A Kind of Grief Read Online Free Page B

Most of all, I’m interested in your art.”
    No answer.
    â€œI know how it feels to be persecuted for being different.” Joanne’s voice dropped, her gaze concentrating on the drawing of the bird skeleton; even the bare bones held within them the knowledge of flight.
    Alice noticed how her visitor faded into herself when she spoke. How her eyes would widen, soften, as she asked a question. How her head angled imperceptibly as she waited for an answer. A good interrogator, was Alice’s summation. “Ah. The trial. So you understand. I can see you have spirit. And intelligence. Not a good idea for a woman to show intelligence hereabouts.” She smiled.
    And when Alice Ramsay smiled, a different woman appeared—as different as the shadows of light and sun in the shire of Sutherland, the place where she had hoped to remain, anonymous, unremarked upon. Until the gossip and accusations and exposure in newspapers threatened everything she had dreamed of, worked for, and almost achieved. What was worse for Alice, fear had returned.
    â€œMrs. Ross . . .”
    â€œJoanne.”
    â€œJoanne, the past months have been . . .” She was about to say stressful but knew it was anger that had consumed her through the police visits, the accusations, the solicitor’s advice to ignore the gossip, his underestimating the venom of her accusers. “I’m not interested in revisiting that debacle. And I certainly don’t want any more publicity.” Alice knew it was her own fault; in trying to be sympathetic, in attempting to help a woman who had tried every way to carry a child full-term. Then her kindness had been turned against her.
    â€œFair enough,” Joanne said. “It’s just that I had this idea for a story, and as this is where the last witch in Scotland was executed, I thought—”
    Alice burst out laughing. “And you thought you’d interview a real live witch!”
    â€œNo!” Joanne was burning in shame, from her face to the top of the V in her white blouse, down to her breasts, was how it felt. “No, I didn’t mean—”
    â€œHow homemade herbal teas and ointments can lead to accusations of witchcraft astonished me too. But I should have known; a branch of my family is from the Highlands.”
    Alice was riled. In the set of her face, the stiffness in her arms, her feet planted square on the floor, it was clear she was still hurting. “That poor old feeble-minded woman executed not far from here in 1728, yes, we have something in common. We were both condemned by nothing more than gossip. But I will survive. She, poor soul, was rolled in tar, put in a barrel, set alight, and burned to death.”
    They both shuddered.
    Joanne knew gossip could kill. Gossip, innuendo, jumping to conclusions, seeing what was not there to see, interpreting a word, a glance, an animal, an object, an artifact, even a change in the weather, in a malicious way; it all could be seen as signs of witchcraft.
    Alice looked at Joanne again. Sensing the combination of confidence and anxiety, she asked, “What is it you are really looking for?”
    â€œA story.” The moment she said it, Joanne knew she needed to continue. “I want to write something of worth. Something I can be proud of. I’ve written wee bits for the newspaper. I’ve had some stories published, just romance stuff, but I want to write . . .” Here she stopped. “You know.”
    â€œYes, I do know. Congratulations. You’ve had work published. Not easy, so don’t be hard on yourself. The more you search for your place in the world, the more elusive it becomes.” She stood. “My advice is, be content with the little things, and you will make progress.”
    Joanne recognized the farewell. “Thank you for talking to me.”
    â€œI’m sorry I can’t help you.” She knew won’t was more