In the doorway, she hesitated and peered into the upstairs landing. With no hum of electric fans or air-conditioning, the house was eerily quiet. One step into the hall and the floorboards yelped in protest. She poked her head into the adjacent bedroom and made out a curved, wooden rack draped with a quilt and a plain, cedar chest at the end of the bed. Dark-hued aprons and dresses hung from pegs in a tidy row. The windows were stark, covered only by the same dark-green shades as in Jonas’s room. Nora’s bedroom?

Spying through the next doorway, she spotted two faceless, cloth dolls on a hastily made bed, reminders of the Old Testament warning against “graven images.” Rebecca’s room, no doubt. She stepped inside. Acorns, pebbles, dried leaves, and bird nests lined the windowsills and dresser tops, and a jelly jar of colored pencils sat atop a messy pile of paper on the desk. The absence of photographs came over her with melancholy stealth. No wedding photos or snapshots of a grinning baby Rebecca lined the walls. The family had no reminders of loved ones lost. Someday, Rebecca would no longer remember her father’s face.

As she descended to the front hall, every step creaked. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, unsure which way to go. A spacious living room opened to her right. To her left, a dark paneled wall appeared to slide in and out of a groove with another sitting room beyond.

Earlier that day, Jonas described how the Amish held church services in their homes.

This pocket door must allow them to create a space large enough for community worship. She ran her palm over the polished wood, admiring the fine craftsmanship in the traveling wall.

Whereas the upstairs rooms were straight out of a nineteenth-century farmhouse, the living room was fairly modern, even by candlelight. A sofa ran along the front wall of the house, bracketed by end tables. In the far corner, an upholstered armchair and a rocking chair clustered cozily before a wood-burning stove. She padded across the hardwood floor, scattered with a few braided area rugs. Imagining those icy boards beneath bare feet on a winter morning, she shivered. Hopefully, Rebecca had slippers.

The windowsills were lined with houseplants, and next to the chairs squatted a chunky magazine rack, full to brimming with periodicals. Her curiosity piqued, she passed through a wide opening into a spacious kitchen, at first glance remarkably like her own.

The stairs groaned, and she whirled to discover Jonas in the living room carrying a chimneyed oil lamp. She cringed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He tilted his head toward the staircase. “You need to know just where to step if you want to sneak out. Do you need something?”

Prickly fingers of embarrassment crept across her chest and tickled her neck. She set the candle on the table. “Honestly, I’m looking for the bathroom or…the outhouse?”