I was expecting to wake up dead or, more precisely, to open my eyes halfway, flutter them beneath long lashes made longer in the moment, moan a sweet, memorable tune, gasp, shudder and then die a beautiful death like the ladies do in the catch-a-beau magazines. Instead, I climb, alive, freezing cold, wet as an otter, with this dress sticking in the most unfortunate of places, and then tumble out of the mouth of the well with the sun in my eyes and the screams of schoolchildren piercing my ears.
There are children everywhere. A whole gaggle of them pointing, crying, squealing and screaming about how I’m the witch in the well come to drag them to hell just like the preacher said would happen. They are sure. They saw the tips of my blue fingers clutch the lip of the well, my dirty nails digging into stone, my muscled arms poking through ripped no-longer-puffed-up sleeves hauling the rest of my body, my hair coarse, matted to my head like a cap, and my feet shoeless, naked except for the mud sticking my toes together. They are so certain—would swear on the Bible if only someone would get them one—that my first words—even though they could hardly understand the way that I talk—were “Would you please shut up!” but of course nobody believes them.
The adults come running out of the church to see what the fuss is about and why the children aren’t practicing hymns like they’ve been set to do and who is this brown-skinned woman on the playground and why is she soaking wet when the sun is hotter than it’s been in days and oh my goodness, what have they done? The children try to explain but no one is interested. They are red-faced and upset and though they use words the wrong way around they speak the same way as the adults do, only the adults seem not to speak child and the children seem not to be able to speak adult. I translate as best as I can.
We are all speaking the same language, though theirs has a sort of melody, a lilt I’ve not heard before, so that when they say one thing, they seem to mean another. The men decide, with no help from me, that I’ve stowed away on one of their carts and traveled from the castle to their village because hadn’t they warned the women that nothing good comes from beyond the village? I’m proof that only men should be allowed to travel and even then, only merchants and traders. They decide, again with no help from me, that whichever of them can prove I’ve stowed away with them can have me as a wife.
The women circle me, form a wall between the men and me. “That’s not how things are done here, Samuel Klegg!” a woman interrupts.
Samuel squares up to her, hands balled into fists. “You would deny me?” he asks. His chest is puffed up, stressing the buttons of his shirt. It makes him look large before her.
“I would deny you again and again,” she says.
A gentle breeze stirs, scattering leaves across the playground. In front of me the women are tense; behind me the men are too. “God Save the Queen!” someone shouts.
“God Save the Queen!” they all reply.
I’ve never seen a queen. There’s not one in Curdle Creek. If there had been, Rumor, vain as she is, would be first in line to overthrow her. If she can save them, maybe this queen can save me too.
The crowd seems to breathe again, to settle down and remember that their children are still watching and that they are, if not on holy ground, near it.
“I’ll go back the way I came,” I say.
They all turn to face me. They speak at once. I’m not a burden and shouldn’t talk such foolishness. I’m here to stay, sent by the heavens, a blessing. The preachers are called for. The Protestant one arrives first since we are, he reminds us, on church grounds and if there are any blessings to be had, he’ll be the first to receive them. The other Protestant preacher comes next. His church was built second. Not as an afterthought, he says, but to assure redemption. It’s a small town but there’s more than enough sin to go around. They both laugh.
The churches are across the street from each other like arguing siblings. They are the same height, the same somber red brick. They share ground for carts, wagons, stables for horses. They share the same playground and sometimes the same congregation. They do not share a bell. The first church has an old bell, borrowed from Lancaster Castle and not yet returned. It’s silver, thick and tall, snug in the steeple that is two hundred steps above the chapel. The second church has a larger steeple but a smaller, bronze bell. The old church sends a boy to ring my welcome. The second one, being more progressive, sets a maiden to the task. Once settled in, the boy rings a loud, raucous melody. The girl, not too far behind, rings back an equally offensive bell reply. They do this for hours.
