“Smart of you to start out where so many of us are ending up,” Mr. Peterson said.

Which apparently sat well with Larkin, who said, “Thank you for the honey.”

“Don’t thank me,” Mr. Peterson said. “It’s her honey now. Though why it merits a visit from the pair of you I do not know.”

“It’s for a good reason,” I said, heading off the porch and down the path, Larkin at my heels.

Next, we stopped at the Lockharts’, where Mrs. Lockhart said she did, indeed, have some honey but was also the most reluctant to part with it.

“What do you want it for?” she said.

Of all the families on Echo Mountain, the Lockharts were the ones we knew the least. They were farther away, where there was little reason for us to cross paths, and they seldom wanted to barter.

Larkin had said nothing about payment for the tea that Cate had given Mrs. Lockhart for her stomach problems, and I imagined that Mrs. Lockhart had given her nothing in exchange.

Just as she had given nothing in payment to my father when he had mended her feathered church hat, which was molting.

I was surprised, then, when she looked at me standing there on her porch and said, “Honey’s not free, you know.”

“I need it to heal something,” I said.

Larkin stood in the yard near the step to the porch and stared at the ground.

Mrs. Lockhart looked me up and down. “You seem to be in one piece,” she said. “And so does he. Is he some kin of yours?”

I almost said no, but I didn’t want to say that he was the grandson of the “witch” who had cursed her with a belly stone—though part of me wanted to put that notion to rest. And I felt the time ticking more quickly the longer we were away. So I said, “Yes, he is. Come to visit.”

“To help with your father?” she whispered.

I nodded. “So will you share some honey, Mrs. Lockhart?”

“It’s for him, isn’t it? Your father?” she said, somewhat softer now.

“For his bedsores,” I said, hoping that would turn the key.

But all she said was, “Share? No, I’ll not share. But I’ll sell.”

“For how much?” I said, as if I had money to spend.

“Five trout,” she said. “I hear you’re quite the fisher-girl.”

“Done,” I said, holding out my jar.

But she stepped back inside and said, “You’ll have my honey when I have the trout,” and closed the door in my face.

I stood on the porch, amazed beyond words.

“I told you,” Larkin said. “She’s one of them.”

“One of who?”

“One of them who decide they own something just so they can sell it.”