Either way, Aunt Caroline was determined to keep me talking. “Ethan, do you need to borrow anything for the reenactment? I’ve got some remarkably authentic-looking shell jackets in the attic.”

“Don’t remind me.” I’d almost forgotten I had to dress up as a Confederate soldier for the Reenactment of the Battle of Honey Hill if I wanted to pass history this year. Every February, there was a Civil War reenactment in Gatlin; it was the only reason tourists ever showed up here.

Lena reached for a biscuit. “I don’t really understand why the reenactment is such a big deal. It seems like a lot of work to re-create a battle that happened over a hundred years ago, considering we can just read about it in our history books.”

Uh-oh.

Aunt Prue gasped; that was blasphemy as far as she was concerned. “They should burn that school a yours ta the ground! They’re not teachin’ any kind a his’try over there. You can’t learn ’bout the War for Southern Independence in any textbook. You have ta see it for yourself, and every one a you kids should, because the same country that fought together in the American Revolution for independence, turned clear against itself in the War.”

Ethan, say something. Change the subject.

Too late. She’s going to break into the “Star Spangled Banner” any second now.

Marian split a biscuit and filled it with ham. “Miss Statham is right. The Civil War turned this country against itself, oftentimes brother against brother. It was a tragic chapter in American history. Over half a million men died, although more of them died from sickness than battle.”

“A tragic chapter, that’s what it was.” Aunt Prue nodded.

“Now don’t get all worked up, Prudence Jane.” Aunt Grace patted her sister’s arm.

Aunt Prue swatted her hand away. “Don’t tell me when I’m worked up. I’m just tryin’ ta make sure they know the pig’s head from its tail. I’m the only one doin’ any teachin’. That school should be payin’ me.”

I should have warned you not to get them started.

Now you tell me.

Lena shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’ve just never known anyone who was so knowledgeable about the War.”

Nice one. If by knowledgeable you mean obsessed.

“Now don’t you feel bad, sweetheart. Prudence Jane just gets her britches in a twist every now and again.” Aunt Grace elbowed Aunt Prue.

That’s why we put whiskey in her tea.

“It’s all that peanut brittle Carlton brought by.” Aunt Prue looked at Lena apologetically. “I have a hard time with too much sugar.”

A hard time staying away from it.

My dad coughed and absentmindedly pushed his mashed potatoes around his plate. Lena saw an opportunity to change the subject. “So Ethan says you’re a writer, Mr. Wate. What kind of books do you write?”

My dad looked up at her, but didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t even realize Lena was talking to him.

“Mitchell’s workin’ on a new book. It’s a big one. Maybe the most important one he’s ever written. And Mitchell’s written a mess a books. How many is it now, Mitchell?” Amma asked, like she was talking to a child. She knew how many books my dad had published.

“Thirteen,” he mumbled.

Lena wasn’t discouraged by my dad’s frightening social skills, even though I was. I looked at him, hair uncombed, black circles under his eyes. When had it gotten this bad?

Lena pressed on. “What’s your book about?”

My dad came back to life, animated for the first time this evening. “It’s a love story. It’s really been a journey, this book. The great American novel. Some might say The Sound and the Fury of my career, but I can’t really talk about the plot. Not really. Not at this point. Not when I’m so close… to…” He was rambling. Then he just stopped talking, like someone had flipped a switch in his back. He stared at my mom’s empty chair as he drifted away.

Amma looked anxious. Aunt Caroline tried to distract everyone from what was quickly becoming the most embarrassing night of my life. “Lena, where did you say you moved here from?”

But I couldn’t hear her answer. I couldn’t hear anything. Instead, all I could see was everything moving in slow motion. Blurring, expanding and contracting, like the way heat waves look as they move through the air.

Then—

The room was frozen, except it wasn’t. I was frozen. My father was frozen. His eyes were narrow, his lips rounded to form sounds that hadn’t had a chance to escape his lips. Still staring at the plateful of mashed potatoes, untouched. The Sisters, Aunt Caroline, and Marian were like statues. Even the air was perfectly still. The pendulum of the grandfather clock had stopped in mid-swing.

Ethan? Are you all right?

I tried to answer her, but I couldn’t. When Ridley had me in her death grip, I had been sure I was going to freeze to death. Now I was frozen, except I wasn’t cold and I wasn’t dead.

“Did I do this?” Lena asked aloud.

Only Amma could answer. “Cast a Time Bind? You? About as likely as this turkey hatchin’ a gator.” She snorted. “No, you didn’t do this, child. This is bigger than you. The Greats figured it was time we had ourselves a talk, woman to woman. Nobody can hear us now.”

Except me. I can hear you.

But the words didn’t come out. I could hear them talking, but I couldn’t make a sound.