“I can tell from your face you think this is just foolish talk from an old lady. The eyes don’t lie. It is understandable you would think my talk foolish. You remind me of someone, but right now I can’t recall who. Give me a bit of time. It will come to me.”

In the terrible heat, Ondine shivered. But it was occurring to her that the old woman already knew who she was and understood why Ondine was here. She was just not ready to share that yet.

The old woman had gone back in the house and Ondine listened to her walking down the hall, muttering to herself. Ondine got up to timidly open the screen door and follow her inside and noticed then that the stained glass was very old — shades of blue and grey, waves with small translucent shapes in the midst of them, an opalescent sky overhead the heaving green glass sea. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Ondine jumped. She hadn’t heard her come back. The woman spoke to Ondine through the dark screen. “Antique dealers always want to buy the door right off the house. They might do so one day when I am gone but they’d do well to keep that door from ever attaching to any other house. My daddy was terrified of it.”

She came outside, handed Ondine a glass of what looked like iced tea and sat down again. “Have a sip of that tonic. It will restore you. What do I think happened to Rose, you want to know? Ain’t no one asked me that in a long time. Such a long time. Everyone always said she was delicate like the tiny plovers which run along the sand at low tide. Living up here on the Mountain, things don’t seem to change much. They won’t ever pave these roads, and with the mists and fogs blowing through all them gullies and hollers and ravines, they can’t get their satellites to work, or them gadgets and phones they love so. That’s just as well.”

The old lady was watching Ondine holding the glass, waiting for her to sip. Ondine set the fan down on the verandah railing and looked at the murky liquid. It was a rusty red with an unusual smell, but Ondine was thirsty and her thirst overcame her aversion. She took a small taste. It was tangy and sweet, and she gulped the cold drink down and wiped her lips while the woman resumed talking.

“Some places don’t want to change. It looks just the same here as it always did. Rose could stroll under those old trees just like all them years ago, calling over to the horses in the summer pasture, flower petals falling at her feet. She planted that big sugar maple there. You can see the horses by the tree. A horse loves some shade. They ain’t the same horses but they’re related. Everyone up here is. The horses loved Rose. It’s one of the reasons my father was always respectful to her. The draught horses wouldn’t tolerate him being cruel to a woman. And they was great big ones, shire horses.