“It was a basket.”
“Heavy basket.”
“It contained bread.”
“You should rest.”
“I have rested.”
“For eleven minutes.”
At seven months, Penny threatened to make him sleep in the barn.
He improved for almost a day.
Their daughter was born during a summer thunderstorm.
Penny labored fourteen hours.
Declan nearly fainted twice.
Samuel ordered him out once.
Penny ordered him back.
At dawn, a baby girl arrived screaming.
Declan stared.
Then cried harder than the baby.
They named her Elena Mary Frost.
Mary for the woman who had wanted children and never got to raise hers.
Years later, they had a son.
Samuel Declan Frost.
Then no more.
Two was enough.
The seven graves remained.
Penny planted flowers.
Different flower for every woman when possible.
Roses for Agnes.
Lavender for Margaret.
Wild lupine for Louise.
Columbine for Helen.
Daisies for Rose.
White yarrow for Mary.
Mountain asters for Abigail.
Declan initially worried Penny would feel strange caring for former wives' graves.
She answered:
“They died here.”
“They deserve memory.”
Nothing more needed saying.
Silas died in prison twelve years after conviction.
No one from the Frost family claimed the body immediately.
Declan eventually paid for burial.
Penny did not ask why.
She understood.
Hatred and kinship can coexist in unpleasant ways.
Declan stood at the grave.
Said nothing.
Then left.
When Penny asked later how he felt, he answered:
“Free.”
Not happy.
Free.
That was enough.
Twenty years after Penny first dragged Declan from Willow Creek, their daughter Elena found Helen’s letters.
She was eighteen.
Penny had stored them carefully.
Elena read one.
Then another.
Her face changed.
“Mother.”
“Yes?”
“She knew.”
“Some of it.”
“Why didn't anyone believe her?”
Penny considered.
“Because people are often more comfortable with a supernatural explanation than an inconvenient human one.”
Elena frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“A curse demands nothing.”
“A criminal does.”
“If something is cursed, everyone can shrug.”
“If somebody poisoned water, somebody has to investigate.”
“Somebody has to admit mistakes.”
“Somebody powerful might be responsible.”
Elena looked toward the graves.
“Do you think she knew Silas would kill her?”
Penny shook her head.
“I don't know.”
That answer mattered.
Penny had spent decades learning not to fill gaps simply because uncertainty hurt.
Elena asked:
“Were you afraid when you married Father?”
Penny smiled.
“Yes.”
“Of the curse?”
“No.”
“Of what?”
“Loving him.”
Elena made a disgusted face.
Penny laughed.
“You asked.”
“Never mind.”
That evening Declan came inside carrying firewood.
Older.
Gray through beard.
Still huge.
Penny watched him.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
She smiled.
“Still true.”
He approached.
Kissed her forehead.
Then saw Helen’s letters.
His expression softened.
“Elena found them.”
“I see.”
“Did you tell her everything?”
“Enough.”
Declan sat beside Penny.