The Signature of All Things

perhaps a deluded flight of the girl’s imagination. Only a moment earlier, after all, Retta had claimed there were witches living in the carriage house, so anything could be possible. But, no. Alma knew Retta too well.This was not Retta at play. This was Retta in earnest. This was Retta chattering on about the problem with sleeves and shawls in a February wedding. This was Retta quite seriously worrying over the necklace her mother planned to lend her, which was quite valuable, but not entirely to Retta’s liking: What if the chain is too long? What if it becomes tangled in the bodice?
    Alma stood suddenly and pulled Retta up from the floor. She could not bear it anymore. She could not sit still and listen to another word of this. Without a further plan of action, she embraced Retta. It was so much easier to embrace her than to look at her. It also made Retta stop talking. She held Retta in such a firm press that she heard the girl’s breath intake sharply, with a surprised squeak. Just when she thought Retta might begin speaking again, Alma commanded, “Hush,” and grasped her friend more securely.
    Alma’s arms were extraordinarily strong (she had a blacksmith’s arms, just as her father did) and Retta was so tiny, with the rib cage of a baby rabbit. There were snakes that could kill this way, with an embrace that only grew tighter and tighter until the breath stopped completely. Alma squeezed tighter. Retta made another small squeaking noise. Alma grasped harder still—so hard that she lifted Retta right from the floor.
    She remembered the day they all had met: Alma, Prudence, and Retta. Fiddle, fork, and spoon . Retta had said, “If we were boys, we would have to fight now.” Well, Retta was no fighter. She would have lost such a battle. She would have lost badly. Alma compressed her arms even tighter around this tiny, useless, precious person. She clenched her eyes shut as hard as she could, but tears bled from the corners nonetheless. She could feel Retta going limp in her grip. It would be so easy to stop her from breathing. Stupid Retta. Cherished Retta, who—even now!—successfully resisted all efforts not to be loved.
    Alma dropped her friend to the floor.
    Retta landed with a gasp and very nearly bounced.
    Alma forced herself to speak. “I congratulate you on your happiness,” she said.
    Retta sobbed once, and clutched at her bodice with trembling hands. She smiled, so foolish and trusting. “What a good little Alma you are!” Retta said. “And how much you love me!”
    In a queer touch of almost masculine formality, Alma extended herhand for Retta to shake, managing to choke forth just one more sentence: “You are most deserving.”
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    “D id you know ?” Alma demanded of Prudence not an hour later, finding her sister at her needlework in the drawing room.
    Prudence set her work on her lap, folded her hands, and said nothing. Prudence had a habit of never committing to any conversation before she completely understood the circumstances. But Alma waited nonetheless, wanting to force her sister to speak, wanting to catch her at something. At what, though? Prudence’s face had nothing to reveal, and if Alma thought Prudence Whittaker was fool enough to speak first under such hot circumstances, then she did not know Prudence Whittaker.
    In the silence that followed, Alma felt her anger turn from blazing indignation to something more tragic and petulant, something spoiled and sad. “Did you know,” Alma was finally forced to ask, “that Retta Snow is to marry George Hawkes?”
    Prudence’s expression did not change, but Alma saw a tiny white line appear for just a moment around her sister’s lips, as though the mouth had compressed only the slightest bit. Then the line vanished, quickly as it had arrived. Alma might even have imagined it.
    “No,” Prudence replied.
    “How could this have happened?” Alma asked. Prudence said nothing, so Alma kept speaking. “Retta tells me they have been betrothed since the week of our mother’s death.”
    “I see,” said Prudence, after a long pause.
    “Did Retta ever know that I . . .” Here Alma hesitated and nearly started weeping. “Did Retta ever know that I had feelings for him?”
    “How could I possibly answer that?” Prudence replied.
    “Did she learn it from you ?” Alma’s voice was insistent and ragged. “Had you ever told her? You were the only one who could have told her that I loved George.”
    Now the white