The girl’s eyes light up as she digs into the pudding. She’s a good little eater and gives me only half her attention as she chews. “She played the clapping game with me. Me and my mamm and Rachel made soap once.”

“I bet that was fun.”

“She was so pretty and grown-up.” A wistful sigh. “She smelled good and she used to let me brush her hair.”

“I bet she had lots of friends.”

“Ja, but I was her best.”

I try again. “Who were her other friends?”

“Emma next door.” She lowers her voice and whispers in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Don’t tell, but Rachel told me Emma smells bad.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. “What about Marie Weaver?” I ask, recalling Suggs’s notes.

“I almost forgot about her. Rachel loved Marie.” The girl’s face scrunches up. “I always thought Marie was kind of mean, though.”

“Mean? How so?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs. “My mamm says Marie has a sharp tongue. And she’s always getting into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“She wears English clothes.” Again the girl lowers her voice to a whisper. “And she says bad words.”

“I bet her parents don’t like that.”

“Neither does the bishop.”

“The bishop? Really?”

She glances left and right and whispers, “Rachel told me he put Marie in the chicken coop.”

I almost don’t know what to say to that. “The chicken coop?”

For the first time, wariness enters her expression, as if she’s realized she’s talking about something she shouldn’t be talking about. Trying not to feel guilty for plying a kid with dessert, I add a small dollop of pudding to her cup.

“You mean to clean it?” I ask.

“No, he locked her in.”

“Why would he do that?”

Her eyes skate away from mine. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“You mean the chicken coop part? Or Rachel?”

She takes a big bite of pudding. “I dunno,” she says around the food.

I help myself to some of the pudding, let the silence ride for a moment. “How do you like the pudding?”

“It’s the best I ever had.” She stops mid chew. “Don’t tell my mamm I said that.”

A wave of affection rolls through me and I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. She’s so innocent and unsuspecting. The kind of girl a counterpart might confide in or speak freely before without the worry of repercussions. But does she know anything about Rachel Esh?

I glance over at Anna, who’s finished her pudding and is eyeing another cup. “Is the chicken coop for teenagers who’ve misbehaved? Or do bad chickens get put in there, too?” I ask with a grin.

The girl flashes a smile, then looks down, her shoulders curling in. “I dunno.”

Her reticence hints that there’s something there she doesn’t wish to discuss—or has been told not to. I don’t want to frighten her with too many questions, so I go to another topic. “Is Marie here today?”

Twisting in her chair, she points at a girl sitting alone at another table, eating a wedge of rhubarb pie. The instant Anna points, the girl glances our way, as if knowing she’s the topic of gossip. She gives Anna a withering glare and then her eyes slide to mine. She’s got auburn hair. Brown eyes alight with intelligence. A sprinkling of freckles on an aquiline nose. A full mouth that’s far too sensuous for a sixteen-year-old kid. She’s unusual looking and extraordinarily pretty. A troublesome combination, even if you’re Amish. Rolling her eyes in that universal annoyed-teenager way, she goes back to her pie.