Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Crisp morning air entered through the broken window. The cabin reeked of coppery blood, dry soil, and the nauseating aroma of cornmeal pudding.

His children sat at the squat wooden table. John leaned over his earthenware bowl, brown hair damp from where he'd splashed water on his face and scrubbed behind his ears. How many times had Ruth scolded the boy for forgetting the simple task?

Strange, that he should remember now.

When it hardly mattered.

When she was not here to inspect, nod her approval, pat his cheek with a satisfied smile.

"Papa?" For the hundredth time this morning, Mercy glanced about the cabin. Her eyes landed on him, wide, confused, this time with a gleam of tears. "Me go find her."

Simon swabbed deer tallow down the bore of his gun. He had cleaned it yesterday morning before he left for the settlement. No reason to clean it again, but he did anyway. Mayhap so he would not have to look at their faces.

"Papa, me—"

"I told you, child." Simon slid his gun to the table. "We left Mama by the oak tree. Remember?" In the predawn light and a chilled drizzle, Simon had led his children to the freshly dug mound.

Neither of them had cried.

They just stood there, staring at the colorful oak tree, the roots in the mud, the leather-tied cross at the head of the woman each of them needed.

"Me go get her." Mercy scrambled from her chair. She hurried to him, grabbed his hand, tugged at him with pudding stains on her face.

A throb attacked his throat. He shook his head, pulled her onto his lap. Soft blond curls brushed his chin, scented of lye soap and little child and…Ruth. Dear heavens, why did she smell of Ruth?

Both fists rubbed her eyes, and a tremor of tears shook her. "Me need to tell her something."

"Tell her what?"

"Baby is broke again." She pointed to where her corn husk doll lay beside the bowl of pudding, one arm snapped. "I need to tell her."

"I'll fix her." John stood. He reached across the table, snatched the doll, and handed it to his sister. "Mama showed me how before."

Mercy squeezed it to her chest. "Baby is crying and sad."

"Then take her outside and let her play." Simon eased the child back to her feet. "Go on with you now. Find a strong husk and John shall make it into the arm."

With a brightened face, Mercy nodded and raced for the door.

In her absence, the cabin silenced.

John still stood beside Simon's chair, his hands in his trouser pockets, his eyes waiting and watching and older than they had ever seemed before.

He understood the grave.

He understood yesterday.

He understood the man locked in the root cellar, the blood Simon had cleaned from his knife, and the torn shreds of blue dress they had burned before Mercy awoke.

Simon stood, seized his son, thumped his back and tried to swallow the tears. "Keep your sister away from the root cellar." The words escaped husky and raw, as he ripped from the hold and started for the door.

"Sir?"

He glanced back, cleared his throat.

"Where are you going?"

"To find out why this happened. To make certain it never happens again…to anyone." God help him from entering the root cellar and tearing apart the man inside.

Keeping his promise to Ruth may be harder to keep than he realized.

"If I live to be a hundred, I shall never understand why you come back here."

Georgina glanced out the carriage window, frosted glass blurring the neoclassical features of Sowerby House. Four red-bricked turrets rose from each corner of the stately home, shrouded in fog, and the entrance pea-gravel drive was flanked with massive stone urns.

A painting stung her mind.

One of a little boy, leaning against one of these same urns, in his yellow skeleton suit and his rich brown curls—

"Yet perhaps I do."

She snapped her attention back to her cousin. "Do what?"

"Understand why you come back here." The carriage pulled to a stop, and Agnes Simpson's tiny frame leaned forward. A few strands of limp brown curls fell around her face, escaped from the severe chignon, and though her features were still youthful for a woman eight and twenty, they possessed a distinct grimness.

Her keen look, however, was more motherly than anything else.

Georgina scowled. "You cannot be serious."

"I am entirely serious."

"You know she is ailing and miserable and still very much suffering from the loss of—"

"This is hardly about Mrs. Fancourt and her grievances." With a determined look, Agnes opened the carriage door. "Indeed, it is much more about yours."

"That is unfair." Georgina waited until the footman had handed down Agnes before she descended herself. The chill of the morning fog whipped through her red cloak, scented of smoke fumes and yesterday's rain. "You cannot fathom I still think of her son."

"I have never fathomed anything else."

"Agnes—"

"Please, dear." With a softening if not wearied smile, Agnes placed Georgina's arm in her own. They approached the house in stride. "Let us not quarrel. I shall speak of it no more, and if you wish to visit Mrs. Fancourt every day, I shall accompany you. There. Are you happy?"

