s calluses.

The mistress walks in, surveying the room like a bird of prey. She smooths her high-necked, long-sleeved wrapper dress with white embroidered roses, the same dress she wears every day. The middle part of her ash-blond hair reveals the graying roots, the length secured into a low tuck clipped with a plain comb.

When Junie first started working in the house, she’d asked Minnie why the mistress always looked so plain. Minnie raised her arm in a circle to gesture to the room they stood in. All this is her fancy dress, us included.

“Well, good morning, girls,” Mrs. McQueen says. “Is my tea prepared?”

Bess and Junie curtsy in unison.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Bess says, pulling out Mrs. McQueen’s chair and pouring her tea.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, swirling her spoon. “Girls, before I forget, the master arrived this morning. I wouldn’t expect you to have prepared since I certainly wasn’t expecting him, but one of you should make coffee just the same.”

Bess cuts Junie a knowing look. Mrs. McQueen hates having her husband home.

“I’ll take care of it, ma’am,” Bess answers.

“Before you go, Bess, I must say, I love these roses! Did you arrange today’s bouquet?”

“No, ma’am, Junie did,” she says, excusing herself.

Junie’s pulse quickens as Mrs. McQueen’s mouth curls into a close-lipped smile. She wishes Bess would’ve lied and taken the credit.

“These roses complement my tablecloth well. My, you’ve grown to have such a keen eye! Now, turn around so I can look at you.”

Junie steps closer, rubbing the sweat off her palms. She’s known Mrs. McQueen her whole life, and yet she always feels like a stranger Junie has to examine for signs of danger. Mrs. McQueen hums approvingly before straightening Junie’s collar and sleeves.

“That uniform suits you. Your grandmother must be proud.” She leans back in her chair. “But, my dear, you’ve forgotten something.” She taps her porcelain teacup with her clipped fingernail. “The milk. I’d hate for my tea to get cold before I can have it the way I prefer.”

The fine hairs on the back of Junie’s neck rise. She left the milk in the cookhouse.

“I’d hate to have you do extra cleaning this Sunday, but you know servants only get free Sunday if they complete their work to the highest standard.”

Sundays are Junie’s only day to roam and write poems in peace. Carefree. The word slithers through her ears.

“Ma’am?” Bess calls, carrying the coffee carafe. “I’m real sorry to interrupt, but I heard from round the corner while I was fetching the coffeepot. Momma just got some fresh milk from the cows, and she’s pouring it now. We were gonna use canned milk for your tea, but Junie thought it would be best to use fresh milk since you prefer that. I should have spoken sooner. Isn’t that right, Junie?”

Junie jerks to look at Bess, who nods toward the back door.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” Junie says.

Mrs. McQueen bites her lip.

“That’s all right. You’ve done what’s best, Junie, now check with Marilla to see if it’s ready.”

Junie curtsies and rushes to the cookhouse. She stabs open a milk can with a knife and pours it into a jug before running back.

“Here you are, ma’am,” Junie says, adding milk to the tea. The mistress nods and Junie slinks along the wall as Mrs. McQueen sips approvingly. Junie’s mouth curls into a half-smile. The mistress can never tell the difference between fresh and canned milk.

Mrs. McQueen is finishing her second cup when Violet, her only child, saunters in. Her pale blue combing jacket is wide open to reveal a translucent sleeping sacque, red curls falling loose over her shoulders. Her current novel, Pamela, is tucked underneath her arm.

“ Bonjour, ma chérie! ” she says, coasting toward Junie.

“Good morning, Miss Violet,” Junie says, beginning to curtsy.

“Oh, stop with all that curtsying pageantry! Who am I, Queen Victoria? We will greet each other as the French do, with a kiss on the cheek.” She leans forward and pecks Junie’s cheek.

“Violet, I’m certain I shouldn’t have to say how highly irregular this behavior is. Sit down and stop this at once,” Mrs. McQueen hisses. “Knowledge of the French language is admirable, but pretending to be French is tremendously silly.”

“Good morning to you, too, Mother. I don’t see what is irregular about practicing another culture’s customs. If I were to travel to France, I’d like to fit in.” She sits down and Junie pushes her chair in. “Oh, Mother, is that coffee? May I please have une petite tasse ?”

“It’s vulgar for a young lady to drink coffee,” Mrs. McQueen says. “And my days, Violet, close your jacket! It’s uncouth to wander around in your sacque, but to expose yourself at breakfast is disgraceful.”

“Why, Mother? It’s just Junie and Bess.” Violet bites into a corn cake and reaches for the coffeepot. “Besides, Junie sees me dénudée every day. You don’t mind my sleeping sacque, do you, Junie?” Violet says, shooting Junie a playful glance. Junie looks down at her shoes, cursing Violet’s silliness. The last thing she needs is more attention from Mrs. McQueen.

