The hours that follow are a blur. Papa and I push through the routine of morning—tending to chores, preparing breakfast, getting ready for the day—careful not to let Honor in on what took place overnight.

When I asked Papa what happened to Ms. White, he told me she was old and it was her time to go.

I grimaced, my brain unable to release the memory. "But what about the blood?" I said. "And why did she look like a skeleton?"

He never answered.

In the hours before daylight, Constable Webster and Pastor Turner transported Ms. White's body to the church. Her husband died many years ago and they'd never had children. In situations like this, the closest neighbors take on the responsibility of watching over the deceased's body until the burial to prevent laying someone to rest who's not actually dead.

But Papa says the ground is only getting colder, and we'll need to add her casket to the cemetery vault alongside Mr. and Mrs. Milton. Come spring, we'll bury them all just as soon as the earth thaws.

It does nothing to quell my unease.

At school, my eyelids stick together, my movements slow and dull. As I practice my penmanship, head bent over my slate, I catch myself slumping to the side. I cover a yawn and sit up straighter, only to repeat the scenario again.

"Faith ..." A hand lands on my shoulder and my entire body jerks. When I look up, Miss Perkins is giving me a tight-lipped smile. "Please grab your coat. I need help bringing in more firewood."

My gaze slides to the heaping pile of timber stacked next to the stove, but I don't question her request. I rise from my seat and stretch, my back achy, and muscles sore. As we step outside, icy air floods my lungs and stings the tip of my nose.

Miss Perkins is still watching me. My face dips into the collar of my coat as I clench against the cold.

She gets right to the point. "It's not like you to doze off in class. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." My skirt whips around my calves. I lift my chin and smile. Pretend that I'm fine.

I'm not fine.

She stops walking and plants her hands on my shoulders, the space between her eyes marked by two vertical lines. "You can talk to me—you know that, don't you? Every girl needs a mother-figure to turn to in times of trouble." Her voice softens. "I'm not trying to take her place. I just want you to know that I'm here if you need me."

It's not easy to consider Miss Perkins a mother-figure. She's too young and inexperienced, barely out of her teens. But it's kind of her to worry.

I fight to keep my voice steady. "Thank you, but I really am fine."

"You're obviously not fine." Her brows arch in a challenge. "Now, please. Tell me what's going on."

My shoulders sag. Before I can stop myself, the events of the evening pour out of my mouth. I tell her everything that happened with Ms. White, but keep the questions and concerns to myself. I'm still trying to make sense of them. To make sense of what I saw.

By the time I'm finished, my breaths come out ragged, my chest on fire.

"Oh, you poor thing. No wonder you're exhausted!" She gathers me in a hug I'm not expecting, and I stiffen inside the embrace.

My eyes prickle, but I'm not going to cry. I won't. With the back of my hand, I wipe my nose and pull away.

Her eyes widen. She grasps my hands and flips my palms up, examining both sides. "Your gloves are exquisite." Delicate fingers brush over the inky black fabric as her gaze once again meets mine. "Where in the world did you get them?"

I swallow and look away. "They were a gift."

"That's some gift. You're a lucky girl." She releases her grip. "Now, as I was saying—"

But I don't let her finish. "I promise. I'm fine."

Her eyes narrow in concern. "So you've said. But I see you, Miss Alexander. You're as thin as a rail." She holds my chin between her fingers, and turns my face slowly from one side to the next. "And oh my goodness, so very pale. When was the last time you had a proper night's rest?"

It's been so long I can't remember.

She releases a long sigh and shakes her head. "And just yesterday I asked you to help even more with your brother. You've been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, haven't you?"

I don't have an answer. Instead I pull in a sharp breath, the cold air chilling the back of my throat.

"Come on, we'd better get inside. We'll catch our death if we stay out here much longer." She drapes an arm across my shoulders and steers me back toward the door.

But my boots root in place. "Miss Perkins?"

She pauses mid-stride and looks at me sort of hopeful. Like maybe I've changed my mind and am about to spill all my secrets.

I clear my throat. "What about the stove?"

Her mouth gapes open as she glances at the pile of cut wood. It's covered in a fresh dusting of snow. She reaches into the stack and hands a few pieces over before loading a bundle into her own arms. "There. This should keep us toasty for a while."

