The Widow Of Pale Harbour. Hester Fox

it gives us. It’s like a riddle, but no one understands the meaning. Or hidden treasure...things seem to be found in the most surprising of places. Jane Fisher’s sister found the strangest little doll stuffed into a tree.”

      “I see.” Recalling the stories he’d heard from Lewis and the Marshalls, Gabriel doubted as to whether the rest of the town shared in Fanny’s enthusiasm. It seemed that everything that had been found had been hidden, secreted away out of sight: the remains left in an abandoned church, a doll hidden in a tree, skinned squirrels in the woods.

      He rubbed at the two-day growth on his jaw, not wanting to speak of such things anymore. “So you knew Mr. Carver?”

      If Fanny was caught by surprise by the change in subject, she didn’t let it show. Indeed, she seemed to be enjoying the gossip. “No, he died before I came on.”

      “She’s so young to be a widow,” he murmured.

      Fanny shrugged. “She’s better off without him, if you ask me. Anyway, when he was alive, they had a cook and a whole score of help. But when he died, Mrs. Carver sent them all away.”

      “All except for Helen,” he said.

      “That’s right. Helen is so kind to her. She takes good care of Mrs. Carver, even if she is a tough old thing.”

      “I’m sure she’s lucky to have you both,” Gabriel said diplomatically. His curiosity about Mrs. Carver had already been piqued, but as he spoke with Fanny, it had flared into an insatiable hunger for answers. He had sat across from the elegant woman herself, listened to her proclaim her innocence in her silky-smooth voice. He couldn’t explain why, but he was desperate to see her again, to peel off the rumors surrounding her and discover the person underneath.

      Fanny gave a little sigh, though whether of contentment or sorrow he couldn’t tell. “And Pale Harbor is lucky to have her.”

       8

      Sophronia rubbed at her throbbing temple, willing the impending headache to hold off just a little longer. She had been editing a submission all day, and the author’s penmanship was particularly atrocious, cramped and hard to read. She had only a handful more pages to get through, but they seemed to multiply every time she turned the page, the tight lines of text stretching on forever. As she closed her eyes to give them a respite, her thoughts turned to her unlikely visitor the other day.

      The minister had not been what she was expecting, but she had liked him all the same. She had been prepared for a genial older man with kind eyes and a white beard. She had been prepared for polite conversation, tiptoeing around the lies and suspicions planted by the townspeople. What she had not been prepared for was the racing heart, the trembling hands and the sensation that she had known him all her life. And that’s what made it all the harder to have to look him in the face and refute all the horrible rumors about herself. What would the reserved man with the watchful hazel eyes think about her if he knew the truth?

      Yet she could still hardly believe her luck. How she had prayed, watching that storm roll in, feeling the change that was coming to Pale Harbor. And here it was, packaged in a young minister—a little rough around the edges perhaps—but as fresh as sea-salt air.

      Her thoughts were interrupted when Helen came in, bearing a tray with a steaming pot of tea. Sophronia glanced up over the top of her desk, watching as Helen set the tray on the table. Putting her pen down, Sophronia stretched her aching back and yawned deeply. “Is that for me?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

      After the minister had left, Helen had not been shy about letting her feelings for him be known. She didn’t trust him, didn’t like outsiders coming and sniffing around. But she must have forgotten that she was supposed to be sulking, because the tray was decadently laden with all Sophronia’s favorite tea cakes.

      Bristling, Helen didn’t look up as she poured out the tea. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?” But her bad mood was clearly already dissipating; a smile tugged at her lips.

      Sophronia’s heart lightened in relief and she sprang up, sending her papers fluttering to the floor. “There’s a dear! I knew you couldn’t stay angry with me. Now,” she said, clasping her hands together as she surveyed the tray of cakes, “which shall we have first?”

      Helen took a butter biscuit and sat down. She looked worn and tired, older than her forty years, and a twinge of guilt ran through Sophronia that she had been so short with Helen yesterday. But they settled into an easy conversation as if they had never had a disagreement. They had lived together too long, too closely, for such a trivial matter to come between them. Like two cogs grinding along in the same clock, it would take far more than a tiny, stray pebble to bring them to a halt.

      “How is our patient doing?” Sophronia asked as she poured out another cup of sweet, milky tea. She had seen Helen going in and out of the carriage house with the raven, making splints and removing the old bandages.

      The little lines at the corners of Helen’s eyes softened. “A real fighter, that one,” she said. “Had him eating grizzle out of my hand today.”

      Helen had the touch when it came to animals, though Sophronia suspected some of it had to do with the craft she claimed to practice. Over the years, she had rescued seagulls that blew in from storms, an orphaned litter of kittens and even a fox cub that had found itself the worse for wear after a tussle with a dog.

      “You’re a wonder,” Sophronia said indulgently as her gaze swept over the tempting tray of cakes. She’d been working without pause since breakfast, and she was famished. Just as she was selecting a little honey cake with lemon icing, there was a knock at the door and her hand froze. She caught Helen’s eye. It couldn’t possibly be the minister again so soon, could it?

      As if reading her mind, Helen’s face darkened. “Probably that nosy minister come back,” she said, and she stalked out of the room to answer the door.

      Sophronia hastily swept her hair up, tucking it back into its chignon. Her heart beat a little faster as she followed Helen to the door.

      Helen yanked open the door and hissed, “What do you want now?”

      But there was only darkness there, and nothing more. Helen stepped back as the door swung the rest of the way open, and Sophronia heard the sharp intake of her friend’s breath. “What?” she whispered, afraid that she already knew the answer.

      Helen shot out an arm to keep her from going any farther. “Go inside, Sophy,” she murmured.

      “What? No! Let me see!” Sophronia craned her neck, trying to see past her to the bottom of the steps.

      “I’ll take care of it. Go inside.”

      “Helen!” The force of her voice surprised them both, and with a reluctant sigh, Helen dropped her arm and stood to the side.

      Sophronia blinked into the darkness, trying to make sense of the dots of light that danced before her.

      Candles. Seven white candles stood in the middle of the path, their flames gently guttering in the night’s thin breeze.

      A chill ran down her spine and rooted itself in her gut. They were laid out so...precisely, so deliberately. Not ten minutes before, someone had been on her front path, carefully arranging the candles and setting flame to each one. Just as the day with the raven, her neck prickled at the thought that someone might be watching her at that very moment.

      Darting her tongue over her dry lips, Sophronia finally dared to break the taut silence. “Is...is it some sort of witchcraft?” There was something sinister about the way in which the candles stood, as if they were a jury, judging her, damning her to some dark fate. One of the most popular myths in town was that she was a witch; was this someone’s way of accusing her?

      After sweeping down the steps, Helen began pinching out the flames with wetted fingertips. Sophronia’s chest tightened in