the words that had become so familiar to her: â Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young⦠â
Her throat tightened, and she paused. Living without Jacob made her life feel empty and incomplete, like a well gone dryâno longer useful, no longer worth anything. A wind stirred the brittle grass and the hair at her nape, drying the sweat from her vigorous walk and giving her a shivering chill. Again, she glanced over her shoulder, not from fear but hope. One day she would turn around and find him standing there, watching her, smiling at her. He would somehow come for her.
Oh, come, Jacob. Come back to me .
She didnât know how, but if it was possible, he would.
This was not something she could share with her closest friends or even Rachel or Mamm. She tucked her hopes and dreams inside her, buried them deep inside a crevice of her heart.
It was in this old cemetery where she felt most at home, finding comfort in the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browningâs poem, which Jacob had read to her, and she whispered the words to the night. â And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision, through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years⦠â
She laid aside the book and pulled the knife from her apron. She couldnât explain why she had brought it. Had the voice told her or was it her own heart? What was it for? She didnât know, but it felt good against the palm of her hand. The words flowed from her heart: â Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was âware, So weeping, how a mystic shape did move, Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I stroveâ â
Her voice broke and she laid the knifeâs blade flat against her wrist. She felt the cool metal and, with the slightest tilt, the bite of the blade. A bead of blood appeared on her white skin, but she felt no pain, no regrets, no fear.
Was death friend or foe? It had coupled her to Jacob, the solid ties wrapping around them, securing them together, holding them close when he had saved her from nearly drowning, and his bravery had easily won her love. But she had failed to save him in return, and death had separated them in its retribution, stolen their hopes and dreams of a future together. Did it now demand a sacrifice? Would her death bring their hearts once more back together?
This time, her voice stronger and bolder, she spoke the words of the poem: ââ Guess now who holds thee!âââDeath,â I said. But there The silver answer rang, âNot Death, but Love. ââ
Hannah.
Her hand stilled once more at the whisper of her name. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered. Was he calling her to come to him with one quick, bold slice of the knife? Or was he calling her to wait? She raised her head, tilted it, and listened for that voice again. The rustle of the remnant leaves in nearby trees was all she heard, except the heady beat of her own heart. Laying the blade flat against her wrist, she drew it through the blood, and a red stain smeared across her skin and along the tiny green vein running the length of her arm. She imagined her heart pumping, yearning for something forever lost. If she cut deeper, could her heart have its desire? Would she once again be with Jacob? Was that the only way? Was that why the voice called to her? Maybe he couldnât come to her. Maybe she had to go to him.
But something invisible stayed her hand, something she couldnât understand or explain, and she trembled with the force of the battle raging inside. Tears stung her eyes, burning with the acid of her trapped emotions.
â Not Death, but Love. â Pain choked off any more words. She squeezed her eyes closed, her hands shaking, and the knife fell to the ground. She grabbed