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violation and the artist had to leave. I didn’t want Lillian sent back to that high-rise in St. Paul.
    “Please,” Lillian begged. “Just a page or two. I have a poem book all picked out.”
    I held my sketchbook up to show that I was writing. If Eleanor heard us talking on the front porch, she would be the first to tell.
    “Please?” Lillian asked again. “I can’t sit in this silence for so long. It makes me miss the children. I don’t know where they’ve gone.”
    Saying no to Lillian was too hard for my heart. She always made me think of Grandpa Mac—how he’d feel if he were frail and made to sit in silence by himself. A thing he couldn’t bear. If he begged someone for their company, I’d want them to say yes.
    Okay, I finally motioned with a shrug. We could do it in the library. I’d close both doors and whisper. And hope we didn’t get caught.
     
    It was late that night when Viktor stood outside our cottage. The second that I saw him a wave of guilt rose up in my chest.
    “Viktor,” Mama said, surprised. He hadn’t visited our cottage in the ten days since we came. “Come in.”
    “No, thank you, Molly.” He stared down at his feet. “I’d like a word with Raine.”
    A sour knot twisted in my stomach.
    “Raine?” Mama asked. “Viktor, is there something wrong?”
    I walked out the front door before he had a chance to answer. I broke the silence rule. I knew why he was here.
    “The silence.” Viktor’s bony hands were hidden in his pocket. “We keep it for good reason.”
    “I know.” I’d already learned how silence worked on dreams, how my orphan’s story came alive because of quiet.
    “And the artists have committed to a contract. But Lillian—” He rubbed his hand over his sunken cheek. Even in the darkness, the Iceberg’s skin was the blue white of a ghost.
    “The silence made her sad,” I said. “Please don’t make her go back to that high-rise in St. Paul.”
    “That high-rise?” Viktor said. “What a dismal place.” He stared down at the grass. “Lillian, she finds the silence long. Perhaps if you could sit with her each day? Help her write her poetry?”
    “Help her write?” For some reason, I wasn’t sure Lillian really was a poet. Maybe because I’d never seen her write. “During silent time?” Was Viktor asking me to break one of his rules?
    “Yes,” Viktor said. “So she’s not alone so long. Each afternoon, the two of you may have the side porch to yourselves. Close the door so no one hears you. I will inform the other artists an exception has been made.” This was more talk than I’d ever heard from Viktor. I felt like I was drowning in a sudden flood of words. Still, he kept his focus on the ground.
    “I shall pay you for your time.”
    “No.” Grandpa Mac didn’t pay me for working in his store. It was family helping family. And Lillian already felt like a kind of family. A great-great-aunt or the grandma I didn’t have.
    “I would prefer,” he said.
    “No,” I said again. “I don’t want the money.” I was glad to have a job to fill my days. Like Lillian, I couldn’t stand the silence for too long.
    “Good night, then.” He took a step and turned to look at me. “After everything she’s given—” He stopped like he couldn’t quite find the words. “It’s fitting that a child be kind to her.”

13
    “Mama, what’s in Comfort?” I asked her the next day.
    We were stretched out on a blanket at the lake with a picnic lunch of ham sandwiches, ripple chips, and pickles.
    “Stores and things.” Mama flushed. “Nothing really, Raine.”
    “And you go there to buy groceries?” Both times Mama had gone to town with Viktor she’d brushed her curls, put on clean clothes and earrings like there was more to Comfort than shopping for our food. And both times she’d come back with fluster blotches burning on her neck.
    “I do,” Mama said. “Why the questions, Raine? You’ve seen the bags yourself. You’ve helped unload