Free The Hidden Blade by Sherry Thomas

“good” conduct; Mother, who could experience happiness only a few days at a time; even Herb, weighed down by the heaviness inherent in the Atwoods’ lives, the heaviness inherent in any kind of incarceration of the spirit.
    It was probably always going to fail, this precarious protection. But now it had fallen apart and exposed the inner workings of their household to Sir Curtis’s all-too-sharp gaze. How long would it be before he learned that Mother hadn’t been visiting some elderly relative? That Mother and Father had been quietly permitting, perhaps even encouraging, each other to embark on the kind of conduct that suggested Sodom and Gomorrah to Sir Curtis?
    Leighton had once thought Father’s fears exaggerated. No more. The kind of cruelty that could drive a grown man to take his own life…Did Mother understand her peril?
    Did any of them understand their peril?
    Leighton took the jade tablet from his nightstand drawer and smoothed his finger over a line of raised characters. As soon as he had left the scene of Father’s death the day before, he had gone to the library and taken the jade tablet from the display case. What Herb never said aloud but Leighton now understood was that it had been a present to mark Father and Herb’s love for each other, much as it—together with the tablet still in Herb’s hands—once celebrated Herb’s parents’ desire to spend their lives together.
    If Sir Curtis knew, he would confiscate the jade tablet, perhaps even destroy it.
    Leighton could see Father’s face so clearly, the first time he had shown the tablet to Leighton. The corners of his eyes had crinkled as he smiled at Herb.
Do you want to tell Leighton the legend?
    Leighton had loved those rare, glowing smiles. He had loved the long walks with Father to the railway station to meet Herb’s train, five miles of eager anticipation. And more than anything else, he had loved the sensation of closing the library door behind himself after he had said his good-nights, the safe, replete feeling of knowing that Herb would still be there in the morning and Father would still be happy.
    Two drops of liquid splashed onto the jade tablet. Leighton wiped them away with his fingers. Two more drops came. And two more.
    He tilted his face up to the coffered ceiling, the blue-and-white pattern a complete blur. Father was dead. He didn’t know where Herb was. Nor could he extract Mother from her unpleasant interview with Sir Curtis.
    He wrapped the jade tablet in a silk cloth, hid it more carefully, washed his face, then went to the nursery.
    “It’s a nice day,” he said to Marland’s nursemaid. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take my brother to the trout stream.”
    They could not keep Marland out of Sir Curtis’s sight forever. But they could for another day.
    Marland ran to Leighton and wrapped his arms around Leighton’s legs.
    Leighton lifted him up. “Come, Master Marland. Let’s go skip some rocks.”

    The fact that Father had died by his own hand was hushed up. The inquest returned a verdict of accidental death due to the unanticipated discharge of an antique firearm while being cleaned.
    The tale, as trumped up as it was, did not encounter much resistance—it was still less unlikely than suicide on the part of a man who seemed to have everything to live for, and who had appeared, in the days immediately preceding his untimely demise, to have been in the finest of both health and spirits.
    His funeral was thickly attended and many extravagant words were spoken about his kindness, his generosity, his devotion to his duties and his family. Leighton had been afraid he would cry, but he remained dry-eyed through the eulogies, as if they sang the praises of a complete stranger.
    When Leighton had been little, Father would secretly pass him a morsel of sweets on Sunday mornings, which would be Leighton’s to enjoy during the sermon, as long as he kept his enjoyment still and silent. The Sunday after