“This is the northeast route. Thought it would be wise if we divided them into eight.”

“Goodness, it’s so beautiful,” Alice said. She stared at the huge sand-colored rocks that seemed to loom out of nowhere, forming natural shelters. All around her the boulders emerged almost horizontally from the side of the mountain in thick layers, or formed natural stone arches, weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Up here she was separated from the town, from Bennett and his father, by more than geography. She felt as if she had landed on a different planet entirely, where gravity didn’t work in the same way. She was acutely aware of the crickets in the grass, the silent slow glide of the birds overhead, the lazy swish of the horses’ tails as they swept flies from their flanks.

Margery walked the mule under an overhang, and beckoned to Alice to follow. “See in there? That hole? That there’s a hominy hole. You know a hominy hole?”

Alice shook her head.

“Where the Indians ground their corn. If you look over there you’ll see two worn patches in the stone where the ol’ chief used to rest his backside while the women worked.”

Alice felt her cheeks glow and stifled a smile. She gazed up at the trees, her relaxed mood evaporating. “Are they . . . are they still around?”

Margery peered at her from under her wide-brimmed hat for a moment. “I think you’re safe, Mrs. Van Cleve. They tend to go to lunch about now.”

They stopped to eat their sandwiches under the shelter of a railroad bridge, then rode through the mountains all afternoon, the paths winding and doubling back so that Alice couldn’t be sure of where they had been or where they were headed. It was hard to gauge north when the treetops spanned high above their heads, obscuring sun and shadow. She asked Margery where they might stop to relieve themselves, and Margery waved a hand. “Any tree you like, take your pick.”

Her new companion’s conversation was infrequent, pithy and mostly seemed to revolve around who was and wasn’t dead. She herself, she said, had Cherokee blood from way back. “My great-granddaddy married a Cherokee. I got Cherokee hair, and a good straight nose. We was all a little dark-skinned in our family, though my cousin was born white albino.”

“What does she look like?”

“She didn’t live past two. Got bit by a copperhead. Everyone thought she was just cranky till they saw the bite. Course, by then it was too late. Oh, you’ll need to watch out for snakes. You know about snakes?”

Alice shook her head.

Margery blinked, as if it were unthinkable that someone might not know about snakes. “Well, the poisonous ones tend to have heads shaped like a spade, you know?”

“Got it.” Alice waited a moment. “One of the square ones? Or the digging ones with the pointy ends? My father even has a drain spade, which—”

Margery sighed. “Maybe just stay clear of all snakes for now.”

As they rose up, away from the creek, Margery would jump down periodically and tie a piece of red twine around a tree trunk, using a penknife to slice through it, or biting it and spitting out the ends. This, she said, would show Alice how to find her way back to the open track.

“You see old man Muller’s house on the left there? See the wood smoke? That’s him and his wife and four children. She can’t read but the eldest can and he’ll teach her. Muller don’t much like the idea of them learning but he’s down the mine from dawn till dusk so I’ve been bringing them books anyway.”

“He won’t mind?”

“He won’t know. He’ll come in, wash off the dust, eat what food she’s made and be asleep by sundown. It’s hard down there and they come back weary. Besides, she keeps the books in her dress trunk. He don’t look in there.”

Margery, it emerged, had been running a skeleton library single-handed for several weeks already. They passed neat little houses on stilts, tiny derelict shingle-roofed cabins that looked like a stiff breeze might blow them down, shacks with ramshackle stands of fruit and vegetables for sale outside, and at each one Margery pointed and explained who lived there, whether they could read, how best to get the material to them, and which houses to steer clear of. Moonshiners, mostly. Illegal liquor that they brewed in hidden stills in the woods. There were those who made it and would shoot you for seeing it, and those who drank it and weren’t safe to be around. She seemed to know everything about everyone, and delivered each nugget of information in the same easy, laconic way. This was Bob Gillman’s—he lost an arm in one of the machines at a factory in Detroit and had come back to live with his father. That was Mrs. Coghlan’s house—her husband had beat her something awful, until he came home boss-eyed and she sewed him up in his bed sheet and went after him with a switch until he swore he’d never do it again. This was where two moonshine stills had exploded with a bang you could hear across two counties. The Campbells still blamed the Mackenzies and would occasionally come past shooting the house up if they got drunk enough.

“Do you ever get frightened?” Alice asked.

“Frightened?”

“Up here, by yourself. You make it sound like anything could happen.”

Margery looked as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Been riding these mountains since before I could walk. I stay out of trouble.”

Alice must have seemed skeptical.

“It ain’t hard. You know when you have a bunch of animals gathering at a waterhole?”

“Um, not really, no. Surrey isn’t big on watering holes.”

“You go to Africa, you got the elephant drinking next to the lion, and he’s drinking next to a hippo, and the hippo’s drinking next to a gazelle. And none of them is bothering each other, right? You know why?”

“No.”

“Because they’re reading each other. And that old gazelle sees that the lion is all relaxed, and that he just wants to take a drink. And the hippo is all easy, and so they all live and let live. But you put them on a plain at dusk, and that same old lion is prowling around with a glint in his eye—well, those gazelles know to git, and git fast.”

“There are lions as well as snakes?”

“You read people, Alice. You see someone in the distance and it’s some miner on his way home and you can tell from his gait he’s tired and all he wants is to get back to his place, fill his belly and put his feet up. You see that same miner outside a honky-tonk, half a bottle of bourbon down on a Friday and giving you the stink-eye? You know to get out of the way, right?”

They rode in silence for a bit.

“So . . . Margery?”

“Yup.”

“If you’ve never been further east than—where was it, Lewisburg?—how is it you know so much about animals in Africa?”