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I’ve rented a carriage.”
    At this, Clara was overwhelmed. The thought of taking a carriage ride all the way across Lockhaven was something she had only dreamed of. And now it was coming true, but under the most unfortunate circumstances.
    Harriet called Ruby in. “We won’t be printing mourning cards or opening the house. But do you think we should put a notice in the paper?”
    “I think that would be nice,” Ruby said.
    “All right, then,” Harriet said. “If you write it and take it down to the
Tribune
this morning, perhaps we’ll see it published tomorrow.”
    “Oh, not me,” said Ruby, turning pink. “I don’t write things.”
    “I do,” volunteered Clara. “If you let me, I’ll write the notice and Ruby can deliver it.”
    “Fine,” said her mother. “But, Clara, make it brief andwith few details. And please do not mention our presence in the home. Officially, Mrs. Glendoveer has no survivors. We mustn’t presume.”
    Clara went to her room and took out her pen and paper.
    Mrs. George Glendoveer (Cenelia) passed away Thursday evening of pneumonia. She was quite old—old enough to remember Lockhaven when the big sailing ships still stopped here. Her marriage to the magician George Glendoveer took her to many places. Their love was strong, although their lives were shadowed with disappointment. Mrs. Glendoveer was fond of her birds, which appear to be inconsolable after her death. They did not sing when the sun came up on Friday morning. They have not yet sung today. This dear lady will be much missed .
    Clara put down her pen. She hadn’t felt capable of sympathy for the creatures before; but as she thought of the ragged old birds, sitting silent, wings hanging as if they were broken, a tear rolled down one cheek.
    By the time she had folded the notice into its envelope, she could not stop her tears. Ruby took the note from her and rested her hand on Clara’s shoulder.
    “I am glad it is you who remembered her for everyone,” said Ruby. “She would have liked that.”
    Clara knew that to be true, which made her suffering keener still.
    • • •
    When it was time to leave for the graveyard, the air was filled with a fine drizzle. Clara wore a thick black crêpe veil over her hat, which made the world appear even drearier. The man who drove the carriage lifted her up onto the tufted leather seat and then assisted her mother and Ruby aboard.
    “Will they be selling the old place now?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the house.
    “Why?” Harriet replied sharply. “Are you interested in buying?”
    “Me?” he laughed. “No. Though I have wondered why the house wasn’t pulled down before, what with the history that comes with it. Then the company sends me out here today. Could have knocked me over. I thought the last Glendoveer had expired long ago.”
    “Obviously not,” she answered. “May we go, please?”
    But the man leaned against the carriage and stroked his cheek. “I bet you could get something for the land if you hold out. People are building now. Brass works is expanding. Who knows?”
    “I’d say you could use less brass and more manners,” snapped Ruby.
    The man pulled in his chin and gaped.
    “Please commence to the cemetery, and in silence,” said Harriet.
    Clara looked at each of the women, but they stared straight ahead. “What was he talking about?”
    “A load of nonsense,” replied her mother.
    Clara stared out the window as the coach rolled downhill. She saw that the houses and yards grew smaller as they approached the flats of Lockhaven. It was impossible to memorize every single one, yet she tried. One house had wash hung out in the yard, another had a tiny silver-haired woman peeling potatoes on her stoop. A little boy and girl laughed and chased a spotted dog dressed in an old lady’s bonnet. The cemetery was a sharp contrast to its surroundings. The grounds were encircled in a grand wrought-iron fence and had an open double-door gate with gilt