Happy? The question speared her as the butler ushered them inside, removed their cloaks in the plaster-ceilinged anteroom, and led them to the drawing room in wait of a woman who had almost become her mother.

She tried not to think of such a thing.

She tried not to remember.

But the familiar vases, the floral scents, the look, the touch, the feel of everything in this house brought her back.

She had almost loved him.

As much as she longed to convince Agnes she had forgotten Simon Fancourt, she could not convince herself.

The cellar door thudded shut like a trap. The air was cold and heavy, tasting of moist earth, and the feeble rays of candlelight stretched into the blackness.

Simon hunkered over the body.

Friedrich Neale must have awoken sometime in the night. The cravat was ripped from his neck. Baskets were upset. Eggs smashed. Vegetables and fruits littered across the floor and partly ravished, as if the man had been torn between eating what he found and destroying it.

Now, he was curled in the fetal position, shirt agape enough that the distinct bones of his skeletal chest were visible.

"She shall pay." With his eyes closed, he thrashed his head to one side in unconscious hysteria. "I swear…she shall pay any price. Get me out of here."

Simon swiped his hand across the forehead. Clammy skin burned his fingertips. Fever. "Come. Wake up."

"No…get Mother." In a wild motion, he groped for Simon's coat. "She shall pay. Anything you wish. I swear it. Get me out of here. Mother, I did not mean to…I did not mean to kill them…I swear…"

Them? Simon ripped the hand away. He hoisted the man to a sitting position, pressed his back against a barrel. "I want to know what you are doing here."

"I am starving."

"Now—"

"I am cold. I am tired. I am tormented by the screams…why do they never cease to scream—"

"Stop it!" Simon seized the oily hair, pinned the man's head upright against the barrel. The foul breath, the urine-reeked clothes, surged vomit to the base of Simon's throat. "You killed my wife."

"I did not mean to."

"Why?"

"I did not mean to kill any of them…Mother…"

"Why?" Simon banged his head. Twice.

The jar seemed to penetrate the stupor, for the man's eyes slit open with panic. Recognition washed over him. His throat worked up and down. "Where am I?"

"The root cellar. You killed my wife. You knew my name. How?"

"The day the ship came…she was there…at the settlement." His eyes twitched. "She would not so much as speak to us…as if we were beggar rats. If she could have seen me then…back home…the manor…Mother…she would not have so disgraced me."

An acrid taste soured Simon's mouth. "You found out her name."

"Yes."

"You followed her."

"Yes."

"You came back and you killed her—"

"Yes, yes, yes!" With an unholy sound, Neale lunged himself out of Simon's grip. He overturned a basket, toppled onto the floor, sprang for the door.

Simon caught him by the hair and flung him back. He dove on top of him, pinned down the writhing shoulders with his knees.

"Get off of me." He flailed, screamed, spit in Simon's face. "You promised! You said I could be free if she paid…you said it would be over…no more prison. Get off of me!" His fist caught Simon's nose.

Warm blood pumped over his lips. He swung back.

Neale's body slackened. A gasp left his lips, and with hair strung into his face, he lifted dimming eyes to Simon. "If she could have seen me…back home…" The sentence faltered. His features froze. His gaze remained still and unblinking.

Simon dropped a finger to his neck.

No pulse.

Dead.

Of all the rooms in the town house, Georgina had known she would find Mamma here. The library was dim this time of evening, and the flickering wall sconces cast the endless shelves in a dull orange glow.

Georgina crept beside the chair.

Mamma stared into the hearth, her red curls disheveled from leaning into the chair. When she glanced at Georgina, her eyes were sleepy and her voice soft. "What a dull creature I am tonight. An entire evening with no guests at all. How shall we endure?"

Georgina pulled the velvet-buttoned stool next to the chair. She sat as close to Mamma as she could. She didn't know why. A nonsensical urge. As silly as the child who thought scampering into her mother's lap and burrowing her face in the sweet-scented dress would make all the fears of the world abandon her.

She wished they would.

"Mr. Waterhouse visited today. Did you notice the flowers in the drawing room window?"

Georgina recalled the wilting pink daffodils with a slight smile. "I did indeed."

"Quite pathetic, are they not? Poor Mr. Waterhouse. He does try so to be charming, but I fear he lacks the good sense and proper wit to be anything but tiresome."

"And Colonel Middleton?"

