We fall in line behind the horse-drawn wagon, its wheels sinking into worn grooves like feet into a pair of slippers.

After the carriage, the Milton family follows: Jacob, Emma, Agnes. Behind them is Eloise White, an elderly lady from town who's as close with the family as I am. She presses a handkerchief to her nose, her shoulders thin and shaking. Mr. Milton's cousin, Benjamin Dodd, stumbles along beside her, his mess of salt and pepper hair obscuring his face. I don't need to speak with him to know his conversation will be slurred, his breath heavy with the scent of whiskey he consumes like water. Their heads are bowed, postures slumped, boots scraping the gravel road.

Honor is, as always, at my side, his chilled hand curled around my own. "Sissy?" He glances up at me. "Do you think Andrew's in Heaven?" 

It's been four days since Andrew Milton passed away, and this is the first Honor's asked such a question. The little hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I tighten my grip. "Of course, I do. Why wouldn't he be?"

"Mrs. Lloyd said sinners go to..." What he intends to say trails off, but I don't need him to finish.

My gaze lifts to Kitty Lloyd walking several feet in front of us, her pointy chin jutting out in front of her. She's decked out in one of her finer gowns, the pleats of her navy skirt narrow and rigid. Her fourteen-year-old son Victor prances at her side like an obedient lap dog, wearing an overcoat I've never seen. A keepsake, I assume, from their last trip to New York City.

"Andrew apologized for taking that piece of candy from their store. And he returned it unopened," I remind him. "If we confess our trespasses, we are forgiven."

"But what if—"

"No buts." I force myself to smile. "One could also argue that if we do not forgive others, our Father will not forgive us." I lean closer so no one else can hear, my braids falling over my shoulders like two sturdy ropes. "Don't you listen to that old hen. She enjoys nothing more than sticking that big beak of hers where it doesn't belong."

When Honor's expression brightens, I give him a playful "cluck".

Snowflakes dot my lashes and I blink them away. They're early this year, dancing on the October breeze as we herd into the cemetery. We crunch over crisp fallen leaves and weave between crooked tombstones toward a hollowed slice of earth.

Though he knows every word by heart, Pastor Turner's bald head hovers over the pages of his Bible, reciting the Lord's Prayer. As he speaks of temptation and evil, Papa and a group of men lower Andrew's casket into the ground. It's as small as a chest and still smelling of severed pine. Once it's in place, they begin the task of shoveling clumps of soil overtop.

And just like that, Andrew's gone. Swallowed by muck, and rock, and worms.

The church bell chimes, its melancholy farewell sobbing between the trees, their branches like knobby veins behind what's left of the leaves, when a sudden shriek stabs through the chorus of sniffles.

"Andrew, stop playing games!" Agnes sinks to her knees, her wool skirt fanning over white trousers. Her tiny fingers claw at the dirt. "You win! You can hold your breath longer than I can. Get up before they cover you forever!"

My arm curls around Honor's shoulders. He leans into me, his teeth pulling at his lip.

Mr. Milton kneels beside his daughter and presses her to his chest. When her cries wane into nothing more than ragged gulps of air, Mrs. Milton reaches for her hand. Together, they help Agnes to her feet and exit the cemetery as the entire town stares after them.

In the days following the burial, an eeriness falls over South Harbor, our small fishing village clinging to the Connecticut coast. I watch over Honor a little closer, driven by an instinct I can't contain. But every day, the tolling of the town bell throws me back to that morning in the graveyard, filling me with emotions I battle to keep inside. Sleep is interrupted by nightmares I'm never able to recall.

Nearly a week passes before I visit the Milton homestead on the fringe of the Atlantic, a fifteen-minute trek from my family's farm. Days like today take longer. Gusts from the bay nip at my face. I tuck my chin into my scarf and force my legs to move faster.

Through the fog of my breath, I make out Emma Milton sitting on the front stoop with her neighbor Kitty Lloyd, shadows claiming the hollow space beneath her eyes. Agnes plays at her side with a corn-husk doll, the breeze fanning through her dark hair. As my boots crunch over blades of grass poking up through the snow, I give them a wave.

"Faith!" Agnes runs to me, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her thin arms lock around my waist. She seems smaller since the last time I saw her. Fragile. Like she's growing younger instead of older.

I give Agnes a squeeze before we continue toward the porch. "I've been thinking about you a lot the past several days. How have you been?"

Her sunken gaze fills with an unexpected excitement. "Andrew's come to see me. He's not buried in the ground—he's alive!"

Mrs. Milton gasps. "Agnes!" She jumps up from the step and cups her daughter's face in her hands. "What have we told you about saying such things? Andrew is with the Lord now. He's not able to return."

The sole of Agnes' boot smacks against the packed snow. "But he does! He visits every night. Andrew heard me crying, and he found his way home." Her eyes flash in my direction before she storms up the steps and into the house, slamming the door behind her.

A blotchy redness creeps across her mother's cheeks. She covers a cough and turns away. "I'm sorry. Agnes isn't well. Andrew's death was so sudden..."

Kitty Lloyd's features pinch in disapproval. "You mustn't let that girl believe her brother's come back from the dead. It's ungodly." She tucks an invisible strand of hair into a knot at the base of her neck. "I'm so grateful Willard and I only had one child. Victor is quite enough, let me tell you."

