Between Earth and Sky(19)

“Time has not touched you. You’re the same girl of my memory.”

She reached into her purse and handed him a small package. “I brought you something.”

He peeled away the paper and twine. “The Return of Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know it isn’t much. I hope you haven’t read it.”

His fingers trailed across the silk-wrapped cover, as if it were the soft skin of a lover. He opened the book, brought the pages to his nose, and inhaled. “Thank you.”

Footsteps banged up the stairs. They both straightened. The private returned dragging a wooden stool. “Will this do, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Asku carried his chair to the edge of his cell and she joined him sitting, the folds of her skirt spilling around her down to the dirty floor. The rusty iron bars seemed to widen the inches between them.

“You’re married now?”

“Yes, that’s in part why I came. When I—”

“What’s his name?”

“Stewart. Stewart Mitchell.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Five years. He’s a lawyer, you see, and—”

“Children?”

She looked down at her clasped hands and shook her head. “No.”

“Nashke.” He touched her hand through the bars. “You’d be a good mother.”

Alma forced a smile even as her stomach knotted. Asku was wrong. She had nothing to offer a child. “My husband and I took the first train from Philadelphia when we learned—”

“Philadelphia. Minowe told me you left Stover after—” He stopped, and she was grateful. “A city of such culture suits you.”

Alma rubbed her arms. The afternoon warmth seemed to falter, the light filtering in through the narrow, paneless windows becoming sickly. “I never needed fancy things. I could have been happy anywhere.”

“But you’re happy now.”

“Yes.”

He regarded her a moment, then frowned. “You never could lie well, Azaadiins.”

“How can I be happy when you’re imprisoned here?”

He started to withdraw his hand from the bar, but she grabbed it fiercely between her own. “Asku, I know you could not have killed that man. My husband and I are here to help. To get you set free.”

Asku stiffened. The joy her visit had brought bled from his face. Even his voice lost its lightness. He got up and walked to the lone window within the cordons of his cell. “Those days in the classroom, in the wood shop, marching around the grounds . . . Did you ever stop and think what they were doing to us was wrong?”

Alma blinked. What did this have to do with the murdered Indian agent?

“To rob us of our homes, our families, our language, our way of life.”

She shifted. The rickety stool creaked. “I . . . I guess I never thought on it.”

“You never wondered”—he clasped his hands so tightly his knuckles cracked—“if perhaps the harm outweighed the good?”

“We were so young.”

“That was the point. To blot out our inherent wickedness before the stain had a chance to set. Your father’s very words.”

“You know he meant well.”

Asku turned. “How do you yet defend him?”

“I . . .” Alma felt a hand around her neck—her own hand—clutching at her collar, pressing into the soft flesh around her windpipe. How dare Asku say such things. “Nothing meant more to him than that school. Besides, what other choice was there? Imperfect means toward a perfect end.”

He laughed a hollow laugh and gestured to his meager cell. “Is this the end of which you speak?”

“This is all a mistake, Asku!” Heat flamed up her ears. “That’s why I’m here, to make this right.”

“Some things cannot be made right.”

“Not true.” She stood and clenched the iron bars. Rust chipped off onto her gloves. “What happened to you? You were happy at Stover.”

“That was not happiness. That was survival.”

“Now who’s lying?”

He shook his head. “If I were happy then, I was a fool.... Perhaps we both were.”

Alma’s jaw slackened.

“Thank you for your visit,” he said without expression. “I do not want your husband’s help.”

“What are you talking about? They mean to hang you.” She rattled the prison bars. “You’re innocent! I can sort this out for you.”

His eyes, the dark, foxlike eyes she loved, grew cold and dull. “I’ve had enough help from the white man.” He looked past her and called for the guard. Footfalls sounded on the stairs, and he still did not look at her. “We’re done here, Private. Please escort Mrs. Mitchell out.”

“Asku, wait—”

“I wish you well, Mrs. Mitchell.” He dragged his chair to the corner and sat down, angled away from her, still as death.

Her mouth went dry. She shuffled backward, unable to pry her gaze from the stranger in the tiny cell.

What had happened to her beloved friend?





CHAPTER 10


Wisconsin, 1881