“It doesn’t matter what Junie thinks. It matters what I think,” Mrs. McQueen retorts, slapping Violet’s hand away. Violet winces.

“Why’s the coffee here if nobody’s drinking it?” Violet mutters, taking another bite.

“If no one is drinking it, Violet.”

“If no one is drinking it, Mother.”

Mrs. McQueen shifts.

“Your father returned from town this morning, He’s upstairs now. Goodness, Violet, stop eating with your mouth open. You’re seventeen years old, more than old enough to start acting like you have some gentility.”

“Daddy’s here? Did he send word?” Violet asks. She wraps her robe around her shoulders.

“Well, I didn’t know a man had to send word to visit his own house!”

Violet and Mrs. McQueen whip around toward the deep drawl and cigar smell that rolls into the room. Mr. McQueen glides in, wearing a perfumed cream linen suit, which hardly hides the bourbon emanating from his pores.

Junie smirks. At least he bothered to change his boots.

“Great day, did I just hear my baby girl is drinking coffee at breakfast?”

Violet grins so wide Junie worries she’ll split her lip. She leaps from her chair, arms stretched.

“Daddy!” she trills an octave higher than her normal voice. She beams, kissing his sweaty cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home!”

“You sure are a sight for sore eyes this morning, Sweet Pea,” Mr. McQueen says, sitting down at the head. “Good morning, Innis.”

“To what do we owe the pleasure, William?” she responds, stirring her tea.

“Can’t a man come to his own home and see his beautiful family?”

“It is within your rights, William, not your habits,” Mrs. McQueen murmurs.

Mr. McQueen leans back, spreading his legs wide to drop his belly before pouring a cup of coffee so full it drips over the rim of his porcelain mug. “I didn’t see Mr. Pullman when I came up this morning. Is he all right?”

“Mr. Pullman was let go,” Mrs. McQueen says.

Junie and Bess cut each other confused looks. Mr. Pullman was the plantation overseer; Granddaddy said he spent most of his time looking into the bottom of a moonshine bottle. Despite this, it wasn’t as if alcoholism was something the McQueens would consider a real problem. Junie resists the urge to scrunch her brow. Why would the mistress fire him?

“You didn’t think to ask me, Innis?”

“I would have, Darling. I wasn’t quite sure where to find you.”

“Can’t see how it would be right to let Pullman go. I mean, who do you expect to watch all them field niggers—”

“Mercy, William, please don’t use language like that at the table. This isn’t a savory conversation,” Mrs. McQueen interrupts.

“I don’t give a hoot if it’s savory,” McQueen says with a chuckle. “I’m the owner around here, I ought to be doin’ the hirin’ and lettin’ go. What will people say in town if they hear you’re firin’ my men while I’m gone?”

“I doubt anyone who knows anything of your character would be terribly stunned, William,” Mrs. McQueen says. “And since you’ve suddenly taken such an interest in the affairs around here with no regard to proper table manners, you ought to know it wasn’t possible to keep Mr. Pullman on financially, that is, unless you’re willing to quit playing poker and drinking your way through the South.”

Mr. McQueen’s jaw tightens as his face turns beet red. He cracks his knuckles with a snort. “Sweet Pea?”

“Yes, Daddy?” Violet squeaks.

“It sounds as though your mother and I have some topics to discuss alone. Why don’t you and your girl go on upstairs? The other maid can go, too.”

Bess curtsies and slips out the front door without a sound. The other maid. Bess has lived her whole life at Bellereine, and he still hasn’t bothered to learn her name.

Violet nods. She kisses her father’s hardened cheek before starting toward the stairs. “I feel safe knowing Daddy’s home again!”

Junie rushes along behind her as McQueen seals the double doors.

“I wish he’d stayed in whatever hole he crawled out of. You can smell the liquor on him from here,” says Violet.

“I thought you felt safe now that Daddy’s home?” Junie says, imitating Violet’s tone at breakfast.

“Oh, hush.” Violet swats Junie’s shoulder. “You think that was too much? Don’t matter, anyway, he’s too drunk and stupid to catch the irony.”

“We ought to get ready. Auntie’ll have extra breakfast if you want it.”

“Are you kidding? We ain’t going upstairs yet.” Violet pulls two glasses from underneath her robe. “I snuck ’em off the table. Now we can listen.”

She drops to her knees, placing the glass on the wood.

“Violet, don’t be foolish.” Junie’s pulse quickens.

“Mother said it wasn’t possible to keep Mr. Pullman financially, ” Violet says, eyes widening. “C’mon, Junie, you think he’s leaving card games and applejack to come here and fight with my mother? I intend to know the real reason.”

Violet is right. Apprehension creeps through Junie’s nerves. First, the master appears at home with no notice. Then, he insists on speaking to the mistress in private, when the McQueens have never bothered to keep their fights behind closed doors.

