She had known the old woman for as long as she could remember and had always found her a gentle presence. Now, however, Lillie was strangely afraid. Bett seemed to notice that. She opened the door wider and ticked her head invitingly. “Come in,” she repeated. “There’s bread if you want some.” Lillie unrooted her feet, stepped across the grass and climbed the single step into the cabin. It was warm and close inside with the heat coming out of the oven, but Bett closed the door anyway, as if she already knew the reason for Lillie’s visit and reckoned privacy was called for. The little house looked the way it always looked, furnished with an eating table and two chairs, a dresser with a small looking glass above it, and a bed covered with a soft, woolen throw Bett had owned for years and years and years. Lillie had always liked the colors of the worn old blanket—greens and yellows and oranges and scarlets on a background of deep black. “Africa colors,” Bett would say. “Been sleepin’ under ’em my whole life.”
