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the woman. She gives a minute nod, telling him without words that she’ll remain with the children.
    I’m keenly aware of the children’s eyes on us. They’re wondering about their fates, I realize. Where will they live? Who will take them in? Will they be kept together or will they be separated, the family shattered once again? Little Ike still looks at me as if I might be able to conjure forth his dead mamm. I know it’s self-defeating, but I feel guilty because I can’t.
    The house is getting crowded, so I motion toward the front door and we step onto the porch. For the span of several heartbeats, the only sound comes from the tinkle of sleet against the roof.
    I break the silence. “Do the Slabaughs have relatives?” It’s so cold, my breath billows when I speak.
    “There is a brother.” The bishop looks out across the darkened field. “We will take care of those children.”
    I wait for more information on the brother, but he doesn’t offer it. “What’s his name?”
    “Adam.”
    “Does he live around here?”
    “Millersburg, I believe.”
    I stare at his profile, wondering why he’s so reluctant to offer information about Adam Slabaugh. “I need to notify next of kin.”
    The bishop turns his attention back to me. “What of the children, Katie?”
    “Children Services will probably place them with relatives. Or the brother.”
    The bishop shakes his head so hard, his jowls jiggle. “Not Adam.”
    “Why not?”
    “He is not Amish. Solly would not have wanted his children raised by a man who has been excommunicated.”
    The reason behind his earlier reluctance suddenly becomes crystal clear. “Is there any other family?”
    “No.”
    “Bishop, with all due respect—”
    He cuts me off. “These children were raised Amish. An Amish family would feel blessed to take them in and raise them as their own.”
    “This isn’t a matter of Amish versus English.”
    The bishop gives me a sage look. “Yes, it is.”
    It’s an old argument, one that’s taken on a painful new twist this morning because four young lives hang in the balance. “The decision isn’t mine to make,” I tell him. “Nor is it yours. I’ll have to involve Children Services.”
    For the first time, the bishop looks alarmed. “No, Katie. Do not do that. Your English government does not care about the Amish way. They do not care about the broken hearts of those children.”
    I’ve known Bishop Troyer since I was a child. He was tough on me when I was an unrepentant teenager and made the decision to leave the plain life behind. We’ve had many disagreements over the years. But my respect for him is high. I’m old enough now to know he’s a decent man with a good heart and a fair mind. None of those things changes my responsibilities.
    “Can you see to it that someone stays with the children until we get this settled?” Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t ask. In fact, I would have already notified Children Services and asked for a social worker to assist with placement in temporary foster homes. But because these children are Amish, I know they will be safe and loved in the hands of their brethren.
    The old bishop nods and says, “Mer sot em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht,” which means “One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.”
    I’ve heard the old adage before. Because I know life isn’t always that kind—even if you’re Amish—I don’t respond. “I’ve got to tell Adam about his brothers and his sister-in-law.” I turn to leave, but he reaches out and snags my arm.
    “These children have lost enough,” he says. “Do not take them away from everything they know. Do not take their faith from them. Solly would have wanted them raised Amish. ”
    I leave with those words ringing in my ears.

CHAPTER 4
    There are few things I’ve done in my life that are more difficult than telling someone they’ve lost a loved one. It’s a helpless, hopeless