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stool, this one placed so that she would be looking down on a nearby table where Trinity would work.
    She placed her basket at her feet and took out a long black scarf and a skein of wool yarn. She placed the roll of yarn in her lap and allowed the scarf to fall to the floor as she began to ply two long ivory knitting needles that were yellowed with age.
    “That’s a nice scarf,” Trinity said, trying to warm the air with friendly commentary. She moved toward the nearest cabinets somehow, not liking the feel of the hard-packed dirt beneath her feet.
    “It’s for the man who paid for the Historical Society’s renovation. A thank you gift,” Jesham said. “He won’t let us thank him publically. He wanted to remain anonymous.”
    So, the society had received a donation to renovate the house and grounds. No wonder it looked much more well-kept than the last time she had been in town.
    The click-click-clickity-click of Mrs. Jesham’s needles set Trinity’s teeth on age, but she braced herself against the constant clicking so she could get to work.
    It took several musty hours before Trinity finally found records for a Clara Chadwick’s birth and death. Mrs. Jesham had watched her like a hawk…instead of like the beady-eyed crow in Creed’s collection. The older woman had hardly moved beyond the busy click of her needles, sitting on her stool, hour after hour, while Trinity dug and shuffled and sorted.
    Born 1935—Died 1944.
Clara had died when she was only eight years old.
    “There was a fever that year,” Mrs. Jesham said over her shoulder. Trinity started and looked up into Mrs. Jesham’s uncommonly bright eyes. The woman still held her knitting needles and the scarf, but she had quieted the project in her fist to speak. “If she was a Chadwick buried before 1945, you’ll find her at the Old Stone Church,” Mrs. Jeshamcontinued.“Many children died that winter.” Her sudden interest and animation after hours of silent, motionless observation except for her busy needles gave Trinity chills.
    “The story was that a traveling salesman came into town with a cough. His car broke down and he ended up spending a cold night by High Lake before someone found him delirious with fever the next day. Every house he’d visited that week with his suitcase of whatever it was he was selling fell ill. Many didn’t recover. Especially the children,” Mrs. Jesham said. Trinity wondered how many historical stories the woman had memorized over her lifetime and how many involved tragedy. No wonder she wore black and jet beads. There was a sense of mourning about her. Perpetual mourning. Did it lighten her load to share the stories once in a while? Or was she steeped in darkness, each and every tale she held in her head heavy on her soul?
    Trinity didn’t argue that she could have found Clara anywhere in town, not just the Old Stone Church. The Girl in Blue didn’t seem to be content to stay in her grave. Instead, Trinity thanked the woman and helped her put away the faded resources. A part of her wanted to rush away, but even in the oppressive atmosphere, she fought against it. Violet Jesham deserved her gratitude. That she made Trinity uneasy didn’t signify.
    * * *
    When the
Chadwick
girl finally left, Violet continued her knitting, completely unaware that she stood in a corner of the room where the light was bad. It didn’t matter. Her fingers clicked the needles automatically. She stared into a photograph filled with long-dead eyes.
    The Ladies of the Scarlet Falls Historical Society, 1922.
    None of them truly gone.
    * * *
    Once she was outside, Trinity breathed deep cleansing breaths to clear the dust and must from her lungs.
    “I know how you feel,” Maddy said, coming around the corner of the house. She held trimming shears in her re-gloved hands.
    “That basement needs some ventilation,” Trinity said. She didn’t want to talk about Violet Jesham’s odd effect on her nerves.
    “It’s the cat that bothers