"Your father is no friend to me," said Auguste.
Nancy's face was like a lake whose surface was troubled by a wind. "He's very strict. He didn't go to your father's funeral because it was a Catholic service. But if anything happens he'll do the right thing. You can count on him for that."
Auguste said nothing. But he didn't share her confidence.
Early that evening, Auguste, Nancy and Reverend Hale were sitting in the front room of the Hales' one-story house. They had eaten a rabbit stew with potatoes, onions and beans from the Hales' garden and hominy grits on the side that Nancy had pounded from corn. They washed it down with fresh-squeezed apple cider.
"I allow no spiritous liquors in my home," said Reverend Hale.
Now that it was dark Auguste wanted desperately to be off to see Grandpapa at Nicole and Frank's house. The old man had been badly hurt. He might be dying.
By candlelight Hale read the Bible aloud to Nancy and Auguste. It was his nightly custom, Nancy explained.
Auguste heard the soft clip-clop of a horse's hooves and the creak of carriage wheels and raised a hand to alert the others.
Putting a finger to her lips, Nancy went to the door. She opened it a crack, then pulled it wider and went out.
"Who is it?" Hale called anxiously.