Something strange is going on.

Junie eyes the second glass, temptation tickling her palms. But then she looks down at her hands, still nicked with cuts from tree bark.

She shakes her head. “Stay if you want, I’m going upstairs.”

“Fine, suit yourself, rabat-joie. ”

Junie knows Violet’s French enough to know she’s been called a stick-in-the-mud, but her head hurts too much from fitful sleep in the woods to bother with a sharp-tongued answer. She marches up the staircase to Violet’s bedchambers at the hallway’s end. The cornflower-blue room is twice the size of Junie’s cabin. It bursts with fine dresses, silk shoes, lacy underskirts, velveteen furniture, and European dolls, but all Violet cares for are the books—novels, poetry, and a few texts in French overflow from ceiling-height white bookshelves.

Junie pulls back the curtains to let the sun in before replacing Violet’s linens with clean white sheets. She thumbs through Violet’s closet for a dinner dress before settling on a lacy red confection McQueen bought on his last foolish trip to Mobile. Violet will hate it, but the master will love it.

She lays out the dress, then eyes the bookshelves. Once Violet learned to read as a little girl, she insisted on teaching Junie in secret so she’d have someone to talk to about her books. Junie took to literature like a fish to water, thrilled to spend her playtime with Violet in the imaginary world of their shared stories. When she became Violet’s maid on Violet’s fifteenth birthday, she decided to alphabetize the library since Violet had neither need nor desire, not minding the book piles. It is the perfect chore, a way to read while pantomiming her maid duties. This was how she’d first discovered the Romantics, reorganizing Violet’s often ignored poetry books; they were short enough to read between chores without being too conspicuous. She’d read that these poets lived in misty hills and valleys, foraging off the land in a cottage, observing the quiet perfection of lakes and trees and hilltops. How many times had each of those poets found the sublime? Her fingers tingle imagining the serenity they must each feel every day, knowing they’ve found the great secret to life. She takes a familiar copy of John Keats’s odes, sitting on the floor before cracking the book to a well-worn page.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;

His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Junie curls her knees, dropping the book into her lap. She’d been reading Keats’s poems for years, but only in the eight months since her sister’s death has she seen herself in his melancholic verse. She didn’t use to be this way; she used to show her teeth when she smiled, to taste sweetness instead of ash when she bit into a blackberry, to hear her grandparents when they told her they loved her.

Why can’t she let Minnie go, the way everyone else has? She presses her eyes into her knees.

“Junie?”

Junie covers her mouth to mute her surprise. She jumps to stand, but Violet pushes her back down.

“No, no, you ain’t got to stand up. You don’t look well,” Violet says, pursing her lips and drawing her eyebrows together. Embarrassment creeps over Junie’s cheeks.

“I’m fine, I didn’t mean—”

“Stop with all that, you ain’t got to apologize. Sit in the chair and I’ll fetch you water.” Junie obeys, her muscles melting into the chair like candle wax.

“Here.” Violet passes her a glass of water. Junie sips as Violet settles on the ottoman. “What’s wrong, Junebug?”

“Nothing. I didn’t sleep good.”

“You never sleep good.” Violet scoots closer to Junie. “You ain’t been yourself since—”

“It’s nothing,” Junie interrupts, swatting away her sister’s name before Violet can say it. “Muh snored real bad. Now my head’s a mess. I’m all right, really.”

“You wanna sleep here instead?” Violet asks.

“I can’t leave Muh and Granddaddy out there all alone.”

“You can if you want to, you know. As far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever you like in here as long as Mother and Daddy don’t catch on.” Violet saunters to her armoire, grabbing a ribbon to tie up her hair. “You drink that water, I’ll get myself ready.”

Junie nods, taking another sip. Violet tosses off her combing jacket.

“You were right to head up here instead of eavesdropping, by the way,” Violet says, taking off her sacque. “Daddy was off in some dirty Montgomery club spending Midas’s gold playing cards, as usual. You can imagine how angry Mother was. ‘We can’t grow cotton fast enough for the way you spend it!’ They sounded like a couple of dogs growling over scraps. Très embarrassant. There was one interesting thing Daddy said, though.”

Exhaustion buzzes in Junie’s skull like a swarm of bees. She winces, straining through the pain to pay attention.

“Junie? Did you hear? I said there was one interesting thing Daddy said. Gosh, you are tired.”

“Sorry, I’m listening.”

She blinks away the memory of Minnie’s sweat-soaked body, twisted and writhing in the blankets with her pupils so wide her eyes looked like coal.

“Well, Daddy met a young man from New Orleans of all places and invited him to stay here for a week . The man accepted.”

“We’re going to have a guest, then?”

“ Two guests,” Violet says as she pulls on her underdress. “He has a sister, too.”

“A whole week?”

“ And they’re arriving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow! I expected Mother to be red-hot about it, but she almost seemed happy.”

