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sound.
    “Hmm.” It was a grumble of a noise, but it was something.
    Something she didn’t like.
    She dragged me by the wrist over to her desk. I smelled the musti-
    ness of time past and held still while she pulled off the glass chimney
    from the oil lamp and unscrewed the burner and col ar. She tugged
    the red string on my wrist with one of her burled fingers, breaking
    it so it fell to the floor. My wrist was naked and slippery without a
    string, but Mamie seemed intent on not letting that last long. Her
    hand dove into her apron pocket, and she snapped a new length of
    red thread from the spool with her teeth and dredged it through the
    oil in the lamp where a small string of red wool already drowned.
    Use the oil, girl, Mamie had told me when I was no older than five
    or six. She’d brought me to her room with the promise of making a
    Victorian-style silhouette, but instead, she thrust me in her rocking
    chair and knelt on the floor with her kerosene lamp in pieces on
    the desktop. Can’t go runnin’ ’ round these parts with no oil on your
    strings. That Mexican mama you got keeps them evil eyes off you, and
    while her ways are fair enough, you gots to have the oil to slick off the
    bad spirits and bad intentions. May no violent or poisoned death come
    your way when you’re oiled well enough.
    Now she tied the soaked string on my wrist. “Mamie,” I said, “is
    there something else?”
    37
    She crisscrossed her hands as she waved me off, ushering me out
    of her room to the steps.
    “Mamie, please?” I begged.
    Her gaze held mine. A flex in her lips, twitch of her fingers.
    Nothing. She didn’t — couldn’t — speak.
    As I carried Mamie’s barely touched dinner plate down the stairs,
    oil leaked from my wrist to drip off my little finger. At the base of the
    steps, I heard the click of Mamie’s door as it shut.
    Outside, the rain eased. Heather bounced on her toes in the kitch-
    en and checked the window in the back door. She tugged the red
    thread around her wrist and moved with an impatience so palpable
    I could’ve grabbed it.
    “You’re wound up,” I said.
    “Waitin’ for the rain to stop,” she explained. She cocked her head.
    “You upset about the May Queen thing?”
    Yes, I was jealous, though it was hard to admit. “Maybe a little.”
    “It’s stupid, to have it based on who your parents are. It’s gonna
    be a popularity contest.” She scoffed. “Look, I’ll tell my mama that I
    refuse to be nominated if you can’t be.”
    “Don’t do that. You deserve to be on the ballot,” I said.
    “So do you! You love the Glen, Ivy. If anyone should be May
    Queen, it’s you, and that you can’t — No, I don’t want it. Give it to
    some other girl. Maybe Violet.”
    The gesture was thoughtful and lifted the corners of my mouth.
    Heather hugged me and kissed my cheek before she took a hooded
    shawl from the wall hooks near the door.
    “Wh-where are you goin’?” I asked.
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    She slipped the shawl over her shoulders and drew the hood to
    hide her curls. “I gotta go. Cover for me?”
    Heather, come on. You can tell me what you’re up to. You tell me
    everything ’cause you’re almost my sister. I didn’t say that.
    “They’ll notice you’re gone.”
    “They’re drunk on honey wine, and Mama has baby brain. It’s all
    she thinks about.” She giggled. Her face was soft, but her voice needy.
    “Do this for me, Ivy.”
    “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
    “So many questions. Now I’ve gotta go, so please? I’ll tell you
    about it later.”
    I should’ve asked more questions. Instead, I sighed in tacit agree-
    ment. “What do you want me to tell them? If Marsh notices —”
    “He’ll what?” Heather snorted. “You’re assuming he remembers I
    exist.”
    She frowned, and I rubbed her shoulder. She was her daddy’s girl,
    no surprise since she was named for Uncle Heath, but that Aunt Rue
    remarried so soon after burying him was tender yet. It didn’t