I could not stop then, but roamed to the far edge of the wall marking the end of that cleared spot, then round the other side to the end once more. My eyes widened: Hadn’t I myself seen what the cook had told me? The woman in a white gown, frantically digging, tearing at the earth beneath her fingers, the silver spoon useless in that ground as a toothless jaw upon a hasher of meat—though still she dug, and dug, and made a little hole. But it could not be Miss Grange who would dig like that, like a mad animal in the dirt.

“How can you be so hateful about Nell Grange?” I gasped finally, turning round to Cook.

“Hateful?” she hissed. “Hateful!” She spun from me as if she could not bear the sight. For several long seconds, she remained still. Then she turned round fast as a snake uncoiled, her dreadful meaning clear upon her face and in her hands. For she had swooped and taken up the shovel. She plunged its thick blade deep into the mossy cover and the surprised cry of a heron lifted suddenly from the trees behind us, as if Cook had struck the dirt to sound.

“Stop!” I whispered, horrified. Cook continued to dig at the foot of the grave, four feet from where I stood, my hand still upon the leaning marker. I sprang at her, snatching at her cloak and grabbing her by the arm to stop this desecration, but she shook me off easily, her great girth throwing force behind her mad determination. Still she did not speak to me, and I was forced to stand back and watch as the shovel bit farther and farther into the dark ground, where it soon must meet the coffin lid. I turned from the scene and covered my ears. Never again did I want to hear that heavy, thudding clank as the dirt fell backward upon the coffin, clank as the shovel scraped the leaden top. I raised my eyes and watched the trees round us leaning this way and that in the sea breeze. For an eternity, it seemed, and even through my hands, I heard Cook’s heavy panting and the steady clop of uncovered ground deposited behind me. Suddenly, all was quiet.

“Maisie Thomas.”

I would not turn. Yet neither could I run.

“Child,” she whispered, and this time she hit the note with such an unexpected gentleness, my heart beat softly in response. The sorrow in the woman sang out in the simple word, and the sorrow in me answered. I turned.