The Color of Love and Blood Chapter 3
April 23rd, 1907
A warm spring afternoon.
The town library was always cool in the spring, the stone walls still clinging to winter’s last breath. Built in the 1850s after the great fire that destroyed the original parish hall, it stood tall with arched windows and creaking wooden floors.
What Y/N loved most about it, though, was how empty and quiet it became this time of year. While other children played near the river and most girls her age laughed with friends in the town square, while the adults bustled about preparing for the early harvest, she sat alone, with only a book of poetry to keep her company.
She nestled beneath the largest window, sunlight slanting across her navy blue skirt. Her white blouse was neatly buttoned, the sleeves down to her wrists. A single barrette kept her hair from falling into her face as she read. In that moment, she felt at peace. As though the rest of the world could carry on without her, and she wouldn’t mind at all.
A pale book sat in her lap. Selected Poems by Christina Rossetti. The binding was worn, the pages soft with age, and she turned each one carefully. She respected books like her elders. Gentle and kind. As she turned the page and began reading.
While she was absorbed in her book, James had been searching for her for the better part of an hour. He had not seen her since spring break began four days prior. Though their time apart was brief, he felt an inexplicable urge to find her—to hear her voice again.
He had checked the riverbank, where the others were skipping stones and chatting. Of course, she was not there—he knew she preferred solitude. It was one of the many things about her that intrigued him. He searched behind the old mill, but found nothing. Then he remembered the place she loved most—the old library.
And there she was, tucked beneath the window.
For a moment, he stood in the doorway, watching her. His heart tugged with a strange but familiar feeling. He had been feeling this way for some time now when he thought of her—not unpleasant, but strange; oddly warm.
“You do know school’s out for three weeks. Surely you can set the book down for a while.”
Y/N didn't need to look up to see who it was. She knew all too well. But still she wanted to see his face.
"And do what? Stand idly while you and the boys chase the girls with frogs?"
"It's tradition," James said, chuckling, stepping closer.
"Tradition doesn't mean it's wise," she said with a grin.
"Speaking of tradition," he started pulling out something from his jacket pocket. It was wrapped in some tissue. He handed it to her.
She smiled, remembering what it was. A strawberry, from the first harvest of spring. James had always made a habit of bringing her the first strawberry from the batch.
"Now this is what you call a tradition," she said, unwrapping the fruit. "Thank you, James. You know these are my favorites."
"That’s why I always bring you one," he said softly, settling down across from her.
She bit into the strawberry, her lips stained faintly red from the juice. "Mmm," she murmured. "I don’t know how your family manages to make them sweeter every year."
"I'm glad you like them. Maybe I’ll bring you some more—if you’re nice to me today."
She rolled her eyes playfully. "I’ll think about it."
"Do you want a bite?" she asked, offering the fruit.
"Oh no, it’s all yours. We have plenty at home."
"Come on, James. You know I’m one to share."
He chuckled lightly. "Well, alright, if you insist."
He reached for it, but instead of handing it over, she brought the strawberry closer to his lips, offering to feed him. A faint blush colored his cheeks. He bit into the fruit, eyes meeting hers for just a moment. As he chewed on the berry, she lowered her hand back onto her book.
The soft, yellowed pages seemed to glow in the afternoon light.
“You wanted to see what I was reading, didn’t you?”
He nodded, eyes curious. “Yes. Rossetti, was it?”
She opened the book wider, turning to the page she’d been reading before he arrived. The poem was written in delicate italics.
“Here,” she said softly, tracing the lines with a finger.
James leaned over, peering at the page. The scent of old paper and ink filled the small space between them.
Without thinking, he reached to turn the page.
The worn binding protested with a soft snap, and a corner of the delicate page tore away.
Y/N’s breath caught. She stared down at the torn page, her hands hovering above it but not touching.
James immediately pulled back his hand, alarmed.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” he stammered.
She didn’t look at him. Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. “It was the only copy.”
“I’m so sorry, Y/N. Perhaps the librarian can repair it.”
She shook her head slowly. “It won’t be the same.”
The room felt suddenly colder.
James looked at her face, wishing he could undo the damage—not just to the book, but to the moment.
After a long pause, Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting his.
“I remember the poem,” she said softly.
He waited.
“When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree...”
She finished. Looking at him softly. "It was only a book, James. The words will live forever."
"I'm still sorry." He said faintly.
She breathed in, gently closing the book and turning her attention back to James.
If you truly feel sorry,” she said, lifting the book slightly in her hands, “you’ll read with me.”
