In the distant past, Estelle imagined that the tables and booths would have groaned under the weight of their wares. Today, the offerings were sparse, but still a rainbow of vegetables stuck triumphantly out of crates, barrels of apples and pears were set in rows, and there were ropes of skinned rabbits for the stewpot. Estelle wandered down the first row, sidestepping those haggling and debating the best value. Toward the center, honey was being sold in a haphazard collection of jars and bottles, and, farther down, a young woman was selling scented soap and knitted socks.

And beyond that, there was a collection of paintings.

Estelle walked toward the last booth at the end, coming to a stop in front of the small wooden structure. There were no crowds here, though occasionally a child stopped to inspect a particular canvas before skipping away. Estelle stepped closer and examined the collection.

It was certainly a bright effort, the colors of each composition vivid, if a little one-dimensional. There were renditions of the sea, of grass-tufted dunes, and of copses of trees under heavy, leaden skies. More still were dedicated to the sailboats and fishing boats that plied the waters, and a few depicted fluffy white sheep grazing bottle-green pastures. At the bottom of each, William Seymour had been signed with a proud flourish.

These would be paintings done by William, the artist who liked cars and art and his bacon blackened at the edges. William, who had traded a rifle for a watercolor set on his eleventh birthday. William, who learned to shoot to please his sister and had learned to fly to please his mum. William, who had never lived long enough to sell a painting.

Estelle’s eyes burned. How was it possible that she still had tears left to cry? Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea after all.

“Good morning.” A cheery voice cut through Estelle’s thoughts.

She blinked rapidly and straightened. “Good morning.”

A buxom woman with kind eyes, a flushed face, and dark hair just starting to silver was watching her. She wore practical shoes, a simple dress the color of autumn wheat, and an apron tied about her waist.

“Can I help you find something, lass?” the woman inquired.

“I wish you could,” Estelle mumbled.

“You’re looking for art?”

“Um. No.”

The woman stared quizzically at her. “Then you were looking for William? I have to tell you, I’m not sure this is a good time.”

Estelle put a hand out to steady herself against the booth. “He came back? He’s here?” she blurted.

“Yes,” the woman replied slowly, still staring at her.

Something deep inside her chest constricted painfully, joy and grief flooding through her all at the same time. William Seymour had survived. He’d survived impossible odds. His sister had been right all along.

The woman brushed her hands on her apron and came out from behind the booth. “May I ask who you are?”