They are still ring-replying when the rain comes. Instead of going into the church to stay dry and get warm, the congregations decide this is a sign that I must be cleansed first. The rain’s doing a good job of washing away the mud and I wish that was the dirt they’re talking about. The choirs are gathered. They sing praises for the glorious rain falling in plenty on the town of Evanshire, for the bountiful harvest, for heavenly mercy, and for me. They open their mouths wide in praise, swallowing rainwater a capella. It’s a feel-good song; it makes them feel good about anything they’ve done before now and anything they might do after. I’m humming along when they drag out the tub. It’s little more than a bathtub really but both preachers bless it as though both it and the water the deacons have pumped from the well are holy. I’ve already been baptized so I’m thinking, Fine, dunk my head under water, say the blessings, do the symbol, let me up so I can see what sort of place this is and how long I want to be here. By now the dress is starting to itch all over, and I’d like to get out of it. The women are all dressed in smart frocks, the men in overalls, the children in school uniforms. Only the choir in their thick, brightly colored robes, drenched and flinging water each time they swing their arms in hallelujah, are as overdressed as me.
I’m lifted, hands placed modestly if not too tightly around my waist, while the preachers take turns praying over me. I’m not really moving and can’t weigh but so much, but the man holding me buckles under the weight of the blessings and another takes me in his arms. I’m passed around the men, getting closer and closer to the tub before one of them just dumps me in, preachers mid-prayer. The job done, they rush to bless me in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost and I’m christened Estelle, which they say sounds close enough to Osira but holier. My soul cleansed, the choir breaks out in song as the congregations, their children behind them, run to seek shelter in the churches from whence they came.
I don’t know which to go into so I let the music guide me to the canal. I’m sitting beneath the bridge, the occasional drip, drip keeping me company, scooched back to feel the cool stone against my skin. The rain’s coming down harder. By morning the canal will be flooded. May your banks overfloweth. For a place that don’t seem to have no Moving On to speak of, the people seem quite normal so far. They aren’t running around at war, setting fire to folks, swearing or anything the Books warn places like this are like.
There’s too much damp to sleep and the smells of thick air, wet grass and fresh dung won’t let me settle here for long. The people have been kind so far, but there’s no sense in planning on staying. I need to find the children. I’ll get to the main road, head to the castle, take a peek, and—plunk. A stone plops near my feet. It’s followed by another one, and another one. A shiver runs through me. My heart beats loud enough to march to. My body tenses. I am ready to run or dive into the water thick with soot and waste. I look up and there right in front of me, a hand full of stones, is Romulus, my dear sweet brother Romulus.
I’m up before I think about it, reaching for his elbows to greet him. It’s been so long. He shoves the stones in his pocket, gives me a two-arm-wraparound hug.
“Is this allowed here?” I ask. Just because nobody mentioned rules, doesn’t mean this place doesn’t have any.
“Don’t be silly,” he says. “Curdle Creek is so backward. I can’t believe you’re here!”
“I’m so happy to see you,” I say. That I’m happy to see him alive goes without saying. I’m breaking an ordinance and it feels good to do it. Nothing good comes from declaring feelings like this. “How long have you been here? How did you even get here?” I’m asking all my questions at once in case, just like home, you have to get them all out at the same time and let the listener choose what to tell and what to keep for later.
Romulus looks down into the murky canal water. “I couldn’t stay there after what they did to Remus.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t do nothing to help,” I whisper. I drop to my knees.
“Get up!” he hisses. “We don’t do that here.” He winks. “You can apologize later.”
“How did you know I was here?” we ask at the same time. He sounds just like Mother. Just like her, he’s vain enough to believe I set off to find him on purpose. He’s just the type to think I had followed some sort of trail to end up here. He might have been wondering if the town had forgotten all about him—or worried that they hadn’t. He surely would have known I’d have had to give up on my dreams of being a Charter Mother. That there would be a price for him slipping out of town and that, as the oldest one left, I’d be the one to pay it.
“Is Remus here too?” I say, without much hope. I picture him with a scar the size and shape of the rock I hit him with.
“He didn’t make it,” Romulus says. He turns toward the water. “Just couldn’t do it. I came alone.”
Of course not. It must have killed him to have been Moved On by his own sister. The wailing starts from deep inside. It’s a rumble that rattles me. I’m trembling. It comes out like a siren, a loud wrahhhh!—and then there’s silence as Romulus clamps his fingers over my mouth. His fingers vibrate against my lips until the wail quiets.
“It wasn’t you that done it. Curdle Creek killed my brother.”
CHURCH is over by the time we head back. The congregations are gone. We walk by the well. I don’t mention how I got here. Romulus doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a thing about how he got here either. I don’t ask. Neither of us talks about the well or the stones hidden inside my dress.
For the whole summer, while everyone is pairing up, I’m set to work helping Romulus at the shop. He inherited it like a welcome gift from the previous owner though they’d never met. That’s what Romulus likes about this place. Anyone can step right into a waiting spot.