James blinked. “Read with you?”
She offered him a small, warm smile. “Yes. You did interrupt me, after all.”
His lips tugged into a grin. “Well then, I suppose it’s only right.”
He moved to sit beside her now, their shoulders nearly touching beneath the tall arched window. She opened the book again—this time to a new page—and began reading aloud.
They'd take turns reading poems. Sharing glances and giggles for what felt like hours. Neither of them is moving an inch from the other.
They left only when the librarian gently informed them of closing time. James walked her halfway home, their conversation light and lingering.
April 24th, 1907
The next morning, Y/N was awoken the the birds chirping from the tree outside the window of her window. She stretched her limbs and then wrapped herself in her shawl.
She made her way down the stairs to check outside for mail like she did every morning.
But this time, something else caught her eye. Instead of mail sat a small, round basket lined with linen. It was full—brimming, in fact, with fresh strawberries. Their scent was unmistakable, sweet and bright.
Next to a basket was a green book. The Garden of Proserpine and Other Verses. The title read.
She blinked, surprised. She didn’t recognize the book—it wasn’t from the library, nor any shop she’d visited.
Pinned beneath the front cover was a single slip of paper, folded once. No grand message, no elaborate prose—just two words, handwritten in careful script:
From James.
She stood there for a moment. Both in shock and awe, her heart fluttering.
She lifted the basket, inhaled the scent of fruit and new paper, and smiled to herself as she bought the items inside.
He hadn’t needed to say more.
October 25th, 1909
The harvest market dance
The town square smelt of cider and firewood, the air cool and crisp. Strings of lanterns swaying above the crowds. Couples both young and old laughing as they danced together.
Y/N stood near the edge of the square, a cup of cider warming her hands, watching children chase each other through the hay bales. She liked watching it all—the bustle, the movement. But she rarely joined in. That's why she nearly dropped her cider when James appeared next to her and spoke.
"Hi."
She turned. He wasn't smiling, not at first. He looked like he’d been working up the nerve to speak. His hands shoved into his pockets, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His chestnut hair messy, despite his efforts to comb it earlier.
"Hello" she returned, surprised but not unkind.
"You uh you look nice" he complimented shyly, his hand scratching the back of his neck.
She blushed faintly. "Thank you, James. You clean up alright yourself."
He gave a huff of laughter, then blurted, “Are you here with anyone?”
She hesitated, blinking. “No. Just me.” She tilted her head. “Why?”
His gaze dropped to the ground. “I was… sort of looking for you, actually.”
That caught her off guard. “Me?”
He nodded once. “I mean—yeah. I was gonna ask if you maybe wanted to… you know. Dance.”
She blinked. “Dance?”
“I know, I know, it’s stupid,” he said quickly, looking away. “You don’t have to. I just thought—never mind.”
“James” she said, stopping him with a light hand to his sleeve. "Id love to dance with you."
He offered his hand—awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure which way to turn it—and she took it. They stepped into the open space, just to the edge of the crowd.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s alright,” she said, catching her balance. “We’re a bit hopeless.”
It was a slow reel at first, and they fumbled through the steps—he stepped too soon, she turned too late, and they nearly bumped heads trying to spin.
They both laughed.
But after a while, they found a rhythm. His hand rested lightly at her waist, their steps small and cautious but timed just enough.
She looked up at him once. He looked content.
"I think we've got the hung of this" she said chuckling.
"Yeah, we aren't to bad. Are we?" he replied with a smile. His hands gripped her waist a little tighter, confidently.
She began to speak again. "James, I-" she was cut off by a voice.
“James!” One of the older boys from school—Bernard Greaves—was striding toward them, a grin plastered on his face.
James stiffened up.
“There you are,” Thomas said. “We’re starting the sack races. Come on—we need you.”
James looked at Y/N, unsure. “I—”
“You promised, didn’t you?” Thomas clapped a hand on his shoulder, glancing at Y/N briefly. His expression shifted just enough—subtle, but noticeable.
James gave her a quiet look. “I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, her hands falling to her sides as he let go of her waist.
And then he was gone, pulled into the crowd with a laugh and a half-turn of apology.
Y/N stood alone as the music carried on, watching the dancers swirl in pairs around her.
Bernard slapped James on the shoulder as they headed toward the starting line for the sack race. Near the sack race starting line, Bernard nudged James hard in the ribs.
“So, you gonna tell me what’s going on with you and L/N?”
James shrugged, voice tight. “She’s just a friend. Always has been.”
