Josephine noticed my expression immediately.
"What happened?"
I told her about the tracks.
Her face tightened.
For several seconds, she remained silent.
Then she asked whether the survey stone had been moved.
I stared.
"No."
She exhaled.
"Good."
I crossed my arms.
"Josephine, how do you know about that marker?"
She looked toward me.
For a moment, she seemed on the verge of answering.
Then she said quietly.
"Because I've seen a drawing of this valley."
The room became very still.
I watched her.
"What drawing?"
She lowered her eyes.
"An old survey."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Where?"
Josephine looked toward the trunk beside the bed.
Then whispered.
"I brought it with me."
I wanted to demand an explanation.
God knows I had enough questions.
But Josephine looked frightened in a way I'd never seen before.
Not frightened of me.
Frightened of what telling the truth might change.
I sat beside the table.
"All right."
She raised her eyes.
I continued.
"Get the drawing."
She hesitated.
Then asked whether I'd promise not to become angry before she explained.
I considered the request.
I could feel my own confusion rising.
But I didn't want to frighten her further.
"I can't promise how I'll feel," I answered. "I can promise I'll listen."
She nodded.
Then asked me to bring her trunk closer.
I moved it beside the bed.
She opened a hidden pocket sewn into the lining and withdrew a folded sheet of heavy paper.
The edges were worn.
Several sections had been repaired with careful stitching.
She handed it to me.
I unfolded it.
My breath caught.
It was a map of the valley.
Not the rough drawing I'd made when I first claimed the cabin.
A proper survey.
The stream.
The lower crossing.
The old freight road.
And the narrow meadow where my stable stood.
Near the bottom was a name I hadn't seen written in twenty years.
Thomas Wren.
I stared.
I remembered him.
He'd been a surveyor near Red Willow.
A quiet man who traveled with his wife and young daughter.
He'd assisted settlers in disputes over Calder's land claims.
Then he'd disappeared during the same terrible week as Eliza.
I looked toward Josephine.
"Thomas Wren was your father?"
She nodded.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I looked back at the map.
The past had become suddenly, impossibly close.
Josephine told me that her father died when she was five.