“What is this to-do, then?” Old Bess shuffled out of the back, blinking at the rabble that stood in the hall, her white hair standing tangled and wild about her head, as if she must just now have risen from her bed. “And now the fire’s gone out, and there’s the parson stood in the cold. Mrs. Bradshaw must not hear of this! Liston, light the fire. I’ll make us tea.”

Liston did not move. It seemed to Anne as if all of them had been struck dumb, made immobile by Bradshaw’s strange confession. Poor Bess, who trod every step in the past, seemed blind to the horror of this present moment. How fervently Anne wished she could have walked with the old servant in happier times.

“Liston, are you senseless, boy?” Bess snapped, clipping the young man sharply about the head. “Come on now, do my bidding, for your ma will be home soon from market, and she loves to come in to a good fire, she does.”

Slowly, his face as white as the snow that sheeted the land without, Liston left his father and walked stiffly to the mantel, where he took up the kindling box. After a few moments, the fire burnt fiercely, though no warmth could be drawn from it.

“Well, come over here before you catch your deaths, won’t you?” Bess smiled and beckoned. “It’s just like it should be: guests at Christmas come to bid us season’s greetings. Why is there no holly up, Liston? Your ma loves to see the holly up.”

“Bess, dear Bess.” Emily approached the maid with a carefully composed smile stretched over her fear. “When I was here last, you whispered the words to an old folk song in my ear. Do you remember?”

“I am always singing,” Bess said brightly. “Always have, since I was a lass.”

“‘And she didn’t care how much it hurt.’” Emily said the words softly, but her gaze was fixed on Clifton Bradshaw, who flinched at them. “‘There she stabbed them right through the heart.’”

“‘She wiped her penknife in the sludge,’” Bess answered. “‘And the more she wiped it, the more blood showed. The more she wiped it, the more blood showed.’ Strange old song that, not one of mine—one of hers, for only one such as her could want it sung.”

“Who? Who sings that song, Bess?” Emily asked. “Where did you hear it?”