"Who?" Mamma yawned. "La, the colonel. I had quite forgotten. He was very amusing, but I fear he became far too cheery after three glasses of ratafia. I for one cannot tolerate a gentleman who does not imbibe well."

Georgina murmured a response. She leaned into Mamma's chair, the heat from the hearth and the sputtering noises working to unwind the tension this room inflicted.

She tried not to stare at the place.

The center of the room.

But even without looking, the nightmare rushed back at her, so vivid and startling that her heart sank with that same unbearable shock. Why did Mamma still come here? Why did any of them?

They should have stripped the shelves of their books. They should have burned the rug. They should have locked the door and never entered again.

But here they sat, the two of them, burdened with the tragedy known so well by these walls. Or was Mamma burdened? Did she return in sentimentality? Or did she hardly recall that day at all?

"Mamma." She warned herself against speaking, but the word came out breathless.

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever…" Courage fled. She cleared her throat. "Do you ever think of him?"

"Who?"

"Papa."

"Yes, of course I do."

"What do you think about?"

"Silly girl, what a question."

"Please tell me."

"Oh, very well." Mamma sighed and swung her foot back and forth under the chair. "I think of how odious he was for traveling. He could not bear a horse because it strained his back, he could not ride a carriage because it pounded his head, and he could not sail a ship because he cast up all his accounts." A slight, amused chuckle. "Poor man. He was quite content to remain at home and do nothing."

"He was happy at home. I remember that."

"Yes, but do not think only of his adverse side. He was a good man, despite his lack of adventure." Leaning up in her chair, Mamma stretched her arms. "La, how exhausted one gets from doing nothing all day. Does that not prove the importance of good company and laughter?" She reached down to adjust her slipper. "I do think I shall retire to bed now—"

"Do you ever think of that night?" The question ached from her throat.

As if sucked back into the memory, Mamma took one quick glance at the center of the room. She stiffened and cleared her throat, as if ridding herself of the past. "You would do well to go to bed too, I daresay. Here, you may finish my novel." She dropped her book into Georgina's lap. "It is most tedious anyway. Good night." At the doorway, Mamma paused and turned back. "Oh, and dear?"

"Yes?"

"I forgot to relate the news to you. My dear friend Sir Thomas Hawes has just written from Bath. He and his sister are taking the waters and have found them quite superb, and for the sake of my health, I have agreed to join them."

Georgina pressed the book to her chest. "But you have only just returned."

"I am sorry, dear. But you shall be quite entertained here, I am certain. With all the balls forthcoming, I imagine you shall not miss me at all." With nothing more than a quick smile and wave, Mamma quit the room.

Silence invaded with her absence.

Georgina stood, squeezed the book—then flung it across the room. It landed at the base of a window, pages falling open, as exposed to the world as her heart was to this room. Sadness choked her. I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.

The words came back again. The ones she'd heard the clergyman read from behind his three-decker pulpit at church. Never leave thee.

Perhaps the promise was true of God.

But it was certainly not true of anyone else.

"I'm sorry to hear the ill tidings, Mr. Fancourt."

Simon climbed the last step to the splintered porch of the Marwicktow trading post, Mercy's arms squeezing his neck. He nodded. "Blayney."

Grabbing his cane, the sun-weathered man rose from his bench, clad in fur-lined buckskins. He motioned toward the door. "Come in and I'll get you something warm to drink."

"We do not have long."

"It won't take long." Blayney swung open the door, then glanced back at the wagon and squinted against the afternoon sun. "More pelts?"

"Fox and beaver, mostly. One otter." Simon set Mercy to her feet. "John, start unloading them. Mercy, run along and help him."

"Papa, me come with you?" She latched on to his leg, as if she imagined losing sight of him would end in another mound beneath the oak tree. Her eyes were red, evidence of the nights she'd cried herself to sleep. How long had it been? A week? Two?

He patted her back, swallowing the knot fisting up his throat. "Go on."

Lips quivering, she lowered her head and ran back for the wagon.

Simon followed Blayney inside, the overwhelming odor of tanned leather, apple cider, and musty furs increasing his nausea. He found a seat on a wooden barrel next to the counter, while Blayney moved behind the bar and retrieved his strongbox.

"How many are there?"

"Eleven."

"Huh." Blayney dropped coins from a leather bag, then scooted them across the counter. "This oughta be enough."

"You haven't seen them yet."

"Don't need to."

"You might one day regret such trustful dealings."

