“Sally Ann . . .” he gasped. “Oh, God! Sally, help me. Something’s caught my leg. Sally! Oh, please.” There was silence while he ducked under the water. He surfaced with a splash. “Sally!” One last scream, then he was gone. The surface of the water continued to agitate, and the waves lapped at her shoes as she stood in the middle of the path, horrified. Then all was silent.

“Michael?” she called out softly. Silence. “Michael, don’t play any games with me. Come out of there.” She backed up, toward the entrance to the cave. “Michael?” A little louder, a little braver. “Oh, God, Michael!” She turned and ran.

4

4

Clint didn’t need to be told what had happened. He read it in her face, in her body, as they felt each other in greeting. He knew that an era was dead, that he no longer needed to view the other world as a threat. It was over; she was his now, like Mary, like the boys. He felt her loss. It was, after all, what had sustained her all this time. She would get over it. She was a survivor. Like him.

The angry meanness that had consumed him soon after his mother had gone vanished with her return. He lay on his bed of moss, the only one awake, and contemplated his growing empire. Mary was pregnant again, but it wasn’t soon enough. He told her she had to have a girl.

He would build something here far superior to anything up there. He and his mother. She would help him.

She needed some time, he knew, to let the wound heal. Then they would go up there, together, and get what they needed. Two more girls should be enough. Young ones.

He turned over on his side and snuggled up to Mary’s back. His hand felt the smooth swell of her baby. Yes. He smiled to himself. This baby girl and two more.

BEAUTY IS ...

BEAUTY IS . . .

1

CHAPTER 1

Martha Mannes was forty-seven years old when her parents died. Her father died first, and she watched as her mother called Mr. Simmons who drove out from town and took her father away. So when her mother died, Martha left her in the bedroom and called Mr. Simmons. He held Martha’s hand for a moment, looked at her carefully, and kissed her on her forehead; then he left with her mother in the back of his long black car.

Martha was alone.

It was hard to remember just what her parents looked like. There was an old picture on her father’s desk, of a man, a woman, and a little girl. They looked vaguely familiar, so this was the woman she thought of when she thought of her mother.