Glamorous Illusions by Lisa T. Bergren Page A

rub of the rough fabric against my skin, did I begin to breathe easier. After a moment’s hesitation, I dared to turn on my lamp. I listened intently, worried the light might draw a servant or my father. But no one came.
    I moved to the dressing table, wound my hair into a knot on top of my head, and hastily pinned it in place, not even checking the mirror to find out how well I had done.
    My mind was solely on my exit. Outside, in the air, I might catch a bit of a breeze, feel as if I could move freely, without being examined. I crept down the stairs, glad that the fine carpentry meant there were no creaking boards to betray my flight. At the bottom of the stairs, I looked one way and then the next. All the lights were out except for one by the front door. Were any servants even awake at this hour?
    Feeling every hair rise along my neck, I pushed forward, not looking back until I’d unlocked the door and turned the knob. Then, with one last glance around the huge foyer and empty stair, I slipped out of the house, quietly closing the door behind me. I didn’t pause, but scurried down the steps and the walk, wincing over the creaking wrought-iron gate that betrayed my escape. But I moved through it as quickly as I could and then down the walk as if it were completely common for a young woman at two in the morning.
    Oh, but the freedom! For the first time, I considered where I was. In the middle of one of Montana’s biggest cities. A shiver of daring rolled down my back. Even at this hour, I could hear touring cars and horses’ hooves a few streets over. The red-light district, I surmised, and turned in the opposite direction. I wasn’t such a bumpkin that I would allow myself to get caught in that sort of place. I made my way toward homes progressively much smaller and modest in scale than the Kensington mansion.
    More like my own house, the only home I’d ever known. Now owned by Wallace Kensington. It made me feel dirty, as if Mama and I had betrayed my father by selling it. How long might I have lasted, trying to run the farm on my own? Mr. Kensington had been right that we were lucky to make it through the winter every year. Would we have been forced to sell before Christmas anyway?
    I shook my head. It felt better to hold on to the anger. The resentment against the man listed on my birth certificate. At least my anger was mine. Something that Wallace Kensington could not take from me until I was ready to let it go.
    The neighborhood felt welcoming, even in the darkness. Less frightening than the mansions, because these houses seemed like homes where I might see Mama, feel her welcome me in a hug. Mama, Mama , I thought, my heart twisting in a braid of anger and sorrow. She’d been weak, weary, primed for Wallace to strike when he’d shown up at the farm. And this invitation—an escape route from the farm, hope for Mama and Papa, a way out for me—had shaken us back to life, partially. Out of our own sense of paralysis.
    I’ll give that to you, Mr. Kensington ,I said silently, begrudgingly.
    I climbed and climbed the steep street, liking the feel of the incline and the way my heart beat from the exertion rather than the constant fear I’d battled in the last days. At home, I’d spent hours hoeing the garden, hours milking, hours repairing shingles on the roof, hours chopping wood. Did the wealthy ever feel their hearts pound for anything but excitement?
    I reached the end of the street and looked left and right. The neighborhood gave way to a poorer district to my left, but there were finer houses to my right. Above me, I could hear shouts and machinery—sounds of the mines, working around the clock. It was odd to be in a place that was not quiet come dark; it felt vaguely unsettling, off. I couldn’t imagine spending the night working deep inside a mine, then sleeping the day away. It seemed unhealthy, not ever having time beneath the sun. Not that anything in