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I pull on my new coat and a pair of boots Ash managed to scavenge for me. She also gave me one of her extra hats and a pair of mittens. Once Bishop and I are bundled up, we head to the front door, but before I can open it someone knocks from the outside, loud and hard against the wood. I freeze, my gaze flying to Bishop and then to Caleb, who’s jolted upright from where he was napping on the couch. People knock on our door almost daily, but this violent pounding speaks of urgency. Or danger.
“Who is it?” Bishop calls, putting one hand out to scoot me behind him.
“Stuart,” a man yells. “Stuart Murphy. I need to talk to Caleb.”
“It’s okay,” Caleb says. “Let him in. I know Stuart.”
Bishop opens the door and a man stumbles inside, bringing a swirl of snow and icy wind with him. “Caleb,” Stuart says. “Three strangers showed up at Elizabeth Granger’s house. Two men, one woman.”
“Where are they now?” Caleb asks, already shrugging into his coat.
“We took them to the meetinghouse in the town square. They claim to be from Westfall but say they weren’t put out.” He glances at me and Bishop. “They say they left voluntarily.”
“That’s a lie,” Caleb says. “No one would leave this time of year, face a winter out here alone.” His face is grim. “The question is, why would they lie? And what else are they lying about?”
“That’s why I came for you,” Stuart says. “Figured you could talk to them before we decide what to do.”
“We’re coming, too,” Bishop says. “If they are from Westfall, we may know them. Maybe we can help figure out why they’re here.”
Caleb nods.
“I’m coming, too,” Ash says, and we all wait while she gets into her outdoor gear.
I have to agree with Caleb that there’s no way these people are telling the truth. I can’t imagine any reason why they would leave the relative safety of Westfall at the beginning of what’s promising to be a horrible winter. It would be close to suicide to make such a decision.
The five of us trudge out into the fading daylight. The sky is smoky gray, flat and low. It’s no longer snowing, but the wind whips tiny tornadoes of snow at our feet. Above us, a ragged vee of geese crosses the sky, honking to one another as they fly. Even bundled up, the air hits me like a slap in the face, rockets down into my lungs where it spreads frozen fingers under my ribs.
“God, it’s cold,” Ash breathes, her words turning to steam as she speaks.
Caleb rolls his eyes. “You have a real knack for stating the obvious.”
No one laughs, and Ash doesn’t respond. We are all too tense, worried about what we’re going to find when we reach the town square, to be in the mood for joking. We walk as fast as we can through the snow, and even with the subfreezing temperature, it only takes a few minutes for me to warm up, sweat beading along my hairline under my hat.
The meetinghouse is located in the remains of the old restaurant in the town square. As we get close, I can see lantern light spilling out through the one intact front window. Around me, the rest of the group continues moving forward, but I slow until I’ve fallen behind. Somewhere deep inside me, a warning bell is ringing, loud and clear, telling me I don’t want to take those final steps. I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t shake the feeling that walking into that building will set something in motion that I will be powerless to stop.
“Ivy?” Bishop has stopped ahead of me. “Are you okay?”
No, I want to say. Don’t go in. But it’s already too late. Caleb has pushed the door open, the ancient bell that hangs above it giving a shrill peal that quiets the voices inside. I push my fears down, the same way I did on the day I married Bishop, the same way I did when I was put out beyond the fence, and follow Bishop into the house.
The small space is crammed with people, the smell of wet wool, firewood, and sweat barreling into my nose as soon as I’m through the door. I pull off my hat and mittens and stuff them into my coat pockets. Already I’m thinking of the clean, frigid air outside with fondness.
“Where are they?” Caleb asks the crowd.
A few people point to the far end of the room, and a path opens up in the crowd, allowing us to snake through toward the fireplace and the three ragged strangers crouched around its warmth. At first it’s hard to tell which one is the woman. They are all curled over mugs of stew, their hair thick with dirt and grease, worn blankets thrown over their shoulders.
They look up at us as we approach. The woman and one of the men appear to be in their midtwenties, the other man older by a good twenty years. Caleb stares at them, and then glances at Bishop and me. “Do you know them?” he asks.
Bishop shakes his head. “No.”
I look at the woman and the younger man. Their faces are unfamiliar to me. But my eyes return to the older man. To his gaze, which never leaves mine. To his one useless arm, curled up against his chest. I remember taking raspberry jam from his good hand. I remember the feel of the note from Callie, buzzing against my palm. He is waiting for me to speak, waiting to see if I will save him.
“Yes,” I say, finally. “I know him.”
It turns out the woman is the jam man’s daughter and the other man is her husband. They’ve been out on their own for a few weeks now, this storm the thing that would have killed them all if they hadn’t seen the glow of a lantern from Elizabeth Granger’s window and followed the beacon up to her porch, where they’d collapsed against her door.
Bishop has pulled a chair up next to them by the fire, but I am still standing, arms crossed and hands tucked protectively over my elbows. “I don’t understand why you’re out here,” Bishop says. “If you weren’t put out.”
“We left,” the woman says.
