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Abigail had given her the old wool Shaker dress she was wearing, and now she wished she’d gone ahead and used the white kerchief that the sisters used to crisscross over their bodices in the old days. At least it would have provided one more layer.
    She hadn’t really considered where to go, once she’d escaped the kitchen. They were running out of rosewater for their baking; maybe she’d visit the Fancy Goods Store. It always seemed warmer there—maybe because it was attached to the Trustees’ Office, where lots of folks visited from the world. She could surely talk the sisters into contributing a bottle of rosewater from their supply. It wasn’t as if they had many customers these days, though they were hoping that Mother Ann’s Birthday might bring in a few more collectors to buy the special Shaker dolls and pincushions and so forth the sewing sisters were making. But, no, the sisters would be in the dining room, and Julia was no longer there to mind the shop over the noon hour, so it would be closed.
    Dulcie stopped on the path. A convulsive shiver shook her as she looked around the deserted village and gulped back a sob. The emptiness felt like a punishment, all she could look forward to in her life. She’d done such an awful thing. Of course, it was Julia’s fault as much as anyone else’s. Shame caught like a bone in her throat. With Julia gone, there was no one she could talk to—not the sisters, kind as they were; not her so-called friend, Carlotta; not even Theodore. Especially not Theodore.
    Her footsteps broke the silence as she stepped off the cleared path onto the crusty snow. All she wanted was to go back to the Brick Dwelling House, to her warm little room, in which the Shakers were letting her stay while she worked for them. She’d curl up into a ball on her narrow bed, and pull the soft wool coverlet over her head. She might get caught, though. Instead, she crunched through the snow toward the old Round Stone Barn. It wasn’t used anymore. She could usually count on being alone there. Being alone terrified her but seemed only right, somehow. Maybe she’d stay there until she died of the cold. In her most frightening nightmares, she nearly always died of either hunger or the cold, so it was only fitting that she should miss supper and freeze alone in the barn. Maybe that would fix things again.
    Clouds of deep gray easily overpowered the weak winter sun, turning noon to near dusk. The Round Stone Barn was built on a hill, with entrances by ramps to all three levels. Dulcie jogged stiffly toward the upper entrance, noting that hers were the first feet to make prints in the snow. If the village missed her too quickly, she supposed someone could follow her footsteps, but if the sky kept its promise, fresh snow would cover her tracks within hours.
    She slipped inside the barn and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. At one time, hay had been delivered by horse and wagon to this level and then pitched down to the animals below. Dulcie had never seen the barn in those days. Now it was just a sad, old abandoned building, with wind whistling through the cracks between the stones. Bits of ancient hay had blown into corners and stuck there, and no hands could be spared to tidy it up.
    Without purpose, Dulcie began walking around the circle, clutching herself more tightly each time she passed a crack in the wall. About halfway around, she saw an old blanket tossed against the outer wall, as if someone had made a futile attempt to heal the injured stone. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders, not minding the bits of hay that poked at her shoulders and back. Relief from the cold lightened her mood somewhat, and she started to walk again.
    A few minutes later, she realized she was not alone. Someone must have entered at a lower level, so she’d missed seeing the footsteps in the snow. Voices drifted up to her—angry, male voices.