Jefferson and a couple other boys from school spend an afternoon digging graves for Mama and Daddy. I found out it would cost me twenty dollars to have headstones made, and maybe I could witch up enough gold dust given a little time, but not without raising questions. So I ask Jefferson to make a pair of wooden crosses for now.

The day of the funeral dawns icy clear. Meltwater from the warm snap froze overnight, leaving the trees, the eaves of the barn, and even the henhouse dripping with tiny icicles. The whole world sparkles so bright in the winter sun it’s almost hard to look at.

After finishing my morning chores, I wash up and don my best dress—a brown wool with lace cuffs, and a pointed waist with pretty yellow piping. Mama and I finished it just last week.

I can’t get the corset very tight without help, but the dress buttons up with surprising ease. It has the fullest skirt I’ve ever owned. I remember twirling in place during my final fitting, admiring how high the hem lifted in spite of the fabric’s weight. Mama scolded me for showing off my petticoats.

I stand before our tiny mirror to put on her locket, and I see her face staring back at me. Everyone says I have her eyes—widely spaced and mostly brown, a little too deep-set. But I look like her more than ever today. I seem older, with thinner cheeks and sunken eyes. I haven’t eaten much these past few days.

I reach around the back of my neck and clasp the locket in place. I flip out the lace collar to cover the chain. The pendant rests just above my heart. It’s a relief to feel the gold sense come back, even a little. I may never take off the locket.

Someone knocks at the door. I glance at the table to make sure my revolver is still there. I’ve been keeping it handy these past few days, because whoever killed my parents is armed with at least a Colt. If my visitors have found it strange that I never open the door unarmed, they haven’t said.

I grab the revolver and head toward the door, feeling a stab of embarrassment; the steps leading up the front porch still have bloodstains on them, though I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed. They’re brown-black now, not like blood at all. Still, if I don’t replace them soon, I’ll see Daddy’s body in my mind’s eye every time I step outside. Maybe Jefferson will do it for me.

And it’s like I’ve summoned him with a thought, because I swing the door open and there he is, his gaze downcast and his wrinkled hat in hand. Nugget sits at his heels, her tail thumping.

He blurts, “I’m going west, Lee.”

It’s like a kick in the gut. “What? When!”