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  Polly the reins and took the baby out of her arms. Within a month, Babson sent a crew to strip the house, leaving nothing but a cellar hole and some piles of trash, which burned before the first snow.

  Cornelius Finson heard of Tammy’s death from the Widow Fletcher in Sandy Bay, where he’d stopped with a bucket of clams. She gave him a cup of weak tea, making it clear that he was to drink it standing in the kitchen while she got her change purse and talked about her aches and pains. As he was ready to go, she said, “With that Younger woman dead, you’re the last one left in Dogtown.”

  Cornelius did not bother to contradict the old woman, who had forgotten about Ruth, who was still rattling around in Easter’s house. He seemed to be the only one who remembered that Ruth was still there.

  She must be content with her solitude, he decided. As far as he knew, Ruth had not gone into Gloucester or Sandy Bay even once in the year since Easter left. But he’d noticed that the light-colored dog was living with her now. Seeing Tan tag after Ruth reminded Cornelius of Judy Rhines and her Greyling, though he’d never heard Ruth say a word to the dog, and the animal kept much more distance between them.

  Cornelius had seen them from afar, and close up, too. In fact, he had walked near enough to Easter’s house, morning, midday, and evening, to give Ruth the oppor-tunity to speak to him. Once, he even saw her drawing back from the window as he passed. In the end, he thought it just

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  as well. The last two Africans on Cape Ann had been in the same room on occasion over the years. They had nodded silent greetings on the road, but they had never spoken.

  What would they say to each other after so many years? he wondered. He did not wish to be questioned by a virtual stranger, even if she was, in some way, a sister in the skin.

  He imagined that she probably felt even less need to talk than he did.

  Cornelius was not nearly as cut off from the world as Ruth. He continued to make his rounds, secretly

  watching over the Younger family and Judy Rhines. He sold meat, fish, and berries to some of the up-country farmers’ wives and widows and he stopped in at Oliver’s store at least once every month to buy oil, cornmeal, and candles. He did his marketing late in the day, when the streets were nearly empty, since the morning he overheard a woman telling her little boy, “If you don’t do as you’re told, Black Neal over there is going to come to steal you from your bed and sell you to the devil.”

  Cornelius was ready for winter when it hit, hard and cold. The house was snug, and his larder was stocked. He passed the days taking care of his own small needs and whittling. Every night before bed he stepped outside and sniffed for the smoke rising from Ruth’s chimney.

  On the cold December evening when he smelled

  nothing but winter, Cornelius hurried over to find her a few steps from the open door, with four dogs huddled against her shivering body. She might have been lying there the whole day or even since the night before, for all he knew.

  The fire was long dead. The dogs had kept her from freezing.

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  When Cornelius arrived, three of the hounds sprinted out, but Tan stayed where she was, growling softly as he crouched. He moved slowly and met the dog’s steady gaze to reassure her that he meant no harm.

  “Ruth,” said Cornelius, gently.

  Tan’s ears flattened back against her head.

  “Ruth,” he repeated.

  She opened her eyes and recognized the face, but not the expression on it. Nor could she summon a name.

  She tried to open her mouth. She tried to lift her hand.

  “Can you hear me?” he said, louder.

  She managed a strangled squeak.

  Tan whined.

  “Ruth?” shouted the man with the heavy eyes. She blinked at him. He got to his feet. From where she lay, it seemed that he’d retreated all the way to the sky, more like a tree than a man.

  He looked down at her, soaked and soiled, her face puddled into a mess of features that once belonged to Ruth.

  She was trembling.

  “I’ve got to get you into town,” he said, doubting that she understood. She blinked, and he wondered if maybe she did.

  Cornelius lit a fire and dragged Ruth near the warmth, dismayed by the heaviness of her limp body: he would not be able to carry her on his back. He warmed some water and found a cloth and some extra clothes.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as he took down her trousers and wiped away at the mess, trying not to soil his hands any more than he had to, trying not to retch, trying to keep his eyes averted. Tan watched, panting lightly.

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  Cornelius found the tea and made a cup, but he couldn’t figure out how to get any of it into Ruth’s flaccid mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and tried to reassure her. “We’ll go at first light. Easter’ll take care of you, I figure.”