“Friend, huh?” Bernard snorted. “Come off it. You’ve been mooning over her since we were kids.”
James didn’t respond.
“Look, all I’m saying is,” Bernard continued, “she’s grown up. She’s pretty, kind, not stuck-up like some girls. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
James’s stomach turned. “What do you mean?”
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “I mean, people are watching. Boys our age don’t just dance anymore—they court. They marry. You better figure out what she means to you before someone else does.”
James clenched his jaw. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“Not yet,” Bernard said with a smug smile.
The whistle blew, and the race began.
Y/N lingered at the edge of the square, sitting on a wooden crate, her fingers playing with the hem of her skirt. Her cider now lukewarm. Her heart felt heavy, and she didn’t understand why. Sure, she was a bit disappointed that James left her so suddenly, but she shouldn’t be this upset over it.
She hadn’t expected him to come back.
But she also hadn’t left.
“Hey,” came a voice beside her. Familiar. Warm. Confident.
It was Elias Monroe—a boy from church with a lazy grin and dimples that made the younger girls giggle. He was a good dancer. A better talker.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” he said.
She tilted her head. “Maybe I am.”
“Well, while you’re waiting…” He extended a hand. “Dance with me?”
She hesitated just a second too long—but nodded. “Alright.” She placed her hand on his.
This time, she moved easier, lighter. Elias was sure-footed and charming, spinning her gently between the other couples.
“Why were you sitting all alone? I’d think a pretty girl like you would be here with someone,” Elias said as he swayed her around.
“Oh… I was dancing with my friend earlier, but he went to the sack race.”
“He left? You? Is he crazy?” Elias laughed. “I’d never leave a girl like you alone for a second.”
She didn’t know what to say to that—so she didn’t. She only laughed when he twirled her too dramatically, and she nearly toppled into a stack of squash.
Meanwhile—just beyond the square—James returned.
He had run the race. He had smiled. He had even laughed, because that’s what everyone expected. But as soon as he could, he slipped away from Bernard and the others.
He scanned the crowd.
She wasn’t where he’d left her.
Then he saw her.
Her skirt caught the light as it spun around her knees. She looked—
Beautiful.
She was dancing but not with him.
The air in his lungs felt sharp.
He stood there for a while, unnoticed. His hands in his coat pockets, one boot scuffing at the dirt.
He could’ve walked back. Stepped forward. Waited nearby. Said something.
But the longer he stood there, the more foolish it felt. She had already moved on from the moment they’d shared. Maybe it hadn’t meant as much to her as it had to him.
He looked down once, jaw tightening.
“I shouldn’t have left,” he muttered under his breath. “Idiot.”
He turned and walked home, the sound of music echoing faintly behind him.
June 30th, 1905
“Not until the linens are done, Y/N. And I mean it.” Her mother’s voice rang out from the porch, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a damp apron clinging to her front.
Y/N stood at the bottom step, barefoot in the grass, face tilted toward the sun. The river was calling to her. She could hear it past the treeline.
“But Mama,” she pleaded, hopping from one foot to the other, “James said he’d help me carry the basket down, and I swear I won’t take long. Just the white sheets and the pillowcases—I’ll scrub them myself.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow, not looking convinced.
“Please?” Y/N added, hands clasped, doing her best not to sound whiny. “The sun’ll dry them faster if I hang them down by the water, anyway.”
That earned a small sigh. Her mother wiped her hands on her apron, then pointed to the back door.
“Only if you actually wash them. And if you come back before supper. No games, no wading, and don’t you dare come home with muddy hems again, do you hear me?”
“I do,” Y/N said brightly, already halfway to the basket of linens.
Five minutes later, James met her at the edge of the yard, an apple in one hand, freckles dusted across his nose.
“You ready?” he asked, glancing at the basket that looked nearly as big as she was.
“I convinced her,” Y/N said proudly. “But we have to do it properly. No playing.”
James made a face. “That’s boring.”
She grinned. “We can play after.”
The path to the river was warm under their feet, the grass dry and flattened from years of use. Bees buzzed in the trees, and the air smelled like wild mint and sun-warmed earth.
They reached the river bend where the bank sloped gently and the water moved slow and clear.
“This thing weighs a ton. What’d your ma pack in here, rocks?”
Y/N huffed. “It’s just sheets. You're not that strong.”
"Jeez my arms are getting sore." he complained.
"Here, ill carry them." she said reaching for the basket.
"N-no I've got them, plus my dad always tells me the carry stuff for girls" he said proudly.
