Winnie had been right about Moshup’s blanket: a weave of birch and oak leaves in weathered shades of terra-cotta covered the ground. Lucy announced that the site encompassed less than a single acre, was officially the “Christiantown Woods Preserve and Indian Burial Ground,” and remained under tribal ownership.

Annie parked the Jeep off the narrow dirt road, grateful that she’d traded in her Lexus for something better suited to the terrain. When she’d first moved to the island, she’d replaced her Jimmy Choos with walking boots from L.L.Bean, and her Ann Taylor suits with flannel shirts. She hoped that eventually her former life would slide so far back in time that she’d no longer feel its sour breath on her neck.

She dropped her phone into her jeans pocket—a ritual she stuck to, especially when exploring off a beaten path, or in this case, off an ancient way.

Once outside, Annie noticed the quiet. It reminded her of when she’d been young, of when her small family had vacationed on the island, and she and her dad had explored the remote Menemsha Hills. They’d hiked alone; her mother had preferred the summer sounds of crashing surf and romping kids at South Beach in Edgartown. Annie’s dad, like Annie, preferred silence. She hadn’t, however, inherited the trait from him, as the Suttons—Bob and Ellen—had adopted her.

“There’s the chapel,” Lucy whispered, pointing to a small, ramshackle building. They treaded softly toward it, as if not wanting to disturb shadows of long-dead souls. Lucy unlatched a shuttered window, and they peeked inside.

“Thomas Mayhew Jr. gave this land back to the Wampanoags in the seventeenth century,” she said. “But it was only for the ones who converted to Christianity—which is why they called them ‘Praying Indians.’” Her tone remained hushed, her eyes wide. She pressed her face against the dusty glass. “This is a replica of the original chapel that burned down; the tribe replaced it in 1829. It only has a few pews and a small altar.”

After closing the shutter, she turned and started across the road. “The cemetery is at the top of the hill. No one’s allowed up there unless he or she is a tribal member.”

Annie followed. “We should have asked Winnie to come with us.”

They came to an opening in a split-rail fence. A large boulder sat there. A metal plaque with a moss-green patina was attached; an embossed message identified the spot as the head of the path to the “burying ground.”

“Lucy? Are you sure it’s okay to go up?” Annie did not like breaking rules, let alone on consecrated land.

“Nobody’s around. Besides, I’m two-percent Native American, remember?”