But why had the fingertip been in her mother’s pocket and not with the offal behind the depot? Her mother had patted her pocket as she said it, as though there were more bits and pieces than the one Lady Mae found. It wasn’t like her to forget, though Lady Mae did see the distraction that hovered behind her mother’s worried eyes. And while she had received the telegram weeks before regarding her upcoming obligations, that morning had been the first time her mother had mentioned the inheritance aloud. Lady Mae relaxed her fingers and felt something swirl inside of her.

The oil in the lamp next to her burned steadily in the falling light. She stared out the window, stared until her eyes went foggy and dry and thought of how she should’ve told Arbuckle her misgivings. Then, there, something moved in the distance, far down the road.

Squinting, she saw the shadowy shape of her mother grow as she came up the road. She was walking quickly, her arms swinging long as if scooping the air would get her home faster. The back edge of her dress billowed behind her, and Lady Mae saw the dust still sparkling in the twilight. She got up to fold the quilt that had fallen off the back of the sofa and saw then her mother break into a run, holding her kit of tools close to her chest. Lady Mae watched, confused, as her mother twisted her head to look behind her, stumbling and falling to the gravel road, her arms spread wide and her kit spilling open in front of her. Scrambling to collect her instruments, she climbed to her knees and shoved them back into her kit. She ran again, faster than before, and Lady Mae heard through the open window her mother shouting, her voice rising above the call of the cicadas. But she was too far away to make out clearly what she was saying.

Lady Mae had planned on demanding answers in regards to her conversation with Arbuckle, but a sickly feeling gave rise in her throat, and she found herself stepping backward into the dark corner of the room holding her great-grandmother’s quilt in her arms. What’s gonna happen, Mama? The clock ticked and her mother’s voice grew louder and louder until the door burst open and the flame on the lamp went out from the gust of wind. Leaves scattered, their dried stems and tips scraping the wood floor as they tumbled inside.

Her mother slammed the door behind her and stood facing it, her head down and her hands on the latch. She hadn’t seen Lady Mae, and though she stood like that for only a moment, she was rock still, her breathing rapid.

“Mama?”

Her mother spun around and backed up against the door, leaving one hand on the latch. “Go on. Get supper on,” she ordered.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Go on now, in the kitchen.”

Lady Mae did as she was told and turned to rush into the kitchen. But as she neared the doorframe she heard her mother’s voice call after her.