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Everett rose with the sun the next morning, the anvil in his head blessedly abandoned by the blacksmith who'd plagued him so mercilessly yesterday.

His stomach rumbled from missing the evening meal, but it was a small price to pay to feel human again.

Dark, quiet, and the pot of coffee Lightfoot had brought up to him during one of his furniture gathering forays had helped, but it was the eleven hours of sleep that had finally put him to rights. That and the Lord's grace.

Through the years, he'd learned several tricks to still his mind while in the throes of a migraine.

Unfortunately, none of them could be engaged while in the company of an interfering female.

Relief required a bed, comfortable nightclothes, and closed eyes.

He had to slow his breathing and focus on something other than the pain.

Usually that entailed visualizing his latest painting, imagining long, smooth brush strokes, and picturing the object slowly coming to life.

Last night, however, as he painted in his mind, the solitary oak on his canvas upstairs kept being supplanted by a young woman.

One with gentle curves that invited slow, smooth strokes.

Large, dark eyes sparking with life and hinting at mysteries that tempted him to peer deeper.

Slender chestnut brows arching with perfect symmetry upon a sun-kissed face.

Youthful freckles dusting nose and cheeks like sprinkled cinnamon on golden pastry.

Plump, dusky lips that curled naturally upward at the corners as if shaped by years of perpetual smiles, much like a tree bent by years of unrelenting wind.

Everett allowed the image to float through his mind anew as he washed the sleep from his eyes and dressed for the day.

He'd fought against the image when it first appeared to him last night, determined to rid himself of Miss Rosenfeld's beauty and replace the vision with that of the lone oak upon a barren hill.

Yet the harder he fought, the less peace he found.

So, he eventually relented and allowed the artist within to recreate her perfection in his mind.

Instead of the surging bitterness he'd expected to encounter at the reminder of all he'd lost, he'd thought of himself not at all.

Only of her. The shape of her face and the curves of her figure.

The way her eyes glistened like dark wood polished to a high shine.

The contradiction between her delicacy and her strength.

He ached to paint her.

Everett shook his head at his reflection in the washstand mirror.

As if she would ever sit for him. He leaned close to the mirror and examined his damaged eye.

The lid had been partially paralyzed from a slicing of nerves, leaving it to droop in a lopsided manner.

Then there was the opaque scar Lillian's attack left upon his cornea.

It blurred his vision to a degree and made him sensitive to light, but he needed the depth perception his right eye provided when he painted, so he went without his patch in his studio.

He could only manage a couple hours of work before the eye fatigued, but in those moments, he felt closest to the man he'd once been.

But then, he wasn't striving to be his old self, was he? Everett stepped away from the mirror and lifted his gaze to the ceiling.

If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

That verse had called his soul out of the darkness.

He still recalled the way the words had leapt straight from the page to write themselves upon his heart three years ago, urging him to bury the past and leave it behind.

A task he still struggled to accomplish.

Bitterness, anger, and despair were not easily thrown off.

He battled them each day, which was why he started each morning meditating on the verse that had brought light back into his world.

A new creature. The ironic double meaning of that descriptor appealed to the macabre sensibilities he'd developed as part of his recovery.

He was definitely a new creature , yet it wasn't his outward appearance that Christ had redeemed, but the inner man.

The vain, frivolous fellow who'd cared nothing for serious matters, including deepening his relationship with the Almighty.

For months after the attack, he'd blamed God for allowing such injustice.

For failing to protect him from harm. Then he'd begun to wonder if he'd deserved such a fate.

Perhaps God was punishing him as he had the haughty Nebuchadnezzar who'd credited himself for his success instead of the Lord and was driven away from people for seven years to live like a beast, eating grass and becoming wild and unkempt.

A description that fell a little too close to home—living in isolation as he did, with a beastly attitude and overlong hair that made his valet groan.

Thankfully, he had Mrs. Potter to ensure he didn't eat grass.

Ironic that he now took comfort from the very Bible story that had once filled him with despair.

Lightfoot was to blame for that. Pounding into his head the idea that not all pain was punishment.

That rain fell on the righteous and the unrighteous alike.

That God could reshape broken vessels for his glory.

That's how things had played out for Nebuchadnezzar.

God restored his sanity and molded him into a better man in the process.

Everett prayed the Lord would do the same for him.

Though after yesterday's fiasco, it was clear he still had several rough edges that needed smoothing.

He reached for the eyepatch dangling by its strings from the washstand towel rack and fit it to the right side of his face.

Then he grabbed the worn leather Bible from the table beside his bed, tucked it into the small shoulder bag he carried, and set out for his morning trek.

On his way through the kitchen, he snagged two of the savory hand pies Mrs. Potter kept in supply under the glass dome on the counter.

He chomped the first one in half with an extra-large bite, his stomach immediately growling in appreciation of the buttery pastry, savory beef, and tender potatoes that met his tongue.

He wrapped a napkin around the second pie and stashed it in his bag, then let himself out through the back door.

Spartacus hopped up from his haunches and wagged his tail in greeting.

Everett rubbed the dog's head with one hand as he held the rest of his breakfast out of reach. "Ready, boy?"

Spartacus let out a deep-throated woof then bounded ahead on the well-worn path that led to the hill of the solitary oak. About a mile away, it couldn't be seen from the house, which suited Everett. It was hard enough to bare one's soul before God. He'd rather not have witnesses for the endeavor.

The chill of the early morning air invigorated him as he trudged over hilly, broken terrain, through tall grasses, and around juniper and mesquite bushes. Familiar with the path, his mind wandered, seemingly intent on replaying images of how he'd treated the young book binder yesterday.

Abominably. That's how he'd treated her. At nearly every turn. He wished he could blame his behavior on the headache that had throbbed inside his skull, but he knew the real culprit. Fear.

Like a dog beaten and left to fend for himself, Everett had lost his trust in humanity.

The destruction of his face had been bad enough, but everything that followed had turned him cynical.

His mother's withdrawal. Society's eagerness to believe the March family's lies about Everett being the villain.

Men he considered friends distancing themselves to protect their reputations.

Every horrified look from a stranger during his trip to Texas.

Each stupid kid who trespassed his property on a dare to sneak a peek at the Monster of Manticore Manor.

They all hit like a kick to a mongrel's ribs, leaving him to snarl and snap even at those who didn't deserve it.

He expected to be hurt, so he avoided contact with the outside world.

When the outside world dared to infringe upon his privacy, he struck out in order to reinforce the barrier he'd constructed for self-preservation.

But when his usual tactics failed to send Miss Rosenfeld running yesterday, she'd left him feeling out of control.

Vulnerable. So he'd snapped and growled and acted completely uncivilized.

The Lord expected better from him. He expected better from himself.

By the time Everett reached the tree and lowered himself to sit beneath its branches and lean against its trunk, he knew what he needed to do. But it would require a good deal of mental and spiritual fortification before he attempted something so radical.

Callista met the day with a refreshed spirit and renewed positivity.

How could she not when she'd slept on a mattress that felt like a cloud?

No straw pieces jabbing through the worn tick to poke her back.

No rumbling snore from Papa on the other side of a paper-thin wall to wake her during the night.

No cold draft whistling through the cracks to chill her nose and toes.

She'd been so pleasantly cozy, she'd almost slept in.

Almost. Mr. Griffin's desire for efficiency and ridding himself of his unwanted houseguest overrode the luxury of a comfortable bed.

She might have been given a chamber fit for a princess with its pale green walls, white furnishings, and plush rugs, but she wasn't a princess.

She was an employee. One who still had to earn her right to be here.