The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(106)

I hadn’t thought to do that and used the trick when we finally found a cheap one-bedroom place three blocks away, asking the listing agent to call Cherry River Farm and ask John Wilson for a reference.

They did.

And whatever he told them ensured within the week Della attended a new school and I’d moved our meagre backpacks into a bare essential, unfurnished apartment and chewed through a chunk of my savings paying bond, first month’s rent, and Della’s tuition fees.

Della and I transformed its empty spaces into a semi-liveable home, thanks to flea market bargains and the odd furniture found on street corners.

I’d achieved more than I had in my life.

I’d dealt with people and hadn’t been recognised for being a runaway slave or for being the man who stole Della Mclary. My fears of being taken and sold were still strong, even though I was no longer a boy, and I preferred not to be too close or talk too long to anyone.

All winter, Della caught the local bus to school, bundled up in the thickest jacket, mittens, and hats I could afford, and returned straight after class ended.

I didn’t mind she didn’t make friends straight away. In fact, I was glad because it meant I had her company when I returned from work after toiling away at a local building site, and we spent the evenings together with our second-hand TV, street-salvaged couch, and snuggled under a shared blanket watching whatever was on.

The job I scored wasn’t perfect and didn’t pay well, but it meant I could keep a roof over our heads and dinner on our table without having to hunt and gut it first.

I never grumbled as I lugged timber and dug holes.

I was the bitch on the site, gathering tools and doing the chores no one else wanted to do. The foreman who gave me the cash job said I got the dregs because I wasn’t a skilled builder, but I knew it was because I refused to drink with the guys or let them get to know me.

I didn’t want people to know me.

That was where danger lay.

Every day, I hated trudging to work and enduring yet more snide comments and rolled eyes at my reserved silence.

I missed the fields.

I missed the smell of manure and sunshine and tractor diesel.

Now, the dirt on my hands was from concrete and lime, not earth and grass. The dust in my lungs was from cutting bricks and shovelling gravel, not from fluffing hay and hauling bales.

Sometimes, even though the guys hated me, they’d offer me the odd after-work gig. The rules were: always do it late at night and always be unseen by anyone.

I didn’t understand the secrecy for tasks like removing old roof sheets or cracking apart ancient walls, but I followed their stupid rules and cleared away debris. No one else seemed to want to do it, and the money was double that of day labouring.

No matter that I was grateful I had a job, some mornings, when I left for work and Della left for school, I’d struggle to continue walking to the site. Ice would crack beneath my boots and breath would curl from my lips, and I’d physically stop, look at the snow-capped trees in the distance, and have to lock my knees to stop from bolting toward them.

Days were long and hard and taxed me of everything I had.

But the nights—when I wasn’t working on secret demolition—made up for the struggle.

The emptiness inside from living in a concrete jungle amongst wretches and sinners faded whenever I was near her. Her comforting voice, familiar kindness, and almost intuitive knowing when I just needed to sit quiet and have her tell me stories for a change, repaired the tears inside me.

Watching her animate tales of school and teachers allowed me to forget about everything but her. It reminded me why I’d cursed her for overstepping a boundary. And why I could never lose her. No way could I ever survive without her, and that terrified me because with every day, the remainder of her childhood slipped off like a cocoon, leaving behind new wings dying to fly.

She was evolving, and I couldn’t do a damn thing but watch her morph into something I could never keep.

For two years, I held that job and paid for Della’s every need. For every whisper from the wind to leave, I was held in place by the knowledge I needed to stay for her. For every tug to run, I focused on the person Della was becoming, and it was completely worth it.

A month or so after we’d moved into our apartment and I’d decorated the bedroom with purple curtains and a foam mattress covered in lilac bedding for Della—while I slept on the pop-out couch in the living room—we received our first letter.

Because we’d used John Wilson as a landlord reference, he knew where we were and wrote to us.

The letter was short and to the point, making sure we were safe and doing well and that if we ever needed anything, their door was always open. I tucked his phone number and address safely in my memory just in case.

I missed them, but I didn’t know how to say such things or to convey how grateful I was for their hand in our lives—I’d fail in person, and I’d definitely fail in writing.

So Della was the one who got in touch and thanked them.

She let them know I’d found her and apologised for any embarrassment she might’ve caused. I approved the letter she sent, making sure it held the correct tone and gave no room for imagination that we might be doing anything wrong.

But she didn’t let me read the note she sent to Cassie.

She scribbled something, folded it tight, and placed it in the envelope, licking it before I had a chance to spy.