I don’t plan to be here for long. I’m not one of them and I don’t plan on staying here long enough to become one of them either. I keep this to myself. I don’t want to ruin it for Romulus and besides, no one appreciates a moping Margaret, according to Margaret, Romulus’s inherited wife. Margaret’s always smiling. Even if there was no reason on God’s green earth and no one left alive to see it, she’d be smiling and grinning in that unsettling I’ve got a secret way that makes people want to cross the street when they see her. Margaret is my best friend, according to her.
I tighten the lids and line the jars up on the shelf by order of people’s favorites the way I’ve been told to do a hundred times and only do when she’s around. More people like peach so they’re in the front next to the apples, a village favorite, and in front of cherries, bilberries and rhubarb. With them all the way in the dark, they’ll be first to spoil. It’s just wasteful. “What difference does it make when no one’s going to want them anyway?” Romulus says. Only, I’m not to call him Romulus either. He’s Clement here. A new name, new wife, new job. He spends all day acting like it suits him just fine.
“I’m not being picky,” Margaret says between mouthfuls of cherry pie. “It’s just always been done this way.” With the fork catching the sunlight just so, it looks as if there’s dried blood in the corners of her mouth. Her plate’s streaked with leftover cherries. Now she’s dipping her fingernail in the juice, stripping the nail clean with her tongue.
Margaret sort of came with the shop. She’s been married to a line of grocers for as long as she can remember. What luck! She gets the first pick of any fabric, gadget, spice, sweet or stationery item that the shop stocks. It’s the least the village can do, given that she’s so unlucky in love. Five husbands at forty-five. Margaret’s a bit of a legend.
“All anyone’s talking about is pairing up,” I say. I shuffle jars around, hoping she’ll pick up the conversation. I clink them together, retwist already tight lids, read and reread labels. She eats, sucking the fork after each mouthful. “I’m the only one who doesn’t seem to have a match. Is that normal?” I ask finally. It’s just before the after-school rush, before we’re flooded with children hyped-up on the promise of penny candies, boiled sweets and “fresh-baked” chunked apple pie. The pies are made a batch at a time, weeks in advance. Half lies are good for business.
Margaret taps the fork against the side of her head as though it’s helping her think. “Have you been lighting the candles, Estelle?” I nod yes although I don’t know what candles she’s talking about and I know if I ask her she’ll unfold that damned card, take a pencil from the jar, lick the tip, and make another strike like she does each time I forget my place. I don’t know how many I have now or how many it takes. It’ll be in the Book of Estelle, of course it will. “Then you’ll still be mourning your Sampson, the love of your life. Won’t you?”
She scrapes the crumbs off the plate, lays the fork across it and covers them both with a cloth. The tip of the fork peeks out from beneath it, looking like Estelle in the coffin. Estelle died just before I got to town so I live in her place and work in the shop three days a week like she did. Thanks to her, I got a job and the regulars got fifty percent off fish-and-chips as long as they brought in the “You Can’t Take It with You” flyer with Estelle’s face taking up half a page and her coffin taking up the other half.
“You’re lucky you don’t need to worry about pairing up,” Margaret says. She shakes her head while she talks so that the words coming out of her mouth disagree with her. “You’ll always have Sampson in your heart.”
Sampson has been dead for five years now. Estelle is a perpetual widow. Margaret uncovers the fork, wipes the counter with the already stained cloth, leaving smears of fruit behind. “You were so lucky to have a love like Sampson’s. At least you don’t have to settle. There’s nothing worse than a long pairing with an old fool.” Margaret giggles. She’s only like this when Romulus isn’t around. He’ll be busy chopping candies in half to cheat the children, too preoccupied to fill his head with gossip when he can fill his pockets with coins. “It’ll work out for you. Just like it did for me and my Clems.”
“More pie?” It’s still warm. I wave the dish close to her nose to be sure she can smell the cinnamon and cherries. Even though she has another slice right in front of her, Margaret licks the plate like I knew she would. “How’d you get paired?”
I mean with my brother but, since Estelle didn’t have one, I don’t either, so I can’t say what I mean.
“At the funeral, silly. But, of course, you weren’t there.”
Estelle was busy dying so her page for this day is blank. Margaret’s up now, swishing back and forth pretending her shop apron is a fancy ball gown.
