“I know, I know—it’s too hard,” the priest said impatiently. “Do it anyway.” And slammed shut the panel before Sam could even answer. Behind the lacquered wood, Sam could hear him murmuring in fast Latin. It must be the absolution and blessing, but the wood was too thick and he could not hear.

When he rose, his knees were stiff from kneeling so long. He cracked open the door. The church was empty—everybody had gone to watch the parade, he supposed. The priest had made him late. He hurried out the back way, furtive as a thief.

Gray Ellen spent the morning at the kitchen table poring over her students’ copybooks. Some of her initial enthusiasm had begun to fade, and she was already looking forward to Christmas vacation. There were too many distractions for these children. Some of them were hopeless at spelling—there were so many letters they didn’t pronounce, and they couldn’t be persuaded to write down what they didn’t say out loud. They looked on it as a kind of craziness. White teacher craziness.

Today had been proclaimed a holiday. She knew the reason, and it disgusted her, but she was grateful for a day to herself.

She sipped hot tea and watched out the open window as she worked. The breeze was riffling the boughs of the locust tree in the yard. The weather felt almost real today—brisk and refreshing.

When you’re raised in a place, she reflected, the landscape enters your body. The silvery look of a rolling Pennsylvania meadow in the morning, the feel of a stormy breeze on your bare cheek, how a warm day smells sweet or musky. The colors of housetops darkened by hovering banks of clouds. No matter where you lived your life, what lovely, exotic lands you visited, your body craved the landscape of your youth. Your eyes and ears measured everything else against it.

This morning, the clear opal sky cast the world in a clean, mellow light, deepening the colors of things, limning their edges precisely. It was a light she could feel on her skin, full of hope and anticipation. The light made her feel at home—almost.

Calliope Register materialized at the back screen door. “Hey, Gray,” she said, working hard to sound cheerful.

Gray Ellen sighed and closed the copybook. “Come on in. Have some tea?”

Callie came into the kitchen, so swollen with child she could hardly maneuver between the stove and the table. Her left eye was blackened, and proud flesh was rising on her cheek. Her right hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage.

“Let’s go onto the porch, where we can be comfortable,” Gray Ellen said.

She carried a tea tray onto the front porch, and Callie backed into the chair next to hers. “Thank you, dear. I swear to God, this baby is swishing back and forth inside me like a tub of laundry.”

Babies again. “Is it all right? Did anything—?”

“Farley came back last night. Maybe you heard him.”