"Not with you." Blayney grinned, thumped Simon on the shoulder—but just as quickly, the lines around his eyes deepened with gravity. "I found out what you wanted."

Simon's pulse thickened. "And?"

"First one was Friedrich Neale, like you had it. Second one Reginald Brownlow."

"They came on the ship."

"Three weeks ago today." Blayney snapped his strongbox shut. "Nineteen of them."

"Who are they?"

"The devil's children, seems."

Simon flattened both hands on the counter, heat searing the back of his neck. "Neale killed before. He told me."

Blayney grabbed a rag, swished it over already-spotless tankards.

"He spoke of prison."

Swish.

"And payment."

Swish.

"Blayney, you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"Then say something."

"Can't say anything that'll bring her back."

Simon stood from the barrel, clenching his fists as a wave of sickness roiled his stomach. "You know something."

"No more'n what I heard. What a body hears ain't always the truth." His unshaven face tightened, and his eyes turned cautious, like a deer at the snap of a forest twig. "Anyway, it don't matter either way. Things done can't be undone. Nothing we can do about—"

Simon reached across the counter and seized Blayney's buckskin coat. Seams ripped. "I want it straight, Blayney, and I want it now."

"Sir?"

Simon stiffened at the sound of his son's voice. Shame pricked him. He released the coat, drew in air, wiped sweat from his forehead, and prayed for calm. "Carry the pelts into the back room, John. Take your sister." When they didn't answer, Simon glanced back.

They both stood sagging in the log-framed doorway, arms loaded with furs, looking as lost and confused as Simon had been the first time he stepped foot on American soil.

Defeat speared through his confusion, his exhaustion, his grief—until it was the only thing that made sense to him. He had come here to make something of himself. To accomplish matters of worth and build something with his own hands. What good had he fulfilled?

In one day, everything had been destroyed.

Ruth was dead.

His children broken.

His life spiraling in so many directions he could not catch the pieces fast enough to keep them from escaping.

"See here, there's a slice of bread and molasses for the two of you, if you hurry to do your bidding." Blayney stepped back around the counter, readjusting his coat with a smile, though his cheeks were flushed.

The children nodded and scampered away.

Silence filled the room, as heavy as the burdens cloaking themselves around Simon's heart. He faced his friend, shoulders slumping. "Blayney, I—"

"Forget it. I've been mauled by a bear twice over. A little jostling now and then feels like a flea." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Two of the strangers from the ship were having rum in here four nights ago. They did some babbling. Things that didn't make a heap o' sense to me."

"Like what?"

"Like what a laugh it was that they was to be hanged the next morning back home."

"You think they are prisoners?"

"Possible." Blayney shrugged. "I've heard tell of the Crown sending convicts here to the colonies and selling them to servitude when they got here. Fact is, one o' the boys I had with me in Virginia was an indentured servant come from England. But this…" He scratched his head. "Don't know. Something different. These men strode off the ship without nary a chain, and if you ask me, there ain't no ragpickers or lace stealers 'mong the lot o' them."

"You think they were shipped over illegally."

"Don't know. Don't know how a body could find out either, or do anything 'bout it if he did. Not from overseas, that is."

The children returned, and when Blayney went to fetch the promised bread and molasses, Simon stepped back to the porch and raked his fingers through his hair. Afternoon sun burned his face. Nothing made sense. He had too many questions.

He needed answers.

"Made for pretty things." Ruth's words punctured him. He glanced at his hands, spread them open though they shook. "Promise me you will use them for pictures…not hurting…Simon…"

"Mr. Fancourt?"

Simon turned back to the doorway, glanced down at the wrinkled letter Blayney held out to him. "What is this?"

"'Twas in the last time you came, but I forgot to give it to you."

Simon took the letter and turned it over. Sunlight glistened off the smudged paper and elegant script. He drew in a breath.

Sowerby House?

Mamma was gone.

Georgina stared at the empty carriage—the damask fabric, the plush beige seats, the ruffled curtains and swaying tassels. Emptiness hollowed through her.

She tried to dismiss the sensation as easily as Mamma always dismissed her.

Yet she could not. She never could. The gloom settled over her, stifling and painful, and all the memories of that night in the library resurfaced with horrifying vividness. The strange stillness. The bloodless skin. Papa's horrifying shadow on the rug—

She shook her head against the thoughts. She must stop this at once. Perhaps if Agnes had not fallen ill today, her company might have been a distraction from the darkness. Would there ever come a day in Georgina's life when the memories did not haunt her? Would she ever be free of their hold?

