The council meeting had gone on most of the day, and when it ended Miriam asked Barry to walk with her. He looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head. They walked by the river, and when they were out of sight of the others she said, "I would like you to do me a favor, if you will. I would like to visit the old farmhouse. Can you get inside?"

Barry stopped in surprise. "Why?"

"I don't know why. I keep thinking I want to see Molly's paintings. I never did see them, you know."

"But why?"

"Can you get in?"

He nodded, and they started to walk again. When do you want to go?"

"Is it too late now?"

The rear door of the farmhouse was loosely boarded. They didn't even need a crowbar to open it. Barry led the way up the stairs, carrying the oil lamp high, casting strange shadows on the wall beside him. The house felt very empty, as if Mark had not been there for a long time.

Miriam looked at the paintings quietly, not touching them, holding her hands tightly clasped before her as she went from one to another. "They should be moved," she said finally. "They will rot away to nothing in here."

When she came to the carving of Molly that Mark had made, she touched it, almost reverently. "It is she," she said softly. "He has her gift, doesn't he?"

"He has the gift," Barry said.

Miriam rested her hand on the head. "Andrew plans to kill him."

"I know."

"He has served his purpose, and now he is a threat and must go." She ran her finger down the cheek of walnut. "Look, it's too high and sharp, but that makes it more like her instead of less. I don't understand why that is, do you?"

Barry shook his head.

"Will he try to save himself?" Miriam asked, not looking at him, her voice tightly controlled.

"I don't know. How can he? He can't survive alone in the woods. Andrew won't allow him to remain in the community many more months."

Miriam sighed and withdrew her hand from the carved head. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and it was not clear whether she spoke to him or to Molly.

Barry went to the window overlooking the valley and looked through the peephole Mark had made in the boards. How pretty it was, he thought, the gathering dusk, with pale lights glowing in the distance and the black hills encircling it all. "Miriam," he asked, "if you knew a way to help him, would you?"