Grant took the reins. As they started up, he said, “He’ll be all right—man’s got a powerful anger to warm his heart tonight.”

The way he said it, she knew he was the one with the most powerful anger of all, the kind that burned a man up. Anger was not enough, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She was in no mood to argue, not here.

The buggy wound through the tree-tunneled lanes. Grant said softly, “And now I am going to take you somewhere.”

He drove down a twisting, rutted track hemmed in on both sides by thick foliage, trees growing so close together a grown man could not slip between them. After a time, he whispered, “Put out that lantern,” and she obeyed. It was raining harder—she could hear it pattering against the leaves, but the canopy was so overgrown that the rain reached them as a slow drip, then misted up into their bones from the wet forest floor.

The smell changed—an overwhelming odor of ferment and rot. The wheels of the buggy sank into the muddy road, and the horse had difficulty keeping her feet. The buggy slowed. Despite her coat, Gray Ellen was soaked through and shivering. Her face was coated with an oily, cold film—the rain, and whatever was in the air. The road turned into paste. The buggy wheels hissed along. The mare slopped one foot after the other, picking her way cautiously around ruts and holes. In the thick darkness, Gray Ellen could not see the horse anymore, but she could hear her plainly.

They were descending toward water, she could feel it. The air grew heavier. Over the steady patter of the rain, she heard bullfrogs and a shrieking night bird. An owl moaned in the trees. A rodent squealed.

“Please,” she whispered. “Let me light the lantern again.”

“Shh,” he said. Then, “Whoa, now. Whoa.” The buggy stopped.

“Where are we?”

He didn’t say anything. It was as if he wanted to spook her. He knew the value of a pause.

“Tell me where we are.”

“You always have to be talking?” His voice was so mean it frightened her.

“Take me back. Now.”

He sighed theatrically. “Teacher, you are going to have to learn patience. And faith.”

“I have plenty of faith.”

“Shoot. You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Take me back.”

He reached over in the dark and grabbed her shoulders. “Shush. Now listen.”

Too scared to do anything else, she listened hard. She heard the rain and the frogs. Then over the rain came another sound: voices. Human voices. Singing. She cocked her head to hear better. The incessant rain made it hard. The racket of frogs and insects disoriented her—she could not locate the direction of the singing.