“Let me guess, about the pool?”

“Actually—”

“Did she tell you what Lexie thought?”

“What Lexie thought?”

“Lexie believed there was something going on with the pool. Something with the water.”

“What kind of something?”

He didn’t answer.

“Ryan, last night, I went out to the pool and I thought—well, I dropped—”

He looked at me questioningly.

“It’s not important. It’s silly, really. I just got spooked is all.”

“Maybe there’s good reason to be spooked,” he said. He leaned down and rubbed at his ankle, the one that had been scratched all those years ago.

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired, and my brain is fried.” He smiled apologetically. “How about we get back to the car before it’s too dark to see out here? Then I’ll take you back to Sparrow Crest.”

chapter twenty-four

May 4, 1930

Lanesborough, New Hampshire

I watched the spring water in the jar get lower and lower day by day, until at last, we ran out. I gave Maggie the final dropperful last night. She swallowed it down like a hungry bird, dark eyes wide, watching me with complete trust. “It’s the last of your medicine, little sparrow,” I whispered. “But you’re strong and healthy now. Perhaps you don’t even need it anymore.” She wrapped her fingers around my index finger, squeezed hard as if to say, Yes, I am strong!

In the morning, her fingertips and toes were tinged with blue. She was refusing to nurse.

“No! No! No!” I cried, pacing. I got the empty jar, desperately tried to get the final drops that dampened the bottom into the dropper.

Will came home for lunch and found me in an absolute panic, frantic with worry, clutching the baby to my chest. I showed him the empty jar, little Maggie’s fingers and toes.

“We’ve got to go to Brandenburg,” I said. I had the suitcases out on the bed and had been stuffing them full in case we had to spend the night there. “I’ve packed your black wool trousers and boots. Lots of warm things for the baby. I’ve been looking for the flashlight and can’t find it.”

“Flashlight?” He looked at me like I’d gone mad. The way he might look at a gin-soaked stranger who asked him for coins on the street.

“It might be dark by the time we get there. Please Will, we’ve got to hurry.” I started talking quickly, trying to explain everything, the words running together like a river overflowing its banks: Brandenburg, Myrtle, springs, eyedropper, gone, hurry.

He took my hand. “You’ve got to slow down, Ethel,” he said. “Please. You’re not making any sense. Start at the beginning.”

Even though my heart was racing and I felt there was little time to waste, I forced myself to speak slowly, rationally, as I told Will about Myrtle’s trip to Brandenburg, the jar of water she brought back, and confessed that I’d been giving Maggie the water three times a day since.

Will blinked at me in disbelief. “But the hotel burned down!” he reminded me. “There’s nothing left.”

“The springs are still there,” I told him, waving the empty jar as if it was proof. “And I can’t explain it, but I know, I know that it works. The water made her well! You saw so yourself!”

He held little Maggie’s hand, looked carefully at her blue-tinged fingers.

“She was a healthy, normal baby,” I told him. “Just last night, when we gave her her bath, she was fine, right?”

He nodded, his eyes glazed over.

“I gave her the last drop of water just before bed. And look at her now. She needs more! We’ve got to bring her to the springs.”

He looked from me to Maggie, then back to me. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I… I—” he stammered. Maggie twisted in my arms, let out a raspy, wheezing breath, and looked at her father with big eyes.

“All right,” he said, kissing her soft dark hair. “Let’s finish packing and get on the road.”

* * *

We left home a little after one. I’d made a thermos full of coffee and packed sandwiches, apples, and cookies in the hamper. After a cold, wet spring, the roads taking us to Brandenburg were in a terrible state—nearly impassable in places due to mud. The going was very slow indeed. I held the baby on my lap while Will navigated our Franklin touring car through the ruts and washboards. The closer we got to Brandenburg, the bleaker things became. Everything seemed brown, muddy, and ugly; we passed a field of filthy, skinny cows having a hard time walking, their hooves sinking with each step. The barn they were headed toward was faded gray and listing to one side. I saw patches of snow still clinging under stone walls. Winter did not want to let go in this valley. It was after six by the time we arrived in Brandenburg. We saw the sawmill was shut down with a big CLOSED sign painted on it. The old signs for the hotel were gone. “Do you remember which road it was?” Will asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing looks the same.” I pointed to a little side road, hardly wide enough to get a single car down. “Try that way. That might be it.” Will coaxed the car in about two hundred feet, then pronounced the road impassable. “This mud is like goddamn quicksand. We’re nearly up to the axles. If I keep going, we’ll be stuck here all night.” He maneuvered the Franklin’s gear shift into reverse, gripped the wooden wheel tightly, turned, and looked over his shoulder as he backed out to the main road.

We stopped at several houses to ask directions. All the locals we encountered insisted that the road to the springs was closed. One careworn old woman sweeping her porch tried to warn us off when we asked her for directions. “You go there and you’re inviting terrible things to happen.” She peered into the car, saw Margaret on my lap. “If you want to do right by that little baby, you’ll turn your fancy car around. Go back where you came from.” She went back to sweeping frantically, creating a great storm of dust around her.

“Let’s try the store,” I said. “Maybe they can help us.”

Will navigated down Main Street and found a place to park a little ways down from the store, in front of the post office.