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“How do you know a fellow like that?” Lily asked. “I married him,” Hetty said.
“You didn’t have to come.” Hetty’s nails dug into her palm. “You chose to not turn back. Why come all this way? You didn’t even know my name when you set off.” “I knew you were doing something I didn’t have the courage to do.”
“I’m only following your example,” Penelope replied demurely. “Make a great show but never actually intend to shoot anyone.” “I’ll have you know I’ve always intended to shoot people,” Hetty said.
“I’ve mourned.” “You have not had even a spare moment to do so. They expect you to be strong, to not show a bit of weakness no matter what you’re going through.” Cora held Hetty’s gaze, the affection in her eyes softening what could have been stern words. “Don’t accept the burdens they cast onto you. They don’t take them on themselves for a reason.”
“It’s easy to be brave when you have someone you trust at your back,” Hetty replied. “But you do—you have me! He breaks your heart, I poison him, and we run off and join a traveling show. You’ll have to learn to take care of my plants, but you’re very bright and I’m sure you’ll pick up on things.”
“Friends,” Penelope concluded for Hetty, “they may stay in your life always, but there may come times for them to go separate ways.”
“You should know that if I were to kill somebody, I’d at least be a bit more subtle about it.” “Don’t make light of this,” Hetty protested. “A man is dead!” “And before he could tell me anything of value! This is so inconvenient.”
Instead she let the words wash over her, letting them become a jumble of many parts—which was what all stories really were. One long tale, to which those listening brought meaning and sense to their favorite parts.