  Ruth blinked. Easter was the little woman who should have been sitting by the fire. Not this tall, sad man. She fell back into sleep, or something like it.

  “You’re not dead, are you?” said Cornelius, alarmed.

  Her eyes flew open and the man jumped. He got to his feet and poked at the fire and then put his coat on top of the blankets he had already piled on top of her. “I’m going to find that sledge of yours,” he said and walked outside, glad for the freshness of the icy air.

  Tan moved closer and lay down, pressing the length of herself against Ruth, whose eyes brimmed over.

  As soon as the sky began to lighten, Cornelius hoisted her onto the sled and bound her with ropes. “I’m sorry,” he said, again and again, worried that he was hurting her.

  Ruth blinked. “Thank you,” she blinked. “Thank you.”

  The trip into Gloucester was torturous for them both.

  If only there had been more snow, thought Cornelius; then he could have glided her part of the way, at least. As it was, he had to drag her over rocks and deep ruts so that nearly every step tossed her head from side to side and rattled her teeth. Ruth tasted blood on her tongue. Her bladder loosed itself again, and she squeezed her eyes tight, ashamed. Tan followed, step for step, ten feet behind.

  The tavern was still dark and shuttered when

  Cornelius pounded on the door. Louisa Tuttle opened an upstairs window with a pitcher of water to dump over the rowdy who dared disturb them at such an hour. When she

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  saw the African and what she took to be a corpse, she pulled back. A moment later, Easter flung open the door.

  “Oh, dear me,” she wailed. “Oh, the poor creature.”

  “She’s not dead,” Cornelius said.

  “Bring her right inside.”

  Louisa frowned mightily at the prospect of such a scene and smell in her public room. By midmorning, they had taken her to the workhouse, which is where she woke up.

  Someone removed her shirt and she felt warm water, then cold water and a thin garment that was almost an insult in the chill of the room. She was rolled from side to side onto a hard bed, and covered with a rough blanket that provided no warmth or comfort. Voices echoed around her, near and far.

  Ruth wondered how she was a part of this tumult and then remembered the way that beach roses fold in upon themselves at night, and slept. She woke up in darkness, unsure if she was dreaming or thinking. A hand touched her forehead, as warm as sunlight, as light as paper. Or maybe that was part of a dream.

  After a day, or two, or perhaps even three, Ruth’s eyes opened again. It was dark but t
here was a candle somewhere behind her and she realized where she was. She had finally been relegated to the bottommost rung of life on Cape Ann, a final holding pen for the old and infirm who had neither money nor children. The windows rattled and sent a draft strong enough to ruffle the sheet on Ruth’s chest. She closed her eyes until morning when she found Easter sitting beside her, rummaging in her basket.

  “How are you today, dearie?” she asked, without the slightest expectation of any response. When she glanced

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  over and saw that Ruth’s eyes were open, she jumped to her feet. “Oh my goodness gracious,” she exclaimed. “Look at you. And they said there wasn’t a prayer. Well! Didn’t I just know better? Didn’t I just? I’ll get you up to snuff in quick order. I’ll get some of this broth in you, and then we’ll see who’s doomed and who’s not, eh? Eh?”

  The beaming pleasure on Easter’s face was almost too much for Ruth to bear, and she closed her eyes again as Easter lifted the covers and set to cleaning her up again.

  “You ain’t near as bad off as them others,” she said.

  “You’ve got me.” Within the hour, Easter had gotten her to swallow some of the soup she’d brought, and recounted the story of her rescue by the dogs and Cornelius. Then she leaned in and told what she knew about the two other residents of the place. “Mistress Woe over there, her daughter just died without leaving her a grandchild or anything else to speak of. They found her on the floor of her room, too,”

  Easter whispered. “Town clerk sold her two sticks of furniture and whatnots, and that’s paying for a little extra food and a woman to wash her bottom. She’s been here a month.” Easter bit her tongue before finishing the thought that it don’t look like she was going to die before the money ran out.

  “Down there,” Easter pointed to a screen near the far wall, “is a young feller they found under the docks, robbed of everything and bleeding from a bad cut on his head. No one knows his name, or which ship he came in on.” The doctor predicted his death within the week, which was fine with the matron: with only the pittance from the town for his support, she had to swab the sailor down herself.

  Compared to those poor souls, Ruth got treated like

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  royalty. