She got down to her knees on the floor, eyes still closed, and put her left hand palm down on the floor. In her mind’s eye, she punctured each grape with a huge hollow-pointed needle, and drained the vile liquid through the needle, up her arm, across her chest, and siphoned it into the floor through her other hand. One by one, the polyps collapsed. When the procedure was complete, she raised her left hand to the sky and a dry wind whistled through her body, into the child’s, turned the residue to dust and blew it away.

She was finished. She opened her eyes, the ache in her side gone. She looked at the little girl’s face, pale, eyes closed. Her forehead was cool. She covered her with the blanket and quietly left the room, shutting the door gently.

An air of solemn expectancy met her as she returned to the kitchen.

“She’ll be fine.”

Mae crossed herself and sank her chin onto her folded hands in prayer.

Fern poured herself a cup of tea and took a sliced fruitcake from the ice box. Her hands felt a little shaky. It was so strange. She had no idea what to do in these cases, but the process was instinctual, automatic, as if someone else was at the controls.

Mae lifted her eyes. “Bless you, Fern.”

It wasn’t me! Fern wanted to say. But something told her that these people needed to place their adoration somewhere. She could only accept their blessings and give thanks in her own way to the God of her own understanding. Later.

“It was your faith,” Fern said gently, touching Mae’s shoulder.

“She’s been gettin’ sicklier and sicklier since fall,” Tom said. “Then yesterday she came down with this sore throat, and I guess she was pretty run-down, because it didn’t look like she was going to be able to manage a simple little thing like this here sore throat. This morning she didn’t even get up to open her presents.”

“Well, she’s going to be just fine. She’s sleeping now. Let’s let her rest for a while; then you take her on home. Keep her quiet for a few days and she should be back to normal.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes, thank God, not me.”

This was just too much for Harry. He grabbed his coat off the peg by the door and slammed outside. He stomped down the squeaky new snow to the barn. Winters were boring. He’d cleaned the barn, fed the cows and horses and chickens, milked, gathered eggs, fixed what needed fixing, and he was bored.