She put her hands up to her throat and unfastened the locket she wore. I had often silently admired it. It was solid gold, heart-shaped and engraved with what I recognized as a Celtic knot.

“Turn around,” she said. “My dear husband gave this to me on my wedding day, and I want you to have it.”

I held my breath while she fastened the delicate chain around my neck. I put my hand up to touch it and turned to look at her. “I . . .” I began, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Ssh, my dear,” she said and enveloped me in her arms.

It was then that my tears began to flow, and I hugged her back fiercely. At last I drew away from her. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Mrs. Shaw,” I whispered.

She threw back her head and gave a loud, husky laugh. “Dear girl, I have no intention of letting anything happen to me.”

* * *

I suppose when God hears you declaring your own intentions, He sometimes lets you know it’s His intentions that count.

A week later, Mrs. Shaw was dead.

She’d been on her way to the bank to make the money transfer she’d told me about when she skidded off the road in that curse of a car of hers. She was most likely driving like a madwoman as she always did, thinking no calamity could ever touch her. She had the rest of us believing that way too.

After Mrs. Shaw’s death the household was gripped by paralysis. Beatrice wrung her hands and sang hymns, Teresa went silent and I hid in my room with Silver. A minister came to talk about funeral arrangements. None of us knew what to tell him, and he sighed and went away again. The only comfort we had was when the suffragette ladies came, including young Martha, who had helped me with my preparations for the Christmas Eve party. Mother of God, was that only a month ago? Martha said the ladies had talked among themselves, and they would take over Mrs. Shaw’s arrangements.