Whisper Falls by Elizabeth Langston Page A

were like crack.
    â€œYou are right. I am fortunate you were the one to witness that. Thank you.” She picked her way over to the cliff.
    It was still light out. I wasn’t ready to let her go. I had to do something to hold her attention.
    â€œHey,” I called after her, “I learned something interesting about your town.”
    â€œYes?” She looked over her shoulder, a foot already poised on a ledge.
    I knew how a cat felt when it had a dead mouse to present to its owner. Or maybe, on second thought, that wasn’t such a good analogy.
    â€œWorthville disappeared from the census between 1800 and 1810.”
    She blinked as if she thought I was joking. “Worthville disappears?”
    Shit. Where was my brain? I couldn’t have eased that in a little nicer? “Yeah.”
    She shook her head in denial, watching me with big, round eyes. A few seconds passed. She slumped to a boulder and laid shaking fingertips to her lips. “Merciful heavens,” she said in a horrified whisper.
    Why did I constantly screw up with her?
    History had never been my favorite subject, nothing more than dry facts to memorize. Distant tragedies were something my brain acknowledged as sad without penetrating any further. But this was her world.
    â€œSorry, Susanna. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”
    Her gaze flicked from place to place, as if seeking answers among the shadows. “When does my village vanish?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
    â€œI don’t know, exactly.”
    â€œHow does it happen?”
    Great show-off I was. Hadn’t even bothered to look up the details. What was wrong with me? Like some kind of selfish jerk, I’d told her horrible news just to keep her near me a minute longer.
    â€œI don’t know how it happened, either.”
    With a choked moan, she rocketed to her feet, climbed to the top of the bluff and paused, a dark silhouette against the night sky. “So you have learned nothing else?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œThen look no more. I don’t wish to know.”

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
U NWORTHY R ETORT
    With Hector gone, chores consumed me. There were no spare moments to dwell on Mark’s news. It was the first time I had ever been thankful for too much work.
    â€œSusanna, we have eggs.”
    I turned from the worktable. Dorcas and Delilah stood framed in the doorway, each grasping the handle of the egg basket.
    â€œExcellent work, young ladies,” I said. “Please bring it here.”
    Delilah scrambled onto the bench while her elder sister approached me.
    â€œIs it baking day?”
    I wrestled a lump of bread dough into a pan before covering it with a cloth. “Indeed, as Wednesdays always are,” I said, mopping my face with the hem of my apron.
    Dorcas twisted to and fro, her little girl skirts swishing below her knees. “I should like a tart. Could you make one?”
    â€œI suppose I could.” My lips fought a smile. “If you were to have a tart, what kind would it be?”
    There was a hopeful huff. “What kind of fruit do we have?”
    â€œBerries and peaches.”
    â€œOh.” She perched on a stool by the worktable and clapped her hands, golden curls quivering. “A berry tart would be lovely. What do you think, Delilah?”
    Her little sister nodded eagerly.
    â€œLet me see what I can find.”
    I crossed to the pantry and reviewed the supplies stacked on ceiling-to-floor shelves. We were still low on all our staples. Most vexing. Mr. Pratt had not fetched more as he’d promised. Until he restocked, I would have to prepare recipes with less flour and spices.
    â€œWould a cobbler do?” I called.
    â€œMerciful heavens, yes,” Dorcas answered.
    I laughed to hear her repeating my favorite phrase. She noticed too much.
    After measuring the flour, I reached for the sugar cone and judged it with my eye. It would last us through the month. I