{"id":1192,"date":"2019-02-14T12:31:34","date_gmt":"2019-02-14T17:31:34","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1192"},"modified":"2020-06-01T09:07:13","modified_gmt":"2020-06-01T13:07:13","slug":"souls-cry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/souls-cry\/","title":{"rendered":"Soul\u2019s Cry"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Soul\u2019s Cry<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

by Cara Luecht<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The only thing worse than being alone is having him back.
<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione has everything she\u2019d wanted with her busy shop filled to the brim with sumptuous fabrics, gossiping debutants, and a neatly increasing profit margin. Not to mention the unexpected attention of a man who doesn\u2019t know her past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then the letter drops from the mail slot onto to lush carpet. He\u2019s back. And the abuse, the shame, rushes in, reminding her of how unworthy she really is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam also has everything she\u2019d wanted\u2014and with a baby on the way, for the first time in her life, she has everything to lose. When she\u2019d been alone, the future had held promise, but now with her life full, it also holds fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unwilling to risk a vision of loss, Miriam stops painting what will be\u2026right before Ione needs it most.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

June 1892<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nrain caught the commuters unprepared with its warm needle-like cascade. Men in\nsuits rushed by the empty dress shop, ducking into the doorway alcove for the\nfew seconds it took to shake out their newspapers, tent them over their hats,\nand dive back into the afternoon throng. Women watched from behind glass, not\nwilling to risk the dyed feathers and crushed velvet adorning their uptown\nhats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\nchecked the dime-sized watch she\u2019d pinned just below her shoulder and shook her\nhead. Nearly noon. The end of Saturday\u2019s short work day always surprised her.\nIf she flipped the closed sign now, she might miss a late arriving customer. If\nshe didn\u2019t, she risked a late arriving customer who wouldn\u2019t want to leave, and\nshe didn\u2019t want to skip dinner and an afternoon spent with her sisters at\nPastor Whitaker\u2019s house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So\nshe stood, undecided, with the white painted board hanging between her fingers.\nEven the scroll work on this simple, purposeful item was more than she\u2019d ever\nthought she would have. Ione glanced back to the stacks of fabric and the\ndusty-pink walls. Heavy curtains draped across the doorway to the fitting room\nwith the luxury and ripple of excess yardage. Cabinets with glass fronts lined\none side of the room, the contents gleaming in the sparkle of the electric\nchandeliers, and floor to ceiling gilt-framed mirrors leaned at strategic\nangles so ladies could examine their new gowns. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\nflipped the sign to read closed and turned off the light in the storefront\ndisplay window. This morning, like usual, she\u2019d started work in the dark. But\nwith the rain, the day had never brightened. She glanced back toward the wet\nstreet and the muffled, constant noise of steel-rimmed wheels against cobbles.\nAt least she was leaving before the streetlamps hissed to life. Ione unpinned\nher chatelaine from her waist and set it gently on the warm wood counter at the\nfar end of the shop. The set of tools were more like a valued piece of jewelry,\na gift from Miriam and Michael on the day her store opened under the simple\nname of Dressmaker. She spread the delicate chains apart, fingering the tiny\nscissors, the seam ripper, the cylinder that contained her best needles, and\nthe silver thimble with a single ruby tucked into the filigreed surface. She\nsmiled and opened the drawer under one of the glass cases that held samples of\nbeads and crystals and lace, and pulled out her mother\u2019s much simpler version\nof the piece Ione wore during the day. Her mother, also a seamstress, had died\nnearly a year past now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\npinned the plain chatelaine at her waist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nrain continued to fall, its staccato growing in intensity until it sounded like\nthe rush of applause. She remembered that sound. When she\u2019d sung. Before things\ngot bad and singing wasn\u2019t enough\u2014wasn\u2019t enough for him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Clarence.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

