Amy moved. Her head turned a little, toward the boys, and she opened her one eye, slowly, so slowly, as though it was an effort equal to lifting the world. Her mouth twitched once and then she died.

27

Cover Her Face

THERE WAS NO TIME for delicacy. The men had brought Amy’s body down to the house and at my direction laid her on the table in my surgery. The day was hot and she was still very warm to the touch, but her body had a disconcerting inert heaviness, like a burlap bag filled with wet sand. Rigor would soon be separating her from the soft elasticity of life; I’d have to undress her before she got too stiff.

But first, I covered her face with a linen towel. There was time for that much delicacy, I thought. I was glad I’d taken the time, too, when I turned at the sound of a step on the threshold and saw Bree, still in her bloodstained hunting shirt, her face much whiter than the old sheet folded over her arm. I nodded at the counter behind me.

“Put that down and go sit with the children outside in the sun,” I said firmly. “They need someone to hold them. Where’s Roger?” She shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the table. Amy’s fichu had been pulled halfway out of her bodice and was hanging down, soaked with rapidly drying blood that left faint smears on the table. I pulled the cloth loose and dropped it into the bucket of cold water at my feet.

“Roger’s with Bobby,” she said, her voice colorless. “Fanny’s minding Mandy and the little boys for a minute. You—you’ll need help, won’t you? With—” She broke off and swallowed audibly, looking away.

“Someone will be here soon,” I said, and took a little comfort in the thought. I was familiar with death, but that didn’t mean I’d got used to it. “Your father sent Germain running for Young Ian; Rachel and Jenny will come down, too. And Jem’s gone for Gilly MacMillan. His wife will gather up the women who live along the creek.”

She nodded, seeming a little calmer, though her hands were still trembling, the folded sheet bunched between them.

“Why is Da sending for Mr. MacMillan?” she asked.

“He has two good hunting dogs,” I said evenly. “And a boar spear.”

“Holy Lord. He—they—they’re going to hunt the bear? Now?”

“Well, yes,” I said mildly. “Before it gets too far away. Where’s Aidan?” I added, realizing that she’d said “the little boys.” Aidan was twelve, but still qualified, in my book. “Did he go with Jem?”

“No,” she said, her voice sounding odd. “He’s with Da.”

AIDAN WAS WHITE as milk and he kept blinking his swollen red eyes, though he’d stopped greeting. He hadn’t stopped shaking. Jamie put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and could feel the tremble coming up from the earth through Aidan’s flesh.