Alice woke with the first sense of light against her eyelids, but she didn’t open her eyes. She felt worn out, as if she’d spent the night slogging through a marsh full of soft peat and spiky grasses, but the only dream that she remembered in all its shape and form was the dream—or nightmare—of the meadow. Alice could trace the path of the dream, of course, piecing it together from Freeman’s talk of chaises, triplets, herring. Alice could make sense as well of how the presence of a Verley had turned dream to nightmare. As Alice lay, however, she realized that such a nightmare wasn’t her worst fear; her worst fear was that this was the dream, this supposed waking in the widow’s attics. This was why she couldn’t bear to open her eyes; what if she opened them and saw not the widow’s arching, sunlit rafters, but Verley’s flat, plastered ceiling? Alice opened her eyes. Rafters. Her heart swelled inside her chest as if someone else’s blood pumped through it, but still she didn’t dare believe. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window.

The sky hung low and gray and sunless, the road below it empty and still, but beyond the road, even without the sun to decorate it or the wind to rile it, the surface of the sea expanded and shrank as if it breathed. Alice couldn’t look away from it. After a time she forced herself to turn to the washstand and splash water on her cut cheek, taking care to keep her poulticed hand dry; both wounds felt better, she decided. She dressed herself and believed her shoulder too had loosened. She sat on the bed and waited. For what? A sound. A sign.

Footsteps. The rise and fall of a latch. More footsteps. Another rattle of latch and a pair of voices, followed by the clatter of a pot, or plate, or bowl. Alice was famished. She got up and went to the back-facing set of stairs that she’d climbed from the keeping room the night before, but at the top she halted; voices rose up the steep, narrow stairs like smoke up a chimney.

“And what if you’d woken this morning to find the girl gone, along with the contents of that money jar you leave so unwisely atop your cupboard?”

“I’d have asked you for your next month’s keep in advance. But as the jar’s still there, I’ll ask instead for something a little more trusting in your nature.”

“Mark me, I’ve nothing to say against the girl—”

“Other than to call her a thief.”

“I don’t call her a thief. I only call your attention to a certain possibility, in the hope that you might take a little more care when gathering in your boarders.”

“You’re quite right, Mr. Freeman. I’ve taken poor care in gathering in my boarders and paid a fine price for it too.”

Freeman gave out a sharp snort that might or might not have been a laugh. Again, it seemed important that Alice know. She worked her way down the stairs and stumbled on the last step, bringing the man and woman around with a start as her shoes hit the floor. They collected their features into smiles together, the widow’s coming easier than Freeman’s. Alice had planned to scour the room for some kind of sign, but when she saw the widow’s ready greeting she decided she needed no other. She knew well enough that she wanted to stay here with her. Oh, how she wanted to stay here! But how to make it come true? Alice stepped up to the table and began to slice the bread; she must show the widow that despite her wounds she could work yet and work well. She wrestled the toaster into place in front of the fire and laid in the first slices, then straightened up and stepped closer to the widow so there could be no mistaking where she placed her offer.

She said, “I should like to work for you, madam, if you’d have me. I’ll do any task you wish to give me. I can spin and plant and weed; I can do the dairying and all the usual chores of a household. I know you should require a reference; I’m sorry to say my letter from my old master was lost in travel, but I’ll write at once for another. While you wait on it you need pay me only my meals and one of those spare beds in your attics.”

It had come out in a rush and used up all Alice’s air. She stopped talking and took a breath, waiting for the widow to speak, but as she waited Alice saw that she had indeed learned something about reading faces. Before the widow even began speaking, Alice saw that all was plainly lost.

“Let me tell you how I live, child,” the widow began, and went on to explain what she needn’t, what Alice had to struggle to hear through the great, thick blanket of fear that had encased her. The widow lived by keeping boarders. Freeman was one, but she had recently lost three others, an old woman who had died, and two stranded sailors who had since found a ship; until the widow filled the empty beds that Alice called “spare,” she couldn’t afford to keep a girl to help with work she could manage well enough alone.

The widow stopped her speech there, but then she startled Alice by stepping forward and catching Alice’s face between her scarred hands. She turned it sideways to examine Alice’s neck. She said, “Who did this to you, your master?”

Alice began to tremble, much as she had the night before. She felt an odd pain in her chest, and her breathing wouldn’t draw clear. The widow put an arm behind Alice’s back and led her to a chair. She took the kettle off the fire and filled the teapot, leaving it on the table to steep. She returned to Alice and sat down opposite her. She picked up Alice’s good hand in both of hers and began to speak in a tone that Alice remembered from nowhere.

“I want you to tell me, Alice, how you come to be here in our village. I want you to tell me what’s made you run off. Tell me your story, child.”

Her story. Oh, that it was a story, and someone else’s, or if hers, one that could be turned to another ending! Or had Alice already had her chance to turn her story and taken the wrong turning? Should she have passed by the sparkling ocean, the burned hands, the white handkerchief, the pretty ship, and found some kind of work in Boston? No, not Boston. Boston sat too close to Verley. What, then? Should she have set out toward Philadelphia and looked for her father there? Oh what, then?

The widow still held Alice’s hand, her own scarred palm rough and lumpy against it. She sat in patience, waiting for Alice to speak. Alice couldn’t see Freeman from where she sat, but she could feel him, the man of law, standing tall and upright, somewhere behind her, waiting too to return her to Boston, to return her to Verley. Alice pulled her hand from the widow’s and tucked it into the folds of her skirt. She said, “I finished out my time at Boston. I came to Satucket to look for work. There is all my story, madam.”

The widow dropped Alice’s hand, got up, and poured out the tea into three thick, earthenware mugs. She picked one up and carried it to Alice, but Alice had some trouble collecting it, because of her trembling.

The widow said, “You may stay here as long as I’ve a bed free, while you look for work in the village. You may work at what chores I give you to pay for your keep. You may start with the chickens. The egg basket is on the peg by the door. The coop is behind the barn. Keep your eye on the one-legged one; she’ll pick off your shoe bindings if you don’t keep ahead of her.”