the cool air about her. She was shivering.
At last she was high up in the tree, clinging to the trunk and trying to keep her full weight from the fragile branch on which she stood.
She looked down. She couldn't see a thing.
And no one could see her.
Tears filled her eyes and her arms were already aching. She was afraid she was in for a long stay. She wanted to scream, but screaming was the last thing she should do. She clamped a hand over her mouth for a second to steady herself.
After what seemed like hours, she heard the footsteps again. He or she had not gone away. The steps came close to the tree and stopped. Then walked on. Then returned again. Softly, slowly, deliberately.
Whoever it was was not just passing by. He was looking for someone. Looking for Faith.
After several more forays the stalker moved down to the beach; filled with dread, Faith heard the footsteps squish into the sand. Her heart was beating fast and she felt sick. There was no way her hiding place could be discovered unless the fog lifted or blew away from the tree. Dread kept its steady grip on her. Please stay by the shore. Don't come back, she prayed.
The steps continued their slow, deliberate quest—systematically covering the beach. The sound echoed obscenely in her ears—squish, squash. Then the noise stopped. The hull of a boat scraped across the sand and rocks as it was pushed into the water; then came the steady lapping of oars. He or she was gone. Weak from relief, she started to climb down.
She had loosened her grip and put one foot on the next branch before she realized she was doing exactly what her pursuer wanted. What was to prevent the stalker from landing in another spot and waiting for her at the cottage, or along the path? She clung to the tree again and prepared to wait. Surely Pix would begin to worry.
She was so cold. She tried to concentrate on other things to keep her mind off the rapid loss of feeling in her fingers and toes. The fog felt like a blanket of snow on her bare arms. She cautiously loosened her grip to rub her left arm with her right. It helped a bit. She could catch glimpses of her sweater stuck several branches below when the fog moved. It had been a birthday present from Tom—a bulky Stewart Ross cardigan. She practically lived in it. Should she try to get it and climb back up? Lived in it, lived in it—the phrase had a reassuring sound as she repeated it to herself. She was safe so long as she didn't move. She would still live in it. Just don't move. She closed her eyes. She had no fear of falling asleep in her precarious position. She just wanted to get away for a moment.
There was no sound, except the sounds of the sea and forest. Nothing to threaten her, but nothing to save her either. Pix must have assumed Faith had gotten a phone call or held up some other way. But by now surely even unsuspicious Pix would have begun to wonder and come after her.
Faith leaned her uninjured cheek against the trunk of the tree, gave her arms a good rub, and settled down to wait. But it wasn't Pix who rescued her.
“Mrs. Fairchild? Mrs. Fairchild? Are you all right? Faith? Where are you?' It was Nan Hamilton, and never had a voice sounded so welcome.
“I'm up here—in a tree.”
If Nan thought that was odd, her voice did not betray it. 'Well, deah, just keep talkin', and I'll follow your voice. We were afraid you were hurt in the fog.”
Faith shuddered as she started to climb down, thinking of what Nan might have stumbled across if it hadn't been for the pine.
“Can you tell where I am?' she said loudly, and kept talking. 'Someone was following me and wouldn't answer when I called out, so I climbed a tree until they went away.”
Nan was close enough for Faith to see her now.
“Now I call that real smart,' she said, and much to Faith's surprise folded her in an ample hug. 'We'd better keep going to your house and call Pix. She was in quite a dither. Why, you're about frozen! Put this on and let's get you home.' Nan wrapped Faith in a huge sweater that smelled pleasantly of pancakes, wood smoke, and balsam. She hadn't forgotten to retrieve her own sweater in her climb down, and she flung that on too. She was still cold.
Faith felt so relieved to be both alive and out of the tree that it didn't occur to her to ask what Nan was doing at the Millers' until they got to porch. The door was shut, and if someone was waiting for them inside, he'd have to deal with both of them. It was a reassuring idea.
Nan spoke before Faith could ask.
“I came over here to give you some mushrooms I'd dried. Thought you might be a little restless with all the fog. I saw the car and knew you couldn't be far away, so I went over to Pix's. She was just starting to get nervous and about to call Earl, but I said I'd take a look.'
“I hope you don't think I've imagined the whole thing,' Faith told her, beginning to feel as if she might have.
“No, deah, I don't think you've dreamed it all up. Wish you had.' She looked solemn. 'I can't remember a time when the island has been like this. Everybody looking at everybody else like they don't know who they are. And you've got a nasty cut we'd better wash.' Faith stood still while Nan gently bathed her cut. She was feeling like a five-year-old about to get a cookie after skinning a knee. It was a lovely feeling.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the offending loaves lying all ready on the counter.
“Why don't you come back to Pix's and have a late lunch with us?' Faith didn't want Nan to leave yet.
“I think I will, thank you. Nothing but Freeman at home, and all he wants to do in weather like this is mend his traps and sleep. Not terrible interestin' for me.”
They took the car. There was no way Faith was going back into the woods except in the clear light of day, and maybe not even then.
Pix rushed out of the house. 'Oh, Faith, thank God you're all right! You can't imagine what was going through my mind!”
Faith could and had.
Over lunch the three women speculated on who could possibly have been following Faith and why. After a quick exchange of glances and a slight nod toward the quilting books, they told Nan about Matilda's quilt and the map.
“It sounds like her. Mind you, she was a friend. Maybe because we weren't related and she couldn't boss me around. But she had a peculiar streak in her. Like leaving the house to those two boys. That was just orneriness. Same thing with the gold. If she had it, she should have given it td her nieces and nephews. Fine people, most of them, and they work hard for a living, every day. Would have been pretty glad of some extra money.”
Faith tried not to picture the gold this way—a Prescott legacy. She pushed the image back toward her id and away from her usually high-minded super-ego.
Nan had stopped talking and appeared to be lost in thought. 'I don't know who was following you, Faith, but I have a hunch if you find the gold or whatever it is Matilda hid, you'll be a lot safer.'
“My sentiments exactly,' agreed Pix. 'You know the island so well, Nan. Why don't you have a look at the squares and see what you make of them?' She went to the closet and took down the bread crumbs. Fortunately she had taken the precaution of wrapping the photos in a Baggie, so Faith did not have to touch the crumbs. They spread them out on the table. Pix had labeled each one, and they told Nan how they had followed the map as indicated by the squares.
“She was a very smart woman,' Nan commented admiringly. 'But I didn't know she was this smart. She was spry until a few years ago, so she must have had a lot of fun running around the island and figuring out her clues.”
She paused at number seventeen. 'Why doesn't Rail Fence have a name to it?'
“Oh! You're wonderful! We couldn't find it,' Pix exclaimed.
Nan pointed a finger at number fourteen. 'I've never seen a Jacob's Ladder like this one, but they are different in other parts of the country.'
“But Matilda would have used one she was familiar with. Oh, Pix, you don't think we've been wrong about these!' Faith turned a stricken face toward her friend. She had felt they were virtually at the end of their quest.
“Maybe Jacob's Ladder, but not the others. The names have fit the clues. And anyway, we know white House steps That's the most important part, and I'm sure about it. Nan, can you think of a white house on that part of
