She lay motionless and listened to the stillness around her. Back in Boston, Edmund’s family’s house creaked and moaned during the night. More than once, she’d thought she’d heard someone passing in the hallway outside their room, but Edmund had told her the old house was settling—which always made her smile and snuggle more closely against his warm body. But there in Burrow Creek, all she heard was the hollow sound of crickets and an occasional low rumble from what she supposed was Lou’s cow. Never had she been in such absolute darkness. She listened more deeply, but heard nothing else. The bed she lay on was firm and the blankets rough. She ran her hand over the bedclothes and felt the bumpy knots of thread tying the quilt together. Had Lou made this? Betty marveled at the thought. Lou had never taken to the feminine arts when she was in Boston. On the other hand, Betty had enjoyed such endeavors. Her embroidery had caused glowing admiration on more than one occasion.