“When I woke up that morning, I didn’t expect to be burying my best friend and taking on a new husband.” She’s twirling around, humming and kick, ball, changing while she dances across the store so I’m not sure I heard her right. She cuts herself off for the jazz hand routine that I’m meant to do since Estelle has a good sense of humor. “One minute I’m mourning my friend and the next I’m stepping into the season as the new Mr. and Mrs. Clementine of Clementine’s and Clementine’s Shoppe Extraordinaire. Talk about luck.” She stops dancing, contorting her body into an awkward position before crossing her hands over her chest as though she’s in a coffin. “Death is such a blessing.”
The pie dish slips from my hand, and the china breaks and shatters. Cherries splatter all over my apron, my feet. They stain the hardwood floor. I don’t even notice I’m bleeding until Margaret hands me the dirty rag to clean myself up.
IT’S not that she’s bragging, Margaret explains the next morning at the church fence, it’s just I’m such a beautiful widow and I’m lucky I don’t have to worry about finding love since I already had my fill of it. I should be thankful not to have to endure the pairing. An unpaired woman doesn’t stand a chance, she says. She stares at the well for a moment. “Sorry, Estelle,” she says. “I don’t know what’s come over me.” She points to my pocket, clears her throat, then clears it again.
“It’s fine, really. Maybe you’re sickly. Fever will do that, don’t you think? Mess with the mind?”
I really don’t want to do this. She frowns, pursing her lips as though I’m letting her down. I reach in the skirt pocket, fish out a pencil, then the engraved notebook. I flip to a blank page and, pressing hard on the paper, I scribble the date, Margaret’s name, and the misdemeanor, just like Estelle did the day before she died.
We part at the playground. Margaret heads to the old church. I go to the new one. I don’t get to choose. Estelle’s run the Sunday school for decades so it falls to me to do it now. We’re in the Second Protestant Holier Trinity Children’s Center sucking on sweets I stole from the shop. The children are gathered around me, sitting cross-legged on the floor taking turns reading from The Goode Book for Goode Children. One book for their everything. We’re looking for a story to act out. Last week was “To Be Seen and Not Heard” and I’m not sure there’s one in here that can top it. But if we finish too early, it’s a sign of the wicked and I’d hate for the children to be punished for that again.
“This place is just like the one in the story you told us,” Elias says. He’s pointing at a page covered in bright red and orange squiggled lines.
I flip through stories of obedient children triumphing over disobedient adults and obedient children triumphing over disobedient children. A few pages later and I’m staring at Curdle Creek. At least, the way I told it to them. This place is called Hellshire. There’s a picture of a little town in the middle of a glen, right next to a bright-red flowing river and a well brimming with water. The whole place—the houses, school, even the bell-less church—are on fire while the townsfolk run around trying to put it out with empty buckets. We vote and agree to do this story. Since he found it, Elias is the lead. The children say I’m playing favorites and it isn’t fair but I give them all good parts and tell them we’ll all do the singing since there’s always singing and we don’t always do it. They pipe down and the play is cast.
He may be my inherited grandson but Elias makes a brilliant Town Father.
“As my first order of business,” Father Elias says, “I banish all rules!” His voice booms and he keeps his hands in his pockets to show he can’t be trusted. No one sees his hands until later, after he’s learned his lesson.
The adults, played by a chorus of children, sing a joyous tune about life without rules and laws, no governance to weigh them down. I clap my hands to help them keep time. There’s nothing worse than a bunch of off-key children singing high-pitched praise songs in a low key and no rhythm. Tobias, my other inherited grandchild, rushes in to tell the townspeople, who are all mid-sin, that there’s a fire at the edge of town. There’s a search song which ends with a beautiful solo about how far away the fire is and letting it burn itself out. The next song is fast and calls for a wide range of voices so the children all have a part in the singing. While one group chants about having no burdens, another sings warnings. The fire, played by the youngest in the class, gleefully sings and hums its way burning down the town and everyone in its path while the people sing round-robin style that the shire, the shire, the shire is on fire. The wail of the consumed is so touching it makes us all weep.
AFTER church, I put two pies in the oven, then go and make the rounds to the neighbors. Estelle was the town nurse too. It takes hours to doctor them all. Partly because there are so many ailments, partly because Estelle takes the long way everywhere, and mostly because I never could stand the sight of blood. Because she walked with a cane, I do too, but because they’re all watching I need to take as long as she did to reach the sick and shut-in.
