It was just after dusk when she arrived at Carnton on foot, walked around back and down the hill to Mariah’s cottage, and knocked so timidly on the door, so gently, that Mariah thought at first it was the scuttle of a mouse at the door, and then a wren, perhaps, pecking. She opened the door to find her standing with her hands folded in front of her tattered work smock, those almond-shaped eyes with the reddish-brown hue of polished oak, and her skin brown as fallen leaves. Della was a pretty girl. Mariah figured she must be coming up on twenty-five by now, or somewhere close to it, but Della herself probably didn’t know her own age. Mariah no longer bothered to keep count, or track, of the ages of all the children she had brought into the world. Mariah smiled, facial muscles tight, unaccustomed to the movement. “Welcome, baby, come on in, you must be tired.” She closed the door behind her. Della was shy, the type to nod and say, “Yes,”