Junie rubs her temples. Bellereine never has guests, save bill collectors or distant cousins passing through. Hosting strangers is the sort of thing Junie thought would send Mrs. McQueen into hysterics.

“Are you happy about it?” Junie asks.

Violet unties her hair ribbon. She faces Junie, fingers smoothing and combing her hair.

“Can I sit with you? In the chair?”

Even with a smile, Violet’s blue eyes plead like a dog left in the rain.

“Sure, Vi.”

Violet squeezes in, stretching her arm around Junie to pull her close.

“Do you believe in true love, Junie?” Violet asks. Junie giggles. “What? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing, it’s just like you to ask a big question out of the blue. Remember that time you got fresh with the governess for not telling you where the stars end right after you wet your new dress?”

“Big minds ask big questions and I will not apologize for it,” Violet says, pointing to her head. “Now, do you believe in true love?”

“Like Cinderella and happily ever after?”

“Like where two people love each other and that’s it. Do you believe in that?” Violet bites the nails on her free hand.

Junie rolls the question over in her mind. Muh and Granddaddy have been together since Adam and Eve, but they mostly fuss about each other to anyone who will listen. Some moments seem like true love between them; Granddaddy picking Muh fresh spring flowers, or Muh kissing Granddaddy every time he leaves with Mr. McQueen.

“I want to believe in it,” Junie answers.

“I don’t know if I believe,” Violet says. “Well, maybe I believe in something like true love, but I don’t know if I want it.”

Junie’s brow furrows. Violet devoured every romance novel she could get her hands on. How could she not want true love?

“You don’t want some tall, handsome boy to find your glass slipper or kiss you awake like the stories?”

“I don’t want some boy to save me or nothing,” Violet says. “Besides, from what I’ve seen I don’t think any boys around here could save me from much more than a goose.”

“Why are you asking about love, anyway?” Junie asks.

“I don’t know, I…” Violet trails off, fingers running over her throat. They shake against her skin. “Scoot over, I wanna get up.”

Junie leans over the armrest to give Violet space to wiggle out of the chair. It used to be big enough to hold them both, and neither is willing to admit how much the sides pinch into their hips when they share it.

Violet gets to her feet and beelines to the bookshelves, feverishly examining the spines.

“What are you looking for?” Junie asks.

“Do you remember when we read Jane Eyre ?”

“Shhh!” Junie hisses.

“Mother’s not here. Do you remember?”

Junie nods. Jane Eyre is one of her favorites. How could she forget Jane rising above her station to take claim of a whole house?

“You’re looking on the wrong shelf. It’s with the B s, for Bront?.”

Violet finds the copy, and curls back into the chair.

“ This is the kind of love I want. Like Jane and Mr. Rochester.” Violet thumbs through the pages. “Where did all my dog-ears go?”

“I replaced them with ribbons to keep the pages nice, see?” Junie points to the red ribbons dangling from the top.

“It’s this line right here. ‘ I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion. ’ Ain’t that romantic?”

“Don’t Rochester already have a wife, Violet?”

“Oh, be serious, Junie. This is beautiful. He doesn’t just want to keep Jane somewhere like a pretty pony, he wants her to be his second self, his companion, his equal. That’s how I want somebody to love me. Besides, the wife’s already dead by this point.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “I just want something different from what God has given me.”

“More things?” Junie asks, looking around the room.

“No, not things. I don’t care about things. I want more feeling, Junie. I want to feel every feeling there is in this world, not just the ones Mother or Daddy or anybody else around here want me to feel. I want to feel so much, sometimes it makes me sick. Do you think that makes me a sinner?”

Violet’s eyes glisten with tears. New guests aren’t enough to stir Violet like this. What is she holding back?

“I ain’t no preacher, Violet, but I don’t think you’re a sinner.”

Violet’s lips curl into a smile. She takes and squeezes Junie’s hand.

“I swear, the worst part of Daddy coming is wearing all these ridiculous gowns he buys me,” Violet says, wiping her eyes and eyeing the red dress. “I’m not even sure this one you picked is going to fit.

“You feeling any better, Junebug?”

“Much better,” Junie says, climbing to her feet. Her head is a little clearer after the water and rest, even if her legs are shaky.

“Good. You think you could walk down and get some breakfast from Marilla? That way we can eat and I can avoid this itchy monstrosity a little longer.”

Junie nods. Violet scoots into the middle of the chair, picking up her novel from the ottoman, and leaning back to read again. The aches of hunger and anxiety gnaw at Junie’s insides as she walks out of the room and down the stairs.

Two visitors. Two outsiders.

In her sixteen years, nothing like this has ever happened at Bellereine. These guests are clouds hovering at the distant horizon, and Muh, Granddaddy, and Auntie Marilla are the only ones who can tell her if the clouds carry a storm within them.