I’m ushered into each house without needing to knock, offered a cup of cooling tea, and handed the patient’s card. I read Estelle’s meticulous notes and reread the diagnosis and treatment. Oil feet, a dose of castor oil. Pluck hairs, a dose of castor oil. Pop boils, a dose of castor oil. With the help of castor oil for them and a nip of gin for me, I pull teeth, set bones and cure fevers. I’ve never seen so much blood, pus and fluids. I check off the box “doctor the ill” on Estelle’s list. By the time I get back in, it’s cloudy and there’s a pile of washing at the door. It’s filled with the town’s dirty linen. Once a week, Estelle takes in the wash. Estelle’s diary is filled with pages and pages of chores, favors Estelle does to repay the town’s generosity.
My arms are filled with thanks—a basket full of dried meats Estelle doesn’t eat, vegetables she doesn’t like, herbs she’s allergic to, and hard-crusted breads she’s paid with instead of coins because she loves what she does and wouldn’t think of taking a coin for it—so, I push the basket of dirty clothes to the side. I doze off, and wake up to the sound of screaming. My inherited daughter has let herself in, started the wash, taken the pies out of the oven, put a steaming plate onto the table, and checked chores off my list. She’s my age, kneeling in front of me, shaking my shoulder softly and yelling, “Mum! Mum! Are you dead again?” Her voice cracks when she says it, like a person can die more than once and I’m living proof.
“I’m fine, sweet potato,” I say. I pepper sentences with food the way the Estelle character card calls for. After what feels like an overabundance of honeys and sweeties, Delilah helps me up so we can eat together as usual. She’s made my favorite, which must be mushed peas, mushed fish and mushed rice. It’s a slab of gray on the plate. Her plate is filled with roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes and green beans.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. She waves at her plate. “I just popped round to have supper with my favorite mum.”
Delilah calls me that all the time. She says she feels closer to me than she has in years, that we talk more and I listen more too. She hasn’t noticed it before now but maybe we’ve both changed.
I don’t look anything like Estelle. For one, I’m a good thirty years younger. I’m also Black, and the last one and the one before that weren’t. I imagine death changes people. Maybe burying Estelle made Delilah see how much she’d miss her and now’s her third chance to be the good firstborn. She’s nothing like my own free-spirited children but Delilah grows on me just the same.
“May I?” I ask.
I don’t really wait for her answer. Estelle doesn’t eat meat. Can’t stomach the thought of animal flesh across her lips according to the card. The roast’s so tender that I cut it with the fork. I scoop potatoes and beans up with the meat and slide it all into my mouth. I mmmmmm for a good minute just to see her eyes well up. She wraps her arms around herself and rocks side to side so much I’m worried she’ll fall out of the chair.
“You’re a wonderful cook,” I say.
My child cries like it’s the first compliment she’s ever been given and it’s just like Little Moses crying after one of his pet rabbits got eaten by a fox. I give her an entire pie to take home for my inherited grandchildren and the inherited son-in-law whose name I pretend to forget. I’m not trying to out-Estelle her but Estelle really could have taken a bit of time getting to know her own children. I’d give anything to be with mine. Delilah leaves, promising to come back earlier next week after church, and, although I really do like her, I hope not to be here long enough to make this a habit.
THE church bells ring for twenty-five minutes. The Holy Cacophony. I can almost see the bell ringers sweat soaked and red-faced trying to out-holy one another. It’ll be seven o’clock. Most of the town will be settling in, children finishing homework, parents arguing, making up, loving, depending on their schedules and their cards. Estelle’s schedule is filled with tallies, chores, reminders and meetings so I’ve been up since dawn. From the supper bell until now, I’ve dusted walls, plumped furniture, beaten rugs and washed windows. I’m sweating from scrubbing the cobblestone path in the garden. Every so often I dip the wire brush into the soapy water, clink the wood against the tin to hear the soft clang, clang, clang. Estelle rings the Monday morning bell. I’m practicing so the head ringer doesn’t give me another mark.
Although I’ve read the book and know what to expect, the high-pitched voice stops me mid-scrub. I let the brush drop from my hand. I jump up and, though I nearly slip on the wet stones, I’m at the gate to play the part of dutiful daughter-in-law.
“My Sampson would be alive if it weren’t for you!” my mother-in-law yells. Her voice is filled with tears, anger and hate.
