THE RAIN BEGAN in the afternoon and continued into the evening, and the lights flickered off after supper. Patience lit lavender candles and set one in every room, filling the house with small circles of light. Sorrow usually liked the house in candlelight, the shy dancing shadows on the walls, but that night she tensed with every lash of rain and gust of wind.
The third or fourth time she jumped and looked out the window in alarm, Patience noticed and laughed. “What’s got you so jittery?”
“Nothing,” Sorrow mumbled. She didn’t dare admit she was afraid the candles would topple and set the whole house on fire, that she couldn’t stop thinking about that burned corner of the Abrams barn and how wrong it had looked, that big chunk of building gone, as though a massive beast had taken a bite and left a black wound behind.
Mom had gone up to bed shortly after dinner, and a little while ago Grandma had set her pen aside and closed her leather journal before going to her own room. It was only Patience and Sorrow now. Patience had been forcefully cheerful all afternoon, ever since they had returned from the orchard, acting like nothing had happened. She hadn’t even glared or pinched Sorrow to remind her not to say anything. Sorrow, true to her word, hadn’t mentioned Julie when Mom asked if they’d had a nice walk.
“It’s only a storm,” Patience said.
“I know,” Sorrow said, but another gust of wind rocked the house and she tensed, every inch of her body aching with worry. She shoved her chair back and stood. “I’m going to bed.”
Patience turned a page in her book. “Take a candle up with you, but make sure you blow it out before you fall asleep.”
“I know,” Sorrow said. “I’m not a baby.”
“Good night, baby,” Patience said.
Sorrow stuck her tongue out and stomped up the stairs. She dutifully brushed her teeth and used the toilet and changed into her pajamas, and when she was alone in her room, with the door closed and the window rattling ominously, she blew out her candle. She had placed the eyeglasses from the cemetery on her dresser with the rest of her collection, propped up on the back of the small wooden tiger. She could see them even now, in the dark, as a pale circle where the one cracked lens reflected the weak light from outside.
A little while later, through the angry splutter of the storm, she heard footsteps on the stairs: that was Patience coming up for bed. Even later she thought she heard a door open, and footsteps in the hall again, but quieter, but she only had time to wonder if it was Mom or Patience before she fell asleep.
It was still dark when Sorrow woke, but her room was bright with light dancing over the ceiling. She frowned up at the shifting pattern of blue and white. She didn’t want to get out of bed. She had thought the weather was turning and spring was on its way, but outside the cocoon of her blankets her bedroom was cold, so cold her nose was running and her ears ached. She could see the bright lights even when she squeezed her eyes shut, so she pushed herself up onto her knees to look outside. There was a layer of frost over the inside of the window. She swiped a small circle clear.
There was a police car parked in front of the house. The rain had turned to snow while she slept, and fat flakes drifted in lazy whirls. A man was standing beside the car, speaking into a radio. There was a fine dusting of snow on his broad-rimmed hat.
Sorrow scrambled out of bed and ran down the stairs. Mom and Grandma were in the kitchen with Sheriff Moskowitz.
“Hello, Sorrow,” the sheriff said. He offered a quick smile, but his blue eyes were solemn. “Did we wake you with all our stomping around?”
Mom was standing by the back door, dressed in her coat and boots; she was holding her hat and gloves. “Go back to bed,” she said, her voice sharp with impatience.
“What’s wrong?” Sorrow asked. “Where are you going?”
“There’s another fire,” Mom said. “It’s the cider house.”
Sorrow gaped at her. “Our cider house?”
“One of the Abrams girls saw it from her window,” the sheriff explained. “The firemen are down there now. They’ll get it under control.”
“I need to go out there,” Mom said.
“I’ll take you out once we’re sure it’s safe. One fire in the area could be an accident, but two makes me think somebody might be doing it on purpose.” Sheriff Moskowitz looked first at Mom, then at Grandma. “Are you sure you haven’t seen any strangers around lately? Kids from town looking to make some mischief?”
“No,” Mom said. “We haven’t seen anyone, and that’s not going to change no matter how many times you ask. I’m not going to wait—”
“Miss P?” the sheriff said to Grandma. “Seen anybody around?”
Grandma shook her head, and Sorrow braced herself, tense from head to toe. She wanted to run away to her room but it was too late. The sheriff was already turning to her. She shrank under his gaze.
“And you?” he said. “Did you see any strangers in the orchard today?”
She hesitated before shaking her head exactly like Grandma. Julie wasn’t a stranger. She was Patience’s friend, but that was a secret, and Sorrow wouldn’t reveal her sister’s secrets.
