The faithful were lit home from the seven-hour service by a bright half moon. Silver-edged clouds scudded overhead, blown by a wind that never reached the ground. Sarah held her cloak tight over her chest, and Gracie crowded against her for warmth in the back of the open wagon. Beside her, Lizabeth slept on Mam’s lap. She was no longer a baby and her legs sprawled long and cumbersome over her mother’s knees.

Sam pulled the carryall to a stop in front of the house and Sarah jumped to the ground running for the porch. “Sarah!” Her father’s voice stopped her. “Thank Sam for the ride.” He winked at his wife. “You’d best start teaching this girl manners if she’s to get herself a husband.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ebbitt,” Sarah said, and escaped indoors.

Walter was already in the small storage room off the porch, which he shared with David, the fruit their mother put up, and Emmanuel’s good saddle. The saddle stand was empty. As he was lighting a stubby candle-end, Sarah pushed by him and perched at the foot of David’s bunk. Walter set the candle on an overturned barrel. The ceiling was so low he had to stoop, and he was half a head shorter than his brother. “Your precious Davie ain’t here,” he said, and pulled his shirt off. “Pa’s going to whup him good for missing church.” Sarah snuggled down on David’s cot, piling the quilt over her feet. “Sare, I want to get undressed, will you quit? Go wait in your own room.” Sarah let her tongue stick out a quarter of an inch between her lips.

“Go on, or I’ll tell Pa. ” She got up reluctantly and went to the door. Walter turned his back on her.

With a bend and a puff, she blew out his candle and ran.

Both Gracie and Lizbeth were sleeping. Mam had blown out the lamp. Sarah undressed in the dark, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor. Moonlight shone through the window, projecting a black cross in a square of silver where the mullions threw their shadow on the floor.