“I don’t much care,” Deborah said, and Edna looked shocked. Gathering the tools they had used, they walked away toward the horse and buggy they had left in the lane that ran through the middle of the cemetery.

Because it was her buggy this time, Deborah put away their tools in the back box. She climbed into the driver’s seat and undid the reins she’d tied together and around the side railing of the seat. The horse twisted his neck to look at her, then faced front again, shaking his head.

Edna pulled her tired, heavy weight up into the seat beside Deborah and fumbled briefly for a bundle she had brought along and tucked under the seat. Finding a pint fruit jar, she unscrewed the top of it and shook it invitingly. “Some of our peach brandy Rooster put up last summer,” she said, holding it out. “Take a swallow or two. It helps against the cold.”

Deborah took the jar and drank from it, then wiped the rim with the heel of her palm and gave it back. “Oh, my.” She blinked watering eyes. “That does taste good.”

Edna nodded firmly. “I say we need it on these January trips. You try to pick a mild day, but it’s still winter, and deceptive.”

“We’re not as young as we used to be.”

“Do you feel the cold more?” Edna asked encouragingly. “I sure do.”

“Yes, I do.”

Edna drank from the jar, rested it on her knee a moment, then drank from it again before wiping the rim with the end of her shawl and handing it to Deborah. Deborah held it without drinking, then took a sip and followed it by a swallow.

“Keeps the cold out, that’s so,” Deborah observed sociably.

“I’m glad I brought it,” Edna said, as if she did not always bring a jar of something or other, summer or winter. “How is Selma nowadays? I didn’t see her all through Christmas at the various things.”

“She won’t go anywhere. Seldom even comes to meals with the rest of us.”

“Stays in her room?”

“Walks or stays in her room. Walks a lot, even bad weather. Comes home, bottom of her dress and cloak muddy, and her looking half frozen and not caring.”

“Walks—by herself?”

“No, no. There’s the—Lovey’s daughter.”

“Pauline?”

“Yes, Pauline. Devoted.”

Edna accepted the jar Deborah held out to her. “Don’t she mingle with Sarah and Leon even?”

“Not with Leon. She won’t let a man come near her, no white one, anyway; although she’s easy enough with Ezra and such. Sarah, yes. Not to mingle exactly but likes her. Lets her come sit in her room sometimes. Only Selma doesn’t seem to need her. Or need anyone, except Pauline maybe. That’s always been her way. You know, I’ve never blamed Bonard—“