But the Narrows were now open, and the tall masts and full sails gone.
A burr of worry dug into Greer’s middle as she surveyed the empty bay.
Just that morning, Hessel had said they were still haggling over a final price. Could they have already come to an agreement and transported the lumber across the cove?
The rain began to pound heavier. The sound was so deafening that Greer nearly altered course, leaving the village for the sanctuary of her bedroom. She could hide away on her straw mattress, covering her ears until the worst of the storm’s fury had passed and everything returned to its usual decibels.
On the other hand, if the schoonerhadleft without buying thewood, her father would undoubtedly be home, banging about in the foulest of moods, darker than even the sky overhead. Greer winced as she imagined the sounds of that rage permeating the house.
As she stood motionless with indecision—the house or the mill? the mill or the house?—her ears pricked with a new sound.
A group of young boys was ambling down the road, careless of the rain or the puddles they stomped through. Greer took in the hems of their trousers, inches deep with splattered mud, and pitied their mothers. They carried their writing slates over their shoulders, holding on to the leather straps with a lax air, and were snickering over something from their day at school.
The snickerings stopped when they spotted Greer.
“Isn’t that Old Man Mackenzie’s daughter?” one asked, his voice hushed.
Greer heard it through the chaos of raindrops as clearly as if he were standing right beside her.
“Don’t look!” another warned. “My ma said she can see everything you’re thinking, just by staring into your eyes.”
“My sister said her mother could hold your hand and tell you exactly how you were going to die,” a third boy hissed.
This elicited little noises of astonishment from the group, and Greer’s stomach began to sour.
It was no secret that the people of Mistaken thought the Mackenzie women peculiar on even the best days. On others, their rumored talents for the impossible verged into absurdity. Even before Ailie’s death, Greer had heard her mother accused of drinking blood from a neighbor’s horse, bursting into a flock of birds, and foretelling the future. In her absence, the stories had only gotten worse.
There were never any outright accusations. Hessel’s rank on the council of Stewards and status as mill owner granted them certain levels of protection: no one wanted to anger the man who employed most of Mistaken. But the whispers still found their way to her ears.
Usually, Greer ignored them. But Louise’s hurtful words still echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t bear to push aside the boys’ mean-spirited chatter.
“Is that Benjamin Donalson I see?” she called out, raising her voice to carry through the rain, squinting at them.
The boys froze.
“I’d be cautious going home today if I were you.”
Benjamin glanced from one of his friends to another with wild-eyed wondering. “Wh-why’s that?”
“Your father knows who pinched the coppers from his purse last week. He’s bound to be on a warpath.”
The boy’s face paled, but he shook his head and stormed away, yelling at the others to follow.
It had only been a guess.
But, evidently, a good one.
Just yesterday, Jeb Donalson had been purchasing a tin of nails at the general store. On the other side of the aisle, Greer had heard him mutter under his breath, counting his coins and coming up short.
Greer smiled, watching them go.
“What little shits.”
She turned to the row of shops behind her and caught a bright flash of russet.
Ellis.
He stood under the cover of Tywynn Flanagan’s bakery awning, wearing an apron once blue but now thoroughly mottled with flour. He watched the cluster of boys scurry into the storm, with his arms folded over his broad chest.