How\nlong had it been since she\u2019d thought of him? She chewed the inside of her\nbottom lip. Had it been a week yet? She forced her gaze to the small mirror\nnear the hat stand and concentrated on keeping the bile from rising. No reason\nexisted for him to enter her thoughts. Yet, still, he did. Raising a shaky hand\nto smooth her tight curls back into submission, Ione studied the play of\ncandlelight against her skin. Her mother had always said how lucky she was to\nhave skin so light. Not light enough to pass as white, of course. And dark\nenough to earn questioning looks from the women who had heard of her talents\nbut had not been told to expect a negro woman when they crossed the threshold\nof her shop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\nstartled. Something scraped against her door. The heavy rain clouds had\nshadowed the entrance, so Ione stood frozen, waiting, listening to the squeal\nof tiny metal hinges and the clank of the mail slot as it fell closed. On the\nother side of the window, the crowds still moved fast, still rushed to get\nhome, out of the rain, into the warmth of a fire and the comfort of supper. All\nexcept one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A\nboy, young, dressed in shabby, too-short trousers rushed out of the darkness,\ncrossing the street, his back to her and his face tilted toward the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d\ndropped something through her door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A\nwhite envelope, face down, glowed against the dark stain of the wood floors.\nIone bent and picked up the folded paper. It was wet on the corners but sealed\nwith wax stamped in a nondescript symbol borrowed from a business of some sort.\nShe hadn\u2019t seen it before. A payment from one of her ladies would have usually\ncome by messenger. She glanced out the window in a quick search for the boy.\nThe messengers for anyone she knew would have had a much better-dressed\nhousehold staff member to make runs to the part of town where women wore white\nand could expect their skirts to stay that way through an afternoon of\nshopping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nenvelope was soft. Ione slid her fingernail under the smooth edge and popped\nthe seal as she carried the unexpected delivery to the counter. An old kerosene\nlamp still burned, and the flickering yellow light permeated the folded paper.\nHeavy green stripes shone through. Ione paused, and then with cold, unfeeling\nfingers, she teased a scrap of silky fabric from the envelope. The small sample\nfluttered to the countertop. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\nstopped breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\ndidn\u2019t want to touch it. Didn\u2019t want anything to do with it. It was a cheap\npiece of her past, mocking her in this boutique, clattering out of her memory\ninto her reality, and reminding her she was a poor black woman in a rich white\nwoman\u2019s world, that she had come from nothing\u2014no, worse than nothing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\nlifted the glass off the lamp and took the fabric between her fingers. She\nneeded to burn it. Burn everything that had to do with her past. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A\nslip of paper slid out of the envelope and fell to the counter. Not everyone has forgotten who you really\nare.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\nsucked in a shallow breath, choked back a cry that rested somewhere between\ngasp and sob, and crumpled the sheet in her fist before lifting the frayed\ncorner to the open flame. It caught, the edge curling and turning from orange\nto fine black embers and then to white ash. Heat swelled and warmed her hand,\nand she wondered for a second or two what it would feel like to go that way.\nFor everything to be hot and then gone. Dropping the final burning corner of paper\ninto her empty teacup, she added the fabric to the consuming flame. Eventually,\nthe orange glow sputtered and died. Nothing remained to remind her of that\nhorrible year, but she still trembled in the wavering light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Extinguishing\nthe flame still flickering on the lamp, Ione paused, grabbed her shawl against\nthe sudden chill and her umbrella with its too-delicate lace edge\u2014it probably\ncost more than her mother had been able to make in her entire lifetime\u2014and\nclosed the door behind her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not\nbefore checking the street, though. And not before craning her neck to peer\ninto the windows of the apartments overhead, or to watch the dark corners\naround the alley entrances. She knew what waited there. Oh, how she knew. She\nremembered hunger and the kind of pain that men so easily inflicted. Suddenly,\nthe warmth of dinner with her sisters and the comfort of her little home above\nher shop felt miles away. It had been so tempting, so easy to forget. The\nmemories swooped back in, settled into the pit of her stomach. Like everything\nshe\u2019d accomplished had been a dream, and now she\u2019d been slapped awake in a dark\nroom and reminded who she really was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nrain had shifted into big, lazy drops that trailed down windows and collected\non the brims of hats. Still standing in the shelter of the doorway, she shrugged\nher shawl higher and adjusted the grip on her umbrella, lowering it to shield\nher face. She thought it had been over, that her new world was safe from her\npast, and that her secrets had left when he\u2019d disappeared. More than a year\nseparated her from her old life. Ione breathed out heavily, as if she could\nexpel him along with the air from her lungs. More than a year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\nshould know better. Nothing was ever that easy. She slipped the key to her\nstore into the lock and turned it, listening for the tumblers to drop,\nappreciating the secure mechanical sound of metal on metal. She bit back a\nmirthless chuckle. No. Things had gone too easily. She\u2019d made her way from\ndesperate to rich in less than the time it took most people to rip another year\noff the calendar. Of course, she had Miriam and Michael to thank for that, for\nthe opportunities, but it hadn\u2019t happened without her efforts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam\nand Michael. They couldn\u2019t know. Rather, they couldn\u2019t know the details. They\u2019d\nalways known what she\u2019d been\u2014that was hard to hide\u2014but they hadn\u2019t known much\nof anything about him. Much about the bad decisions she\u2019d made. Much about the\nfact that she\u2019d loved him, and she\u2019d followed him, given up everything to be\nwith him, and that how Miriam had found her\u2014broken, in the alley\u2014was the result\nof that ignorant, blind love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ione\nglanced down the street, her mind milking shapes from shadows, until her anger\nand fear stewed together into something that resembled resolve. But not the\nkind worn for all to see. More like the kind of resolve a jungle animal makes\nwhen they decide that they will not become prey. Not on this day. Ione stepped\nout of the shelter and onto the cobbles. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She\nglanced over her shoulder. How had he found her? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And\nwhere was he now?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Biting\ndown hard on her bottom lip, Ione breathed in the rain-fresh air and forced back\nhot tears. She\u2019d been a fool. Whether he watched her from the shadows now or\nnot, she wasn\u2019t alone.<\/p>\n\n\n