The dam inside me breaks; the one meant to control my biting thoughts. It's never been all that stable. "Some might even say Victor's too much. Pardon me for asking, ma'am, but did he fall on his head as an infant? It might explain his unpleasant personality—unless he's inherited that from you?"

In an obvious attempt to look fierce, Mrs. Lloyd narrows her eyes, but only succeeds in deepening her spiderweb of wrinkles. "You'd better mind your manners, Faith Alexander. What did Pastor Turner teach us last Sunday in church? 'Do not be hasty in word or impulsive in thought.' Were you not paying attention?"

I'm desperate to slap the sneer from her face. Instead, I shove my hands inside my pockets and grit my teeth.

"I'm certain your father wouldn't appreciate you running your mouth off, young lady," she continues. "It's going to get you into trouble one of these days. It would be a shame if he found out."

Irritation flares in my throat. Papa would have a fit if he heard what I'd just said, but I'm willing to risk the potential punishment if it means giving Kitty Lloyd a piece of my mind. "I could say the same to you. I wouldn't be surprised if people in the next state have heard the tall tales you tell."

My gaze skips to Mrs. Milton, hoping I haven't gone too far, and I'm rewarded with the slightest hint of amusement before it vanishes altogether.

Mrs. Lloyd's face reddens. "You disrespectful little brat! You better hope I don't—"

But Mrs. Milton interrupts her. "I appreciate you stopping by to check on us, but I'm going to ask that you leave parenting my child to me and my husband. Agnes is in mourning, and we're dealing with Andrew's death as best we know how." Her trembling hands smooth down the front of her skirt, each fingernail bitten to the quick. "You should leave now. Agnes and I are tired, and when Jacob returns from work, he'll be the same."

Mrs. Lloyd rocks back on her boots, a purple vein in her forehead bulging beneath the skin. "Well, then! I was only trying to help."

She turns on her heel and marches across the lawn, the hem of her skirt swishing with each fiery stride. She looks back only once before climbing the steps to Lloyd's General Store and disappearing inside.

A long beat of silence stretches between us until Mrs. Milton shakes her head. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

In all the time I've known her, I have never witnessed her speak roughly toward anyone. She's as patient as all the hours in a day, even with the Lloyd's, who make it a point to test others on a regular basis.

"I'm the one who should apologize. I shouldn't have egged her on like that. Mama always said my temper has a mind of its own."

She gives me a small smile. "You have your mother's spirit, God rest her soul."

Guilt strangles my lungs. Weak-kneed, I take a step back and change the subject. "Is Agnes all right?"

Emma Milton turns towards the tide, the muscles in her jaw clenching. Beneath the ceiling of clouds that have plagued us for weeks, white waves crash over the rocks and sand, leaving behind a salty residue that mingles with the air. When she speaks again, her words come out slow and tired. "She insists Andrew visits her at night." When her eyes meet mine, they're pink and shiny. "Jacob said children do that sometimes. Make up stories when they're...." She lets her sentence die off.

A quiver tickles my stomach. More than anything, I want to reassure her that Agnes will be fine. That it will take time, but things will work out as things often do. But the desperation in her voice, that distinct note of unease, unravels every hint of logic.

Before I can respond, she grasps my hands. The chill from her touch sinks through my skin and attaches to my bones. "Forgive me, Faith. It's inappropriate to burden a child with such things."

But I don't feel like a child. I've been working on the farm since the moment I could walk. Caring for the animals, and picking maize and beans in our fields are not easy tasks, but I've never shied away from physical labor. Over the past several months, I've absorbed Mama's role as well. Tending to the house, preparing meals, watching over my father and younger brother.

I do what needs to be done. That's the promise I made—the one I must keep.

I hold her gaze and square my shoulders. "Please don't apologize. I am sixteen, after all."

The corners of her mouth flick upward, and her fingers caress my chin. "I will always be grateful for how good you've been to us since we moved to South Harbor. I want you to know that we pray for your family every night before bed."

Despite the bitter cold, heat swamps my face.
She must sense my discomfort. "How are you holding up?"

The ocean breeze wraps around me, its icy fingers pulling through my hair. "I'll be fine," I say, tugging my overcoat closer. "I need to start supper, but I'll be back to see you soon—I promise."

As I make my way home, past the flashing lighthouse and flat-topped buildings capped in snow, my gaze lingers over the cemetery. I have little understanding of how the afterlife works or if souls can somehow visit the living, and I plan to question Agnes further the next time we meet.

Except I'm robbed of the chance.

That very night, under an overcast sky, Agnes takes her last breath. We lay her to rest beside her brother, near the willow they'd climbed over summer. Three weeks later, their parents join them in death.

Because of an ice storm, Jacob and Emma Milton are placed in the cemetery vault. Once spring arrives and the earth thaws, we'll bury them next to their children. Even though they're only bodies, empty vessels rotting beneath our feet, their separation tunnels through my chest.

Papa says time is the healer of necessary evils; that as the weeks and months pass, so will our wounds. But I'm not sure if that's right. I think it's what fathers tell daughters to let them know things will work out just fine.

Even when it's not true.