“I'm stronger than you anyways,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes and stepping to the edge.
She rolled her eyes.
"You can put them down now, we've made it." she told him.
“You better not fall in again.”
“That was once,” James shot back. “And you laughed.”
“I did laugh.” She knelt and pulled out a sheet, spreading it over the flat rocks like her mother had taught her. “You screamed like a little girl.”
They worked mostly in silence for a while—Y/N scrubbing the pillowcases against the washboard, James helping wring them out and laying them over branches or clean stones to dry. Occasionally he splashed the water a little too close and got a glare for it.
“You’re not even scrubbing right,” Y/N said, watching him fumble with a corner of a pillowcase. “You’re just rubbing it in circles. That’s not how Mama does it.”
James gave her a look. “Maybe your mama’s got it all wrong.”
“She doesn’t.”
“You sure?”
Y/N smacked him with a damp sheet.
James laughed—really laughed, loud and unbothered—and in the next instant he lunged forward and splashed water in her direction.
“James!” she shrieked, leaping back as her skirt caught the spray. “You said no wading!”
“I didn’t wade!” he said, grinning. “I splashed.”
Y/N crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
James shrugged, still barefoot, his hair curling a little in the humid air. “Yeah, but you’d be bored without me.”
“Maybe,” she said.
They finished the last sheet together, both of them kneeling at the edge of the river, hands brushing now and then as they rinsed the cloth. Neither of them mentioned it.
When they stood, stretching their backs and wiping their hands on their clothes, the linens hung like white flags along the riverbank, swaying in the breeze.
“I think we did a good job,” Y/N said.
James glanced at her, quieter now. “Yeah. Me too.”
For a moment they laid in the grass together, the sounds of the river and rustling laundry filling the silence.
James plucked a dandelion and twirled the stem between his fingers. “When I’m older, I’m gonna live in a big house by the sea. With a horse. And no chores.”
Y/N sat up, brushing grass off her skirt. “Horses need chores too.”
He made a face. “Not mine. Mine’ll be the cleanest horse in the world.”
She rolled her eyes, but smiled.
A moment passed.
James glanced at her, more serious this time. “If I did live by the sea… would you visit?”
Y/N blinked. “Of course I would.”
He didn’t say anything after that.
They didn’t talk much on the way home, but she remembered the lightness in her chest—how rare it was to be alone like that, the river between them and the rest of the world.
January 10th, 1911
The village laid quiet beneath a fresh layer of snow. Y/N walked briskly along the frozen path to school, her boots crunching through the untouched powder. The sky gray, and her breath puffed out in little clouds.
James spotted her from a distance, her figure wrapped in a worn coat, moving steadily but alone.
“Y/N! Wait up!” he called out, voice cracking slightly in the cold.
She paused, turning back with a small smile, watching as he hurried toward her.
James jogged, slipping once on the ice but catching himself before a fall.
“Be careful!” Y/N called, her breath warm in the chilly air.
“Almost didn’t make it!” he panted, catching up at last.
They fell into step together, the quiet crunch of snow beneath their boots the only sound for a moment.
“So... you’re really up early,” James said, glancing sideways.
“I have to be,” she replied, pulling her coat tighter. “Mother’s counting on me to finish chores before school.”
James frowned slightly. “You don’t look well. Is she—?”
Y/N shook her head. “No, no. Just tired. It’s nothing.”
He studied her for a moment, concern in his eyes. “You should take it easy. Don’t work yourself to the bone.”
She gave a small, tired smile. “Easier said than done.”
James looked down and noticed the bare skin of her neck, pale and shivering in the cold air.
“You’re shivering,” he said softly.
She glanced down, cheeks flushing. “I... forgot my scarf.”
Before she could protest, James pulled his own thick wool scarf from his coat.
“Here. You’ll catch your death out here.”
He wrapped it gently around her neck, his fingers brushing her cheek for a moment longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” she whispered, with both her skin and heart warming up.
James hesitated, then smiled. “Guess I’m glad I caught you before you froze.”
She laughed softly. “You’re a little late, but better than never.”
They walked on together, the cold less severe now, the silence between them comfortable.
“So,” James began, “what’s your plan after school today? Any mischief?”
Y/N shook her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “Not if I want to keep Mother happy. Though I might sneak out for a bit once my homework is done.”
James grinned. “Well, if you do, let me know. I’m usually around.”
She smiled, her breath visible in the frosty air. “I will. Maybe we can find some trouble together.”
James looked at her, heart catching. “I’d like that.”
End of chapter 3