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keep him safe, the way it once protected him in the womb.
    For a moment she was angry, to have her own life so changed. Worse than the blacksmith coming, it was, worse than Papa and the hazel wand he whupped her with, worse than Mama when her eyes were angry. Everything would be different forever and it wasn’t fair. Just for a baby she never invited, never asked to come here, what did she care about any old baby?
    She reached out and opened the box, planning to take the caul and cast it into a dark corner of the attic. But even in the darkness, she could see a place where it was darker still: near her heartfire, where the emptiness of the deep black river was all set to make a murderer out of her.
    Not me, she said to the water. You ain’t part of me.
    Yes I am, whispered the water. I’m all through you, and you’d dry up and die without me.
    You ain’t the boss of me, anyway, she retorted.
    She closed the lid on the box and skidded her way down the ladder. Papa always said that she’d get splinters in her butt doing that. This time he was right. It stung something fierce, so she walked kind of sideways into the kitchen where Oldpappy was. Sure enough, he stopped his cooking long enough to pry the splinters out.
    “My eyes ain’t sharp enough for this, Maggie,” he complained.
    “You got the eyes of an eagle. Papa says so.”
    Oldpappy chuckled. “Does he now.”
    “What’s for dinner?”
    “Oh, you’ll like this dinner, Maggie.”
    Little Peggy wrinkled up her nose. “Smells like chicken.”
    “That’s right.”
    “I don’t like chicken soup.”
    “Not just soup, Maggie. This one’s a-roasting, except the neck and wings.”
    “I hate roast chicken, too.”
    “Does your Oldpappy ever lie to you?”
    “Nope.”
    “Then you best believe me when I tell you this is one chicken dinner that’ll make you glad . Can’t you think of any way that a partickler chicken dinner could make you glad?”
    Little Peggy thought and thought, and then she smiled. “Bloody Mary?”
    Oldpappy winked. “I always said that was a hen born to make gravy.”
    Little Peggy hugged him so tight that he made choking sounds, and then they laughed and laughed.
    Later that night, long after little Peggy was in bed, they brought Vigor’s body home, and Papa and Makepeace set to making a box for him. Alvin Miller hardly looked alive, even when Eleanor showed him the baby. Until she said, “That torch girl. She says that this baby is the seventh son of a seventh son.”
    Alvin looked around for someone to tell him if it was true.
    “Oh, you can trust her,” said Mama.
    Tears came fresh to Alvin’s eyes. “That boy hung on,” he said. “There in the water, he hung on long enough.”
    “He knowed what store you set by that,” said Eleanor.
    Then Alvin reached for the baby, held him tight, looked down into his eyes. “Nobody named him yet, did they?” he asked.
    “Course not,” said Eleanor. “Mama named all the other boys, but you always said the seventh son’d have—”
    “My own name. Alvin. Seventh son of a seventh son, with the same name as his father. Alvin Junior.” He looked around him, then turned to face toward the river, way off in the nighttime forest. “Hear that, you Hatrack River? His name is Alvin, and you didn’t kill him after all.”
    Soon they brought in the box and laid out Vigor’s body with candles, to stand for the fire of life that had left him. Alvin held up the baby, over the coffin. “Look on your brother,” he whispered to the infant.
    “That baby can’t see nothing yet, Papa,” said David.
    “That ain’t so, David,” said Alvin. “He don’t know what he’s seeing, but his eyes can see. And when he gets old enough to hear the story of his birth, I’m going to tell him that his own eyes saw his brother Vigor, who gave his life for this baby’s sake.”
    It was two weeks before Faith was well enough to travel. But Alvin saw to it that he and his boys worked hard for their