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for the winter but for the nagging thought that Hugh Griffiths’ death might not have been by his own hand and that little Mairin was a witness. The child was gradually warming to her, and especially to Agatha, but it could take too long for her to trust enough to confide in them. Until then, she was alone with her secrets, and she might be in danger.
    The door to the Sisters’ Shop was ajar to allow air to circulate. Rose slipped inside and went directly to the room where the sisters dyed and spun their fine wools. In the days when more than two hundred Believers had lived and worked in North Homage, wool dying had been done outdoors in the spring, so that a full crew of sisters could weave all winter. But now their numbers were so depleted—a few dozen, at best, and many grown aged and weak. Other Shaker communities had given up making their own wool and purchased cloth from the world. Elder Wilhelm wanted the North HomageShakers to retain as much self-sufficiency as possible, to strengthen their spirit, and Rose had to admit that she was glad to see the textile industry preserved, even in such a tiny way.
    Sister Isabel oversaw the dying, spinning, and weaving, sometimes doing one of the tasks alone, while Sister Sarah watched over the sewing room on the second floor. Other sisters were assigned to help when they could be spared from the daily tasks of cooking and laundry. So here it was November, and there was still wool to be dyed.
    Isabel leaned over a large pot, holding a wet clump of yarn of a light brownish hue. She grinned at Rose. “Be sure to tell Wilhelm about this,” she said. “It will please him.”
    â€œBrown yarn?”
    â€œNay, not just any brown yarn,” Isabel said. “This is true butternut dye, like the sisters used so many years ago. Thought I’d experiment and see if I could make some. Collected the bark myself late spring, but I didn’t get to it until now, so I had to use it dry instead of fresh. But it doesn’t look bad, I’d say.” She hung the yarn on a peg to dry thoroughly and wiped her hands on her apron. “This is my second batch. The first came out a bit dark, so Sarah had the idea of using it to make Shaker sister dolls to sell in Languor come Christmas time. She’s already made half a dozen. Andrew said he’d place them with some shops.”
    â€œThat’s a lovely idea,” Rose said.
    â€œBut that’s not why you’re here.” Isabel gathered up an armful of undyed yarn. “Let me just get another batch going, then we’ll have a talk,” she said.
    Rose understood the need to keep the work moving, so she occupied herself by admiring the skeins of dyed yarns hanging around the room. Isabel had been busy. Wilhelm would, indeed, be pleased to see the old Shaker dyes and dyeing methods resurrected with such skill. It pleased Rose, too, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if they were going the right direction. Certainly there was something about reviving the old ways that gave Rose and other Believers a strong sense ofbeing apart from the world, but wasn’t it truly their faith that set them apart? Surely they could maintain that faith and still adapt to the world around them. They had always been leaders in the adoption and even the invention of new labor-saving devices—anything that would make the work quicker and leave more time for worship. Wilhelm believed that life had gotten too luxurious; was he right?
    â€œThere!” said Isabel. “We’ll let that cook a spell. I’m ready to sit How about you?”
    In answer, Rose lifted a ladder-back chair from two wall pegs, where it hung upside down to keep its seat free of dust. She handed the chair to Isabel, then lifted another for herself.
    â€œI’m glad you’re here, Rose,” Isabel said. “I’d thought I should tell you about Celia Griffiths’ little visit with us this morning, but I