She had the strangest sensation that he knew exactly what she’d prayed for. That he’d waited for her to finish her wordless petition before he breathed that last word. She dredged up a small smile to offer him.

In her mind, God had always been distant, abstract. But now, here, with these people, she couldn’t help but think that He’d come near. Or that she had.

With a nod, Oliver stood again. And ran.

19

Oliver didn’t slow until he reached the overgrown path that led to the skeletal remains of the cottages, and only then because a spot of orange caught his eye. He stopped, bent, and plucked up the daisy from the path. Cleanly cut, like the ones outside his own garden gate. Beth’s favorites. Had their grandmother cut them for her, thinking to come here and give them to her?

But why? And what would make Mamm-wynn think Beth was here, of all places?

The wind danced around him, laughing in his ears. Why not? it seemed to say. She’d known Beth was gone, after all, was “not where she ought to be.” She’d known Libby needed a necklace and a shawl. Perhaps the Lord had whispered those things to her. And perhaps He’d done so again.

Spotting another too-bright daisy farther along, closer to the cottages, he followed the trail, praying anew with every step. Lord, help me to find her. To find them. Show yourself to Libby.

That last one seemed strangely tied to the others, which made precious little sense. Except that he knew that, even having only known her a few weeks, she loved his grandmother too. And her faith—which was really more stale teaching and a newborn curiosity waiting to bloom into proper faith—might just shrivel and turn cold if it was dealt this blow right now. But he wanted more for her. Wanted her to love the Creator with the same boundless fascination with which she loved His creation. Wanted her to trust Him as she had so quickly come to trust Oliver.

Another shock of color that didn’t belong with the greens and browns and greys of the cottages stole his attention—a deep scarlet, too big to be a flower, too solid to be a patch of them. But the very color of Mamm-wynn’s favorite shawl. He flew toward it, blinking until the shape was close enough to be more than a blur of color. To be shoulders and back and a precious white-crowned head resting on the earth as if it were a pillow. “Mamm-wynn!”

Unlike his grandfather though, she didn’t stir at hearing his voice or her name. She just lay there on her stomach, face turned away from him, one arm extended—a bouquet of orange, yellow, and pink daisies still clutched in her hand.

No! His soul screamed it, fear pounding at his ears with every burst of his pulse. “Mamm-wynn! Mamm-wynn.”