“All right. Is Patience here? She might have seen something.”
Mom reached out and pulled the back door open; cold air flowed into the kitchen. “It’s the middle of the night. She’s asleep, like Sorrow should be, and I’m not going to wait here for you to decide when I get to see what’s happening on my own land.”
“I’d like to have a word with Patience first,” the sheriff said.
Mom started to say something, but Grandma moved her hand, a quick tap of fingers on the tabletop. Mom sighed and shut the door. “Sorrow, go wake Patience and ask her to come down.”
Sorrow was only two treads up the steps when the front door opened and another police officer came in. He stomped his boots on the doormat and took off his hat. He was a younger deputy; his cheeks were pink with cold and there were snowflakes melting on his shoulders. He glanced at Sorrow as he passed. He held a radio in his hand.
“Geoff,” he began.
The sheriff held up his hand. “Go ahead, Sorrow. Get your sister for us.”
Sorrow ran up the stairs, but she stopped on the top step to listen.
“They think there was somebody trapped inside,” the deputy said.
An awful silence fell over the kitchen.
“What?” Mom said, as sharp as the sound of wood cracking.
At the same moment the sheriff said, “Are they sure?”
“In the cellar. They couldn’t tell until—”
“That’s impossible.” Mom’s voice. “Who would be in our cider house? Nobody goes in there.”
“M-ma’am,” the deputy stammered. “The firemen said—”
“We’re not going to jump to conclusions,” said the sheriff. “We’ll need some more help, so start waking people up. But keep your mouth shut until we know more, do you understand?”
A faint “Yes, sir” from the deputy. The narrow dark hallway felt like a box around Sorrow, pressing from all sides, and her lungs hurt so much it was hard to breathe.
“There’s got to be a mistake,” Mom said. “Nobody would be—this isn’t—it has to be a mistake.”
“Let’s not panic until we have all the information,” Sheriff Moskowitz said.
Sorrow raced down the hall to knock on Patience’s door. Softly at first, then more insistent.
“Patience?”
There was no answer.
“Patience? You have to wake up. The police are here.”
Still no answer. She pushed the door open.
“Patience, Mom said you have to . . .”
She felt the yawning hollowness of the room as she fumbled for the light switch.
The covers were mussed up, the pillow dented, but Patience’s bed was empty. Sorrow leaned into the room, looked in each corner. The room was small, like Sorrow’s, with no closet. There wasn’t anywhere to hide.
“Patience?”
She checked the bathroom, Mom’s room, even her own room, still filled with eerie blue light. She looked in Patience’s room again, even peeked under the bed. There was no sign of Patience anywhere. A nervous flutter beat like butterfly wings at the back of Sorrow’s throat.
She ran down the steps. “She’s not here!”
There was a long silence. The deputy’s mouth was hanging open.
“That’s not—” Mom began, but she stopped. “She hasn’t gone anywhere. I would have heard. I would have . . .” Mom pushed by Sorrow to get to the stairs, ran up with heavy, echoing footsteps. “Patience! Patience, come down here!” She sounded both too loud and too far away. Sorrow flinched when Mom’s boots hit the steps again and she returned to the kitchen. “I don’t know where she went. She must be—”
“Ma’am,” said the deputy. His radio crackled with incomprehensible noise.
“No,” said Mom. She shook her head. “No. I’ll look in the barn. She’s probably—she keeps books there. She’s, she’s . . . she’s gone out.”
“Mom?” Sorrow’s voice wobbled. “Mom, where’s Patience?”
“Verity,” the sheriff said.
Mom only shook her head and whispered no again.
“Verity.” The sheriff’s voice was low. “We don’t know—”
Mom lunged for the back door and yanked it open. In a flash she was outside. The sheriff ran after her.
The deputy gave Grandma an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll be—we have to—”
Then he was gone too.
Sorrow wanted to follow, but Grandma caught her around the shoulders before she took one step.
“Let me go!” Sorrow said, twisting and tugging. “I want to go!”
Grandma’s hold was too strong. She shut the door firmly, pulled Sorrow into her lap, and held her tight. Sorrow was too big to sit in her grandmother’s lap, too big to be coddled and cuddled like a baby. But she gave up struggling and snuggled her face into Grandma’s shoulder.
“Grandma? Where’s Patience? Where’s Mom going?”
They sat there together, Grandma silent and Sorrow sniffling, in the anxious quiet of the farmhouse, until the sheriff’s deputy returned with the news.
The firemen had found a body in the cider house. It was Patience.