“C’d I go with ’em?” she asked.

Jinny stopped right in the path and turned to look at her. “Is this ’bout church-goin’?” she demanded. “Or is this ’bout a-seein’ Josh Holcroft?”

“I don’ feel right, not goin’ t’ church,” she temporized, but she was afraid that her blush gave her away.

Aunt Jinny shook her head. “I unnerstan’. I do. But I’m a-gonna tell y’all no. Thet wagon is full ’nuff, wi’out y’all, but thet ain’t the main reason. Y’all ain’t strong ’nough yet t’bear Ducktown. ’Member thet y’all felt sick in Soddy? An’ when y’all got near t’ Cleveland y’all started feelin’ a liddle sick agin?”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Wall, Ducktown’s a hunnert times worse nor Soddy,” her aunt told her sternly. “I keep a-tellin’ y’all thet, but y’all don’t seem t’ get it in yore haid. Nothin’ grows there. Not a garden, not a tree, not hardly a weed. Some people, they don’t feel th’ pizen. Some, they do. Some, like thet pore liddle dead baby, it kills them daid. I ain’t a-makin’ thet up jest fer foolin’ y’all. Y’all wanta find out that pizen is gonna do thet t’y’all?”

Numbly she shook her head.

“Wall then. There’s yore answer.” She set off back up the hill, and Anna perforce followed her.

But she suddenly realized as the end of the trail came into view that the visit to the Holcrofts had brought up as many questions about her aunt as it had answered.

7

TODAY Anna was dealing with a particularly complicated receipt. Aunt Jinny had written in smaller letters than usual to fit everything on the page of the book, and there were a lot of ingredients. This wasn’t a receipt to be making any mistakes on, either; it was specifically for “Winter Fever,” a dangerous illness that could carry off even a strong man in his prime. Anna concentrated on getting every letter and number of it exactly right, focusing so fiercely that when a shadow fell over her, her immediate reaction was annoyance that her light had been blocked as she looked up.

And then she froze. Because standing in the doorway, blocking off the sun, was an Indian.

She knew that it had to be an Indian; the man had long, flowing black hair with a single feather tied into it, and a fancy leather vest with beadwork on it, though he also wore a perfectly normal collarless linen shirt with gaiters on each arm and perfectly normal dungarees, the trouser-type rather than the ones with a bib like Aunt Jinny wore. A shriek of shock died in her throat, as her mouth dried instantly, and all she could think about was stories of scalpings and massacres.

“Virginia, am I disturbin’ y’all?” said the man, politely.

Aunt Jinny looked up from her potion-making. “Not a-tall, Old Raven. I been expectin’ y’all fer a couple days. This here’s m’niece, Anna. Come on in.”