The carriage pulled to a stop, and after patting her curls in place, Georgina alighted from the vehicle. The visit with Mrs. Fancourt would doubtless dismiss this despondency, at least for today. After all, how could one look upon a soul so lamented as Mrs. Fancourt's and not feel their own plight dim in comparison?

The woman had endured so much. After losing both sons, how could she bear to lose a husband too?

Mrs. Fancourt was as trapped in the darkness as Georgina.

"This is quite the surprise."

Hand leaping to her heart, Georgina whirled to the voice on her left.

Alexander Oswald fell in step beside her, scented of strong coffee and faint vanilla. "In truth, my landau has been behind your carriage for the past fifteen minutes. Imagine my delight when you turned to Sowerby House, as well."

She glanced behind them, where a stoic-faced driver readjusted the black hood. "I did not notice." She lifted the hem of her white muslin dress as they reached the stairs. "Pray, what are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of you."

She waited until they had been shown into the house, attended by the butler, then led into the drawing room and seated before answering. "I visit Mrs. Fancourt most every week."

Mr. Oswald scooted to the edge of his wingback chair. Amusement tugged one side of his lips. "Your mystery thickens."

"There is very little mystery, I fear, in calling upon a bereaved widow."

"That depends."

"On?"

"Who the widow is, for example." He glanced about the room. "And her relation, of course, to matters of the past."

"I fear I do not understand."

"I should think you would."

She stared at him, intertwining her fingers, an itch of discomfort stirring the desire to squirm. What was he about?

Mr. Oswald laughed. "You wear your heart on your face, Miss Whitmore. An attractive attribute, although I could have determined your thoughts regardless."

"You profess to read minds, sir?"

"Only those I find interesting." He stood from his chair, pulled a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, and strode to the white-marble mantel. "Allow me to apologize. You must find me peculiar." He lit the cigar. "I was referring, of course, to your former engagement to the youngest Fancourt son."

Strange, how even the mention of Simon Fancourt could cause heat to suffuse her cheeks. She glanced the other direction, willed her cheeks to cool, lest the intuitive Mr. Oswald discover more than she wished unearthed. "That was many years ago. I was but a child."

"Children, I have learned, are susceptible to the most passionate of emotions."

The mahogany drawing room door swung open, and the butler reappeared with a slight bow. "Mrs. Fancourt shall see you in her chamber today, Miss Whitmore."

She nodded and rose.

"Mr. Oswald, she most regrettably declines your visit, as she has not the strength to come down and see you. Perhaps another day."

He smiled around the cigar between his lips. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes flicker with constrained frustration? Or was it more than that? Perhaps anger?

"Do offer my sincere condolences," he said. "I am certain Mrs. Fancourt shall be much improved after such a lovely visitor." He bowed to Georgina, smiled again, then quit the drawing room before he could be shown out.

Georgina frowned as she followed the butler through the house, up the stairs, and through the east wing. What matters could possibly draw young Alexander Oswald to the quiet, sad splendor of Sowerby House?

She knew the rumors well enough.

He ignited romances with the same ease and disinterest as most men kindled their pipes. He was wealthy enough to make friends of all his acquaintances, yet distant enough that no one knew whether to trust his charm or heed his aura of wickedness.

He was driven. Intelligent. He possessed all the attributes of a reckless dandy, yet the determination and concentration of a somber-faced man of Parliament. What was she to think of his interest here?

Another thought struck her, more sobering. What was she to think of his interest in her ?

"In here, Miss Whitmore." The butler held open the door, and all puzzlements of Mr. Oswald were forced back as she entered the chamber.

Light streamed in through the sheer, lilac-and-blue curtains. The air smelled of sandalwood and linseed oil, an aroma as clean and pleasing as the woman sitting up in her four-poster bed. "My dear, I am so glad you have come. Do sit next to me."

Smiling, Georgina pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. She reached across the soft coverlet and grasped the fifty-some-year-old woman's veiny hand. "How are you, darling?"

"Not so terrible as before, I dare to say. I spent the morning on the pianoforte, but without the ability to read my sheets, I cannot seem to…" The sentence trailed into a sigh. Her skin was alabaster and smooth, her hair the same soft brown as Simon's had always been, and her cheeks the same touch of pink as before the accident.

Only her eyes were different.

They stared without seeing across the chamber, pale and lifeless, echoing all the torments of things forever lost.

Georgina squeezed with gentleness. "Never mind that. You shall remember the notes soon, I am certain."

