I was on my way into the kitchen in the basement of the church when Myrtle approached, face flushed, eyes wild. She had a newspaper pressed against her chest, cradled like a wounded bird.

“Myrtle,” I said. When I’d seen her earlier, judging the pie-eating contest, she had seemed fine. “Whatever is the matter?”

She took me by the arm and led me into the alcove inside the back door of the church. “The Brandenburg Springs Hotel. It’s gone. Destroyed.” She pulled the newspaper away from her chest and held it out for me to read.

I froze, feeling my heart slam inside my breast. The baby turned inside me.

STRAFFORD DAILY NEWS

September 27, 1929

FIRE DESTROYS THE BRANDENBURG SPRINGS HOTEL, KILLS 15

A fire swept through the Brandenburg Springs Hotel and Resort in Brandenburg, Vermont, on Wednesday night, killing fifteen people. The fire was discovered by a bellboy at eleven thirty p.m. The Brandenburg Volunteer Fire Department arrived just before midnight to find the building fully engulfed. Water was pumped from the springs on the property to battle the blaze, but the flames, driven by wind gusts, could not be brought under control despite departments being called in to assist from Clearwater and Bainbridge. Two firemen were hospitalized.

It is believed the fire started in the suite of Mr. Benson Harding, the owner of the hotel. Mr. Harding lost his wife, Eliza, in a drowning accident on the property only two weeks before.

A photograph showed a large group of firemen standing among the wreckage, smoke still rising from the charred timbers on the ground. The fountain out front had survived, and was still running, which seemed wrong somehow.

The news took my breath away. I could almost smell the smoke, feel the heat from the embers making my face flushed and sweaty. I felt dizzy and sick.

“Didn’t you say you and Eliza Harding exchanged letters? Did you know the poor thing drowned?” Myrtle asked, studying my face.

I looked away.

The springs exact a price equal to what was given.

Please tell me, my darling friend, did you get your wish?

I smoothed the folds of my dress over my belly, kept my hand there, as though trying to keep the baby from hearing what had happened, to protect her in some way.

“No,” I lied. “It’s too awful for words.”

Hannah Edsell came toward us carrying a tray full of plates heaping with chicken pie, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and green beans. “Food’s ready!” she said.

I had the newspaper still in my hands. Ruth Edsell came up behind Hannah with an equally heavy tray. “Could you ring the bell, Ethel? Start getting people seated?”

* * *

Will and I sat down for dinner with the third group, and Myrtle joined us and Mr. and Mrs. Miller at our long table.

“Did you tell Will the news?” she asked.

I’d been busying myself with the supper, not allowing myself even a moment to think about the fire. I’d put it in a little sealed-up box at the back of my mind.

He raised his eyebrows. “What news is this?”

“The Brandenburg Springs Hotel burned down,” Myrtle said.

“Oh, I heard!” said Mr. Miller, who was sitting beside us at the long table. “So many killed.”

“Fifteen guests,” Myrtle confirmed. “The entire hotel was destroyed.” Her face was pink and sweaty, as though feeling the heat from the fire.

“How terrible!” Will said. “We were just there back in June. Weren’t we, Ethel?”

I nodded, my mouth as dry as ash. Dancing with Will in the dining room, walking out to the springs. The peacocks. The heady scent of Eliza’s rose garden.

“And you’ve been expecting Mrs. Harding to come visit, haven’t you?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. I opened and closed it, like a fish out of water gasping for breath.

“Dead, poor thing. Drowned in the pool two weeks ago,” Myrtle said.

“My God,” Will said, setting down his fork and turning to me. “Did you know about this?”

I shook my head, took in a deep breath, closed my eyes.

I am Mrs. Monroe. Chairwoman of the fall foliage committee. We are all sitting down to dinner. My husband is beside me. I am going to have a baby in the spring. A healthy baby girl.

I dug my nails into my palms, then opened my eyes, looked down at my untouched food. I picked up my fork, took a bite of chicken pie, the gravy thick and too salty. The biscuit turned to tasteless paste in my mouth. But still, I chewed and swallowed, moving my own body the way one controls a puppet.

“My aunt Irma lives in Brandenburg,” Mrs. Miller said around a bite of cranberry sauce that stained her lips bright red. “People come from all over the country to visit those springs. And something terrible always happens.”

I dropped my fork, and it clanged against my plate. “Something terrible?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Miller went on. “The springs help a blind man see again, but two months later all his cows die. Or his brother is struck by lightning. There’s always bad to go with the good.”

Please tell me, my darling friend, did you get your wish?

I felt myself floating away again, drifting up away from my husband, friends, and neighbors.

“Absolute bunk,” Will said, stabbing a fork full of green beans. “It’s terrible.” He shook his head. “Those poor people. It was such a special place. It’s an awful bit of news—both the fire and the death of Mrs. Harding—but bad things happen, and when they do, we have to let them go and move on. No sense in giving in to superstition.”

I wanted to tell him how the springs and hotel and our baby are all connected, how the fire was a kind of sign, a bad omen.

But I said nothing. I just floated up and up until they were all little specks down on the ground, and me… I disappeared right into the clouds.

November 11, 1929

The stock market has collapsed, and banks are closing all over. I fear we’re in for dire times. Will tells me not to worry, that we’ll weather the storm, that everyone always needs a doctor and we’ve got plenty of savings. But still, it worries me to bring a baby into the world when things seem so grim.

I do my best. Try to stay calm and happy and always with a smile on my face.

I am Mrs. Monroe, I tell myself. My husband and I will weather the storm.

Closer to home, Myrtle’s husband, Felix, has taken a turn for the worse. It began with a backache and progressed rapidly. He was soon unable to walk and is now in a wheelchair. Myrtle says he’s in terrible pain.