“No!” I cried, jumping out from my hiding place.
The flames leapt and roared. The heat was so intense that I had to move back.
“Auntie!” I screamed, staring into the flames for signs of movement. There was none. But then, from behind the roar of the fire, I heard a voice. It was Auntie, calling my name.
“Sara,” she cried. “Sara.” I lunged for the cabin, but Father wrapped his arms around me, pinning me against him, my head close enough to his chest so I could hear his heart hammering.
Black soot snowed down on us, covering my hair and nightgown, Father’s flannel shirt.
At last, when it was clear that there was no saving anyone, he let me go and I fell to the ground. Father moved in, stood so close to the flames that he soon had blisters on his face and arms. His eyebrows were singed off and never did grow back right. He stood there, staring into the fire, sobbing, howling like a man who had lost everything.
Behind us, I heard the snapping of twigs. I raised my head, turned, and saw Buckshot, covered in ash. He looked at me, his milky-white ghost eye moving uselessly in its socket.
“Buckshot,” I called. “Here, boy.” But the dog gave a derisive snort and slipped off into the forest.
Martin
January 28, 1908
Martin was slow to get out of bed, dreading the day before him. Sara had spent the past two days searching the house and woods, barely sleeping, and strangely frantic.
“Did you lose something?” Martin had asked her yesterday morning, when she checked the hall closet for what must have been the twentieth time.
“Maybe,” she’d told him.
Yesterday afternoon, Martin had gone into town again to talk with Lucius. Lucius insisted on taking Martin for a drink at the inn. They settled in at the bar, and Carl Gonyea served them each an ale.
“Good to see you, Martin,” Carl said, giving him a jovial handshake. “How’s Sara doing?”
“Well,” Martin said through a tight smile. “She’s well, thank you.”
“A horrible thing to go through, losing a child like that. My heart goes out to both of you.”
“Thank you,” Martin said, looking down into his ale. Carl gave him a nod and went to tend to something in a back room.
Martin sipped at his pint and took a look around the room. The dining-room-and-bar area was grand and done in dark wood. Martin could see his reflection in the polished counter. The windows facing Main Street had stained-glass panels at the top that sent patches of colored light to flicker on the polished wooden floor. There werehalf a dozen tables, laid out with white cloths and silverware, but it was between lunch and dinner, so no one was eating. Martin and Lucius were the only two at the bar. Behind it, bottles of liquor stood on shelves, waiting for the end of the day, when men with more money than Martin had would come in and drink from them.
“Tell me, brother,” Lucius said. “Tell me the truth about Sara.”
Martin leaned over and filled Lucius in on Sara’s condition. He spoke in hushed tones, keeping an eye out for Carl.
He didn’t know what he would do without Lucius. Lucius was the only person besides Sara whom Martin ever confided in, and now that he felt he was losing Sara, Lucius was all he had. And Lucius was so patient, so wise. He lent Martin strength, and often, although Sara didn’t know it, he’d lent Martin money, too. Just a little here and there, to help them during their darkest times. Martin knew Lucius would give them more—he’d offered, more than once—but Martin didn’t feel right taking his brother’s money.
Though Lucius agreed that it was a good sign to have Sara out of bed and eating again, he said he was concerned that she seemed still to be experiencing delusional thinking.
“I found her in the woods,” Martin explained, “calling out to Gertie, as if she thought Gertie was still out there, lost.”
Lucius nodded. “Keep a close watch on her, Martin. Someone with Sara’s history…who has had episodes of madness before…such a person is very susceptible to slipping back into it. As I said, she may even become dangerous. We must prepare to admit her to the state hospital if it proves necessary.”
Martin had shivered at the idea of Sara’s becoming dangerous.
Now, out of bed and dressed at last, Martin padded down the stairs and found Sara in the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. She looked thinner than ever, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced. Had she even come to bed last night? Martin had the feeling she’d been down here, waiting for him, all night.
“Morning,” he mumbled, bracing himself for whatever might come next.
“Do you know where the shovel is?” Sara asked. “I couldn’t find it in the barn.”
“It’s there, lined up with the other tools,” Martin said, pouringhimself a cup of coffee and peering at her through the steam. “Not enough fresh snow to need to shovel, though.”
