“An’ Josh has another job fer ol’ Cavenel,” Mrs. Holcroft concluded.

“Who died?” Jinny asked with a sort of morbid interest, although Anna could not connect “having a job” with someone dying.

“It’s fer Hopper, what runs the Company store. Their baby took sick an’ died last week.” She shook her head. “Poor liddle thang, it weren’t even four months old. Missus Hopper took it hard, an’ so did he.”

“Said it afore, an’ I’ll say it agin. Thet there mine pizens ev’thin’ around it,” Aunt Jinny growled. “Half the babies in Ducktown niver see their fust birthdays. It oughter be shet down.”

“An’ y’all won’t hear nothin’ contrary from me.” Mrs. Holcroft nodded. “But it’s more work fer Josh, an’ he’s makin’ a good job of’t. Hopper, he wanted a big ol’ weepin’ angel, ’bout yay high.” She measured roughly five feet tall with her hand. “Josh tol’ him, sure, he could hev it, but it’d take six months or more. An’ the boy talked Hopper inter a liddle sleepin’ baby instead. A lot less money, but—I dunno how we’d’a got somethin’ thet big back inter town w’out it fallin’ over an’ breakin’. Nor how we’d’a got the stone here in the fust place. He coulda carved it in Ducktown, but I don’ like th’ notion of him spending hours travelin’ there an’ back ever’ day, an’ I like th’ notion of him boardin’ with Cavenel even less. Statue’s gonna be a purdy thang.”

“Wall, I’d admire t’ see it,” Aunt Jinny said.

“Then y’all will.” Mrs. Holcroft got up from the table. “He’s jest in th’ barn.”

Their hostess led the way to the barn, which, unlike the house, was a standard, plank-built affair; a steady but irregular chink, chink sound emerged from it. From the tiny amount of information she’d heard, Anna could not imagine what it was that Josh Holcroft was supposed to be doing that involved a dead baby, but she certainly was interested to find out.

“Joshua!” his mother called as they entered the straw-scented semidarkness of the barn. “Miz Jinny Alscot’s here t’see yore work, an’ her niece Anna Jones is with her.”

“I’m in m’workshed, Ma!” came a light tenor voice. “Come on back!”

At the rear of the barn was an attached shed. Full sunlight poured in through a window that had no glass, but a tight wooden shutter that was currently standing open. It had a clever little wood stove made out of metal odds and ends. The stove was cold right now, since it was warm enough in the sun to be slightly uncomfortable, but Anna thought it likely the makeshift stove would keep the small space cozy in winter. There was a wooden bench filling up most of the shop, and on the bench was a piece of white stone about the size of a yaller hound all curled up. But it wasn’t in the shape of a dog; it was in the shape of a baby, curled in sleep, one pudgy fist against its cheek. There was a suggestion of a pair of small wings in the rough rock where its shoulders were. Anna gasped to see it; it was astonishingly lifelike, even in this rough form.