Sampson was her one allotted birth. She had petitioned the town for years and only now that she’s close to a hundred do they seem close to yielding. Estelle voted against it just last winter. Sampson really is all Mother Sampson has.
She stares at the gate as if she hasn’t seen one before and is surprised to find herself on the other side of it. Estelle never latched the gate like I do.
“Do come inside for some tea.”
There’s no rule against it but Estelle never invited her inside either. I swoop my arms around her, rest her body against mine, and practically drag Mother Sampson inside, though I’m sure she doesn’t want to be in there any more than I want her to be. The candelabras are already in place so as soon as I shut the door I set about lighting them. I’ve added rose petals and vanilla pods to the wax. They smell good enough to drink. The room is warm from the fire, the candles and my mother-in-law’s glare but I change into the heavy mourning dress, though it drags when I walk and is two sizes too big like the rest of Estelle’s clothes. I fetch the tea on my way to the sitting room, place it before her chair, and then sit on the floor.
“I loved Sampson more than anything,” I begin. The more I recite Estelle’s memories, the closer to the truth it sounds. They really loved each other. That’s why there’s still meat in the icebox, his clothes are laid out, and I suffer visitations from his family. We’re all propped up by his ghost.
With my eyes closed like this, my fingers wrapped around his book, I can almost feel Sampson with us right now. His presence is warm, like sitting too close to the fireplace. It’s a comfort I haven’t known. Like, I can be myself, Osira not Estelle, and still be loved by Sampson whose name really was Sampson. He adored his mother, cherished Estelle. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for either of them even if he hadn’t written his own book, created his own card, been one of the original settlers. Sampson wanted so much for them to be a family that I want that too. I feel his words flowing through my body, touching my heart the way they did when I ripped open his book the first time. I had half expected it to burst into flames as the pastor had declared in his sermon “Thou Shalt Not.” Or to disappear like the people in the children’s play Read Today, Dead Tomorrow.
Sampson’s book is filled with drafts of rules sometimes written on the spot, in the middle of so-and-so doing such and such. He was spontaneous, my Sampson. Declaring and decreeing and overriding declarations and decrees sometimes on the same page. His book has been bound and unbound many times, new pages added to make room for new rules. It’s a wonder that the leather binding doesn’t burst or that the other Originals didn’t turn against him before now. Estelle loved him too; she wrote it daily, a schoolgirl writing lines, one hundred of them each night, until I will be a loving wife, I will be a loving wife, I will be a loving wife, became I am a loving wife, I am a loving wife, I am a loving wife.
Poor Estelle takes on the town’s burdens without thanks. If she minds keeping their secrets, she doesn’t speak about it. Unless that’s what killed her. It’s hard to tell who to trust in this place. Thankfully I have Romulus. When he’s him and I’m just me, we can talk like when we were kids. Better than when we were kids.
“I can’t believe Daddy ran off too. What’s going to happen to the girls?”
“Maybe they’ll leave one day too. I hope they do.”
“Do you mean that?” he asks.
“I’d hate for Mother to keep paying and repaying old debts but if they don’t leave that place they’ll end up killing each other.”
We can be deep in a field, surrounded by sheep and trees and Estelle? Estelle is that you? Someone always needs something. The whole town’s watching me. Always interrupting.
While I’m sitting here rocking and moaning, pressing the book—thick double stiches facing outward—against my breast, Mother Sampson reminds me how much Sampson gave up to be with me, how the only way to repay him is to be alone forever. That my reward will be to join Sampson in Heaven soon enough.
No one really took the time to get to know Estelle. Instead of a Mae or Jeremiah to confide in, she had Margaret. Sometimes, Margaret wishes Clem was dead too. If not dead, quiet, at least for a little while. She didn’t mean it really, she said. Still, that confession cost Margaret five marks. Estelle recorded it word for word in the section marked Testimony, a section so full I know not to trust even the pastors.
Even here I’ll be a widow until the day I die, and something about the glimmer in her eyes when she said “soon enough” lets me know that Mother Sampson doesn’t intend to make her son wait long for him and Estelle to be reunited. I’m crying real tears now. Curdle Creek, Evanshire—there’s no place in the whole wide world where I’m safe.
Mother Sampson sees herself out. As soon as she leaves, I cook his favorite dinner the way Estelle used to do each night, crack open a bottle of wine that I drink but do not like and make a plan to leave this place and find my children before it’s too late.