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three continue their conversation about the propriety of reading from the Song of Solomon from the pulpit.
    The knocking intensified as Kassandra tore through the parlor and the dining room, and by the time she was crossing the kitchen she could hear muted profanities coming through the door.
    “I’m coming! I’m coming!” she muttered not quite under her breath. When she reached the door, she yanked it open with all the force of her frustration.
    His fist was stilled in midair, ready to administer another blow, his face barely discernable under the cap pulled low on his brow.
    “Not a very patient one, are you?” Kassandra asked, opening the door just wide enough to poke her head out.
    “Not when it’s nearly five minutes I’m out here, frappin’ until my hand’s nearly thick with blood.” He shouldered the door open and pushed past her. Once inside the kitchen he turned to face her and asked, “Where are you wantin’ this?” referring to the canvas-wrapped bundle he had slung over his shoulder.
    “I am not sure,” Kassandra said. Clara was meticulous in her power over deliveries—a duty she had never sought to share.
    “Well, until ya are, I’m leavin’ it right here.” He dropped the bundle on the middle of the kitchen table, causing the crockery vase of freshly cut flowers to jump nearly an inch off the surface. “It’s a heavy son.”
    The young man took his cap off, revealing a mass of tight red curls. He turned to Kassandra, who was still standing in the open doorway, and fixed her with a bright smile that made her feel as if a tiny bird had been let loose somewhere behind her rib cage.
    “You know, miss, you might want to shut that door before you bring in too much of a chill into this nice, warm kitchen.”
    “Of course.” Kassandra felt a slight sense of uneasiness when the door clicked behind her, not knowing if it was such a good idea to be trapped alone in this room with this boy. As a matter of precaution—and to keep standing despite the very real threat of her legs buckling beneath her—Kassandra kept her hand clasped on the doorknob, and her eyes fixed on the mysterious bundle on the table.
    “It’s a lamb,” he said with a demonstrative gesture. “My guess is the reverend ordered it for his Easter dinner.”
    “Of course,” Kassandra said again, mentally kicking herself for her lack of originality
    They stared at each other for a minute. At least she was sure he was staring at her—her face was burning so—but she kept her own gaze in constant motion around the familiar room.
    “Of course …” he said, his voice tinged with the amusement of echoing her words, “you could just leave it out here on the table. But I suspect it might start gettin’ a little green after a bit. Would you be wantin’ me to take it to someplace a bit cooler? Like maybe a cellar?”
    “Of course!” Kassandra said yet again, thrilled to have a plan at last. “I mean, yes, the cellar. Right this way.”
    She let go her grip on the kitchen doorknob and walked, head down, into the pantry just off the kitchen. She heard him behind her, grunting as he shouldered the weight of the lamb once again.
    “It’s just down there,” she said, kicking back the mat that covered the cellar door.
    “Well, now, do you think maybe you could open it for me? I’m a bit burdened here.”
    Before she could stop herself, Kassandra said, “Of course,” again before stooping to grasp the iron ring and raising it to expose the open, empty blackness.
    “And is there a ladder?” he asked.
    “Of—yes, there is.”
    “And is there a light? Or would you rather I broke my neck tryin’ to bring you your Easter dinner?”
    “A lamp. Yes, I’ll get one,” Kassandra said. “Wait here.”
    She stepped back into the kitchen, grabbed the kerosene lamp off the shelf above the stove, lifted the globe—amazed at the steadiness of her hands—lit the wick, and held the burning match while she replaced the glass,