“I can pretty much hear you fretting from here, Alice,” Margery called, as she walked back through to her bedroom. “And I’m telling you nothing needs to change. We’ll worry about the baby when it comes. No point winding yourself into a knot until then.”

“I’m fine,” Alice said. “Just pleased for you.” And wished desperately that it was true.

* * *

• • •

Margery rode down to Monarch Creek on Saturday, nodding greetings as she passed families busy cleaning up, sweeping wet piles of silt out of their front doors, ferrying ruined furniture into piles only good enough to dry out for firewood. The floods had devastated the lower reaches of the town, home to the poorer families who were less likely to make a noise about it. Or at least have that noise listened to. In the more affluent parts of town, life had already pretty much returned to normal.

She pulled Charley to a halt outside Sophia and William’s house, her heart sinking as she surveyed the damage. You could know something to be true, but it was something else having to look it square in the eye. The little house stood—just—but positioned at the lowest part of the road, as it was, it had borne the brunt of the flood. The posts of the neat deck were cracked and broken, while the flowerpots and the rocking chair that had stood on it had been washed away, along with the two front windows.

What had been a neat little vegetable garden was now a sea of black mud, from which random pieces of broken wood emerged in place of plants, and the stench was foul and sulfurous. A thick dark tidemark rode along the upper part of the frames and weatherboarding, and Margery didn’t need to go any further to guess what it was like inside. She shivered, recalling the water’s cold grip, and placed her palm against Charley’s soft neck, feeling a sudden visceral urge to head home to warmth and safety.

She dismounted—it took a little more effort to clear the saddle now—and hooked the reins on a nearby tree. There was nothing for the mule to graze; just dark sludge for some distance up the slopes.

“William?” she called, her boots squelching as she made her way toward the little cabin. “William? It’s Margery.”

She called a couple more times, waiting until it was clear that nobody was at home, then turned back to the mule, feeling the unfamiliar stretch and weight in her belly, as if the baby had decided she was now free to make her presence felt. She stopped by the tree, and was reaching for the reins when something caught her eye. She tilted her head, studying the tidemark several feet up from the base of the trunk. The whole way down from the library the marks left by the river had been red-brown, varying in color but essentially mud or silt. The marks here were as black as pitch. She recalled how the water had turned dark abruptly, the chemical tang that had stung her eyes and caught the back of her throat.

Van Cleve had not been seen in town for the three days since the flood.

She squatted, running her fingers across the tree bark, then sniffed them. She stayed there, completely still, thinking. Then she wiped her hands on her jacket and, with a grunt, hoisted herself back into the saddle. “C’mon, Charley boy,” she said, turning him around. “We’re not going home just yet.”

* * *

• • •

Margery rode high up into the narrow pass to the northeast of Baileyville, a route most considered impassable, given the steepness of the terrain and the dense undergrowth. But both she and Charley, having been raised on rough ground, could see a way through as instinctively as a boss could see a dollar sign, and she dropped the buckle of the reins onto his neck and leaned forward, trusting him to pick a path through while she lifted branches clear of her head. The air grew colder the higher they traveled. Margery wedged her hat down on her head and tucked her chin into her collar, watching her breath rise in damp clouds.

The trees grew closer the higher they went, and the ground was so steep and flinty that Charley, sure-footed as he was, began to stumble and hesitate. She climbed down finally by a rocky outcrop, hooked his reins on some saplings, and hiked the rest of the way to the top on foot, puffing a little with the extra weight of her new cargo. Every now and then she would pause, her hand in the small of her back. She had felt uncommonly tired since the flood and pushed away the knowledge of what Sven would say if he knew where she’d gone.

It took the best part of an hour to climb far enough on the ridge that she could finally see the back of Hoffman, the part of its 600-acre site not visible from the mines, and shielded from wider view by the horseshoe of steep, tree-covered slopes that surrounded it. She grabbed on to a trunk to haul herself up the last few feet and then stood a moment, allowing her breath to settle.

And then she looked down and cursed.

Three vast slurry dams stood behind the ridge, accessible only via a gated tunnel through the mountaintop. Two were full of dull, inky water, still swollen by the rains. The third was empty, its muddy base stained black, and its embankment crumbled to nothing where the slurry had burst out and down the other side, leaving a brackish trail along the winding riverbeds toward the lower end of Baileyville.

* * *

• • •

Of all the days that Annie could pick to suffer with her legs, this was just about the most inconvenient. Van Cleve muttered to himself as he waited in the booth for the girl to bring his food. Across from him Bennett sat in silence, his eyes sliding toward the other customers as if he were even now trying to gauge what people were saying about them. Van Cleve would have preferred a few more days steering clear of the town, but when your maid wasn’t there to cook a meal and your daughter-in-law had still not seen sense and returned home, what was a man to do? Short of driving halfway to Lexington, the Nice ’N’ Quick was the only place one could get a hot meal.

“Here you are, Mr. Van Cleve,” said Molly, placing a plate of fried chicken in front of him. “Extra greens and mashed potato, just like you said. You was lucky you ordered when you did—cook’s nearly out today, what with the deliveries not getting through and all.”

“Well, aren’t we the lucky ones!” he exclaimed. Van Cleve’s mood lifted at the golden, crispy-skinned sight of his dinner. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and tucked his napkin into his collar. He was about to suggest Bennett did the same, rather than fold his on his lap like some damned European, when a gobbet of black mud dropped through the air above his plate and landed with an audible slop on his portion of chicken. He stared at it, struggling to register what he was seeing. “What the—”

“You missing something, Van Cleve?”

Margery O’Hare stood over his table, her color high and her voice shaking with rage. She held her arm extended, her fist blackened with slurry. “That wasn’t floods took out those houses round Monarch Creek. That was your slurry dam and you knew it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”