Her mother straightened up in her chair, face white and then flushed, hands clenched into fists on the table in front of her. "Alice Haskell is a witch and a homosexual. Those are her works. She uses the Devil's power and does the Devil's work. God will cast her into Hell."
Kate shook her head. "God created those powers. God created homosexuals. Now you're telling God what to do with 'em, what to do with her. Alice may be a Haskell to the core, but she ain't that big-headed. She says she doesn't think any God worthy of worship would rig the game so that nine out of ten souls end up roasting for eternity. Even Hitler and Stalin didn't torture that many people."
Kate took a drag on her cigarette and concentrated on the hot bite of the smoke, ignoring her mother's sputtering rage. She finally stubbed the butt out in an ashtray lifted from a restaurant up in Naskeag Falls, looked up, and watched her mother simmer into silence. Remember why you left home.
"About Grannie Rowley?"
Her mother crossed her arms over her chest and glared. "You already know more than's good for you. You wouldn't be asking if you didn't. You may not believe in Hell, but I won't risk my soul by telling you more."
Kate shrugged. About what she'd expected. "What happened to those papers from the lawyer?"
"Burned them. Tools of the Devil."
But her mother's eyes were focused somewhere on the far wall, not looking directly into Kate's. Her cop instincts woke, and she thought of kids caught shoplifting and other shifty characters she'd known . . . professionally.
"Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Thou shalt not covet anything that is thy neighbor's."
Her mother winced. She stood up, weary and pushing against the table for balance, suddenly showing every one of her sixty-plus years and a few extra besides. She turned at the door, shoulders bowed, and spoke to Kate's feet. "Let it be on your own head, then. We washed our hands of you long ago."
Then she vanished, into the hall and then the parlor, judging by the footsteps and Kate's memory, and came back with her shoulders up and head up as defiant as before. She handed Kate two packages wrapped in yellowed white paper, dusty, one about the size of the huge old family Bible and damn near as heavy, and the second closer to a double deck of cards.
"We burned the rest. These looked too valuable to throw away." And then she left the kitchen without a further word or backward glance.
Kate stared at the empty doorway and shook her head. Mom hadn't been like that before she married Frank. Talk about a heavy load of sin . . .
She tugged at the knotted twine closing the smaller package, unwrapped it, opened the age-browned cardboard box inside, pulled off the top layer of yellowed cotton batting inside that. Her breath caught in her throat.
A silver brooch, large as her palm, tarnished blue-black with age and salt air but still beautiful enough to make her heart ache. It swam in her deepest memories, something Grannie had worn on a pale green dress long ago. The silver held set stones, deep green and orange, she didn't know what kind but they caught fire from the kitchen light even without cleaning.
A sprig of rowan, green leaves and ripe berries.
She touched it, gently at first and then daring to pick it up and hold it, feeling warmth that stones and silver shouldn't give after decades in storage. It wanted her to wear it. It looked too precious, too ancient, for anyone to wear. She'd seen the Morgan dragons and this looked like it came from the same master's hand.
She couldn't wear it now, not on a tan work shirt and her headed out to shingle Lew's roof. Instead, she slipped it into her left breast pocket and buttoned the flap. The brooch seemed content with that.
What else? That second box . . . again she tugged at knots, fingers trembling now with mingled fear and wonder. Kate unwrapped a cardboard box worn to shreds and patched back together with ancient yellowed tape. She lifted the top, found another box inside, wood, the deep red of rubbed oil with a faint whiff of cedar. Heavy.
Heavy and plain, but master woodworking, dovetail corners and rabbitted base as tight-fitted as molded plastic. Camming latch like a window, to pull the hinged lid down tight. Sealed? She thumbed the latch. The lid stayed tight. The two sides offered smooth indentations for her fingers, asking for a little pressure. The lid popped up with the faint cracking of something like glue or rosin, she touched ribbed and grooved edges, interlocking seal with a thick coating of wax. Bee's-wax, it looked, it would reseal with the pressure of the latch. The smell of cedar had grown stronger. Preservative.
And inside, a book. She reached in, using grooves in each side that let her fingers slide down beside the covers and grip. The box was fitted to the book, made to protect and preserve it. No nails, no screws, no metal, even the latch and hinge had been carved out of hard white wood or maybe ivory, now yellowed with age and spidered with faint brown cracks from centuries of winter dryness.
She lifted the book. Wood covers, grain looked something like rock maple, ribbed leather spine, she spanned it with her outspread fingers and guessed ten inches by sixteen by maybe one and a half thick. The cover was smooth