"Will I?"

"Of course you shall."

"Is it not puzzling how one can wish to remember some things, and wish so much to forget others?" Mrs. Fancourt blinked hard. Her smile trembled. "I still fathom I hear Geoffrey's voice every morning when I awake. But then I reach for him…and he is not there. That is when I hear him scream."

"You must not think of the accident. It was too terrible."

"You are a dear girl." Mrs. Fancourt patted Georgina's hand. "Our Simon was a fool not to wed you."

There it was again. His name. Why could she not escape the dreaded sound? Why would no one allow her to forget? Or did she not allow herself?

Drawing back from the touch, Georgina leaned back in her chair, the sunlight from the windows tingling her skin. "Mrs. Fancourt, may I ask you something?"

"You may ask me anything. You know that."

"Are you so greatly acquainted with Alexander Oswald?"

"Oh, dear me." A sweet chuckle. "What a question. No, indeed. Although I knew his parents and attended a few dinner parties at Hollyvale Estate, I cannot own to knowing any of the children at all."

"Then why should Mr. Oswald call upon you?"

"He is an ambitious boy."

"But what could he—"

"Oh, never mind, my dear. Do not worry over such a trifle matter. In all truth, I do not wish to discuss it anyway. I fear I am much too fatigued."

"I am sorry." Georgina stood, bent over the older woman, and kissed her forehead. "I shall leave you to your rest then. I only wanted to see how you fared."

"God bless you for your kindness."

When she reached the doorway, Georgina pulled at the crystal knob, but Mrs. Fancourt called her name. Georgina glanced back. "Yes?"

The blinded eyes moistened, then tears hung on her lashes. "I do wish things had been different. How wonderful it might have been to have you for a daughter."

Her heart sank a little at the words.

How wonderful it would have been indeed.

One solitary candle burned from the center of the table. The light flickered, as if the draw from the fireplace coaxed it back and forth with a cool breath.

He never left on a light. 'Twould be out by morning anyway. A waste of wick and wax.

But Mercy had whispered her unwonted fear of the darkness into his ear, and despite knowing he shouldn't, he had relented.

Now they watched the flame burn, the three of them, from his bed.

The hanging quilt was gone.

John squeezed between the wall and Simon's back, while Mercy burrowed herself into his arms, her curls soft and messy against his bare arm.

"Me wish we had Mama." Her voice struck the quiet cabin with notes of despair.

Simon swallowed. "I wish we had her too."

"John cried."

"I did not!" The bed frame creaked when John leaned up. "I didn't, Mercy," he said softer, but an ache dulled his voice. "Not once."

"Me cried," she whispered. "Baby cried too." In testament to her words, hot tears slid onto his skin. They burned. Everything burned.

Lord, I cannot bear this. He wanted to take their pain. He wanted to bring Ruth back. He wanted to end Mercy's tears and squeeze John against him…and somehow chase away the suffocating stench of death in their home.

He wanted to tear down the cabin.

He wanted to chop down the oak tree.

He wanted to burn the inside of the root cellar, destroy every last thing those beasts had touched.

"Sir." John settled back into the pillows. His forehead touched Simon's back, and when he spoke, his breath was warm and uneven.

"Can we pray for her?"

"It is too late to pray, John."

"Why?"

"She is with God."

Silence. Then, "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I ran away when they came." His words caught. A muffled sound escaped.

Simon shifted toward him. "Son—"

Lunging upward, John scrambled through bed linens and crawled over legs, then darted for the loft ladder. He disappeared from the candle's reach.

Simon scooped Mercy up and carried her to the base of the ladder. She must have already fallen asleep, for her body was limp against him, and she conformed to the new position without so much as a sound.

"Son, I want you to listen to me." He stared up at the black loft and prayed to heaven his voice would remain strong. "What happened was not your fault. You did right to hide your sister."

Nothing.

"You hear me?"

Still nothing.

God? He carried Mercy back to his bed, tucked her inside the linens, walked to the table and dropped into one of the creaky chairs. Exhaustion weighted his soul. What do I do? The letter still remained beneath the candle. He slid it closer, spread it open, read the words for the hundredth time with stinging eyes.

In all these years, no one had ever beckoned him back.

Every letter had remained unanswered.

Now this.

He crumpled it in his fist and blew out the candle. Darkness fell. Perhaps, despite every warning within him, it was time to return home.

At least long enough to find out who was responsible for the death of his wife.