When we return to the schoolhouse, Victor is, as always, monopolizing the students' attention. He's standing in front of the class with his feet spread apart, hands planted on his hips. Everyone else is in their seats.

"Oh, yes we are," he says to a boy sitting in the front row. Victor's mouth sets in a firm line. "Ma's taking me there when we visit her brother in New York City. It's called the Switchback Railway, and it costs a whole nickel to ride."

From the back of class, Thomas glares at him with a bored expression. "You're fibbing again. There's no such thing as a train in the sky."

"There is so!" Victor insists, lifting his chin. "It goes so fast, it makes the hair fly back from your face. Uncle George told me so—he's been on it three times."

"Does it go up and down hills and whip around corners, just like a real train?" Honor leans forward, the words rushing from his mouth so fast, they nearly trip over each other.

"Well, that's what trains do, don't they?"

Thomas scowls. "Don't listen to him, kid. Victor telling stories again to make himself look important."

Victor's cheeks redden. He blows out a breath and crosses his arms. "I'm not lying. You can even ask Ma the next time you see her. She'll set you straight."

I stack my timber next to the stove, and then one by one, add Miss Perkins' supply to the pile. Flames crackle and pop, the smoky scent of charred wood filtering through the vent.

"Are you talking about Coney Island?" Miss Perkins asks over her shoulder.

The class turns and stares.

Victor doesn't miss a beat. In a smug tone, he says, "Why, yes ma'am. I am. Have you heard of the Switchback Railway?"

"I have. I read an article about it last summer. They call it a roller coaster," she says, facing the class with a smile. She wipes her hands together before sliding out of her coat. "From what I understand, you climb up a tall tower to board a car, and then it soars down the track until it reaches another tower. The newspaper said it's exciting, but it sounds awfully dangerous to me. Can you imagine racing down a track higher than the trees?" She cringes at the thought.

A self-satisfied smirk curves across Victor's face. He turns back to his audience. "See? I told you I wasn't lying. And I get to ride it this summer while all of you are stuck here in boring, old South Harbor."

Miss Perkins frowns. "That's enough, Mr. Lloyd. Take your seat—there's no room for bragging in my classroom."

Victor slumps into a bench, a pout pulling at his lips.

I'm still arranging the heap of wood when Miss Perkins interrupts. "Thank you for your help, Faith. Please rejoin the class."

"Yes, ma'am." I pull off my gloves and shrug out of my coat.

As I move down the aisle, Victor sneers in my direction, but I'm too preoccupied to care. Even when Miss Perkins resumes our lesson, my thoughts are a million miles away. All I can think about is Ms. White. I have so many questions and no way to find answers.

When Mrs. Milton was alive, the two women were as close as friends can be. She spent a great deal of time with the older lady, keeping her company, and making sure she had what she needed. Has no one checked in on Ms. White over the past several weeks? Does anyone care that she's dead?

I know what Papa said, but old age doesn't make people act the way she did. It doesn't make them wear a thin nightgown in the middle of winter, or entice them to roam barefoot through a snowy forest at night. It doesn't make them bleed, or cause them to snarl like a wild animal.

With the closest doctor so far away, it's not unusual for illness to lurk during the colder months. But whatever plagued Ms. White was different. I smelled blood on her breath. Heard the rattle in her chest. Something inside me knew death was coming before it actually came.

What I didn't know is if it would be her death...or mine.

Hello, and thank you for reading!

After what happened to Ms. White, this chapter is a bit slower, but it helps to lay the foundation for what is yet to come. By the end of the story, I hope it will all make sense. You can expect a new chapter this Friday. And I'm super excited for it!!

Now it's time for a quick history lesson! The Switchback Railway existed in a real life. It was the first roller coaster built in a park called Coney Island, located in a section of New York City called Brooklyn, which is still there to this day (the park and the city, just not the roller coaster). The ride was constructed in 1884 and it really did cost five cents to ride. The car went just over six miles per hour and coasted down a 600-foot track. As lackluster as it sounds now, it was probably very exciting back then! This is an old drawing (not created by me) of what it used to look like:

And these were actual rules teachers were expected to follow: