I led them to the riverbank through a damaged, changed world. Branches were down all over the orchard, seared into black charcoal. The fields were sickly spotted, stained with burns and churned mud; they rustled ominously as we passed. Past them, the hay barn sang its rattling hymns. Tin shingles clattered, leaflike, to the ground. I veered away from it and the river into the bare yard, looking for anything left unscathed. Heron was replacing blackened shingles on the poultry barn. He’d tied Sadie’s lead to an old post outside it, and she prowled back and forth, restless with the scent of Twisted Things. “She’ll terrify the chickens,” I said. “Too late.” He readied a nail. His fingernails were blackened with bruises and soot. “How’s your sister?” “Still pushing,” I said fretfully. They’d sent me for water, for towels and cushions, for broth, for honey so James and Cal could treat Thom’s burns. I’d brought it all, with Marthe’s exhausted moans beating at my ears, and then Eglantine Blakely had tossed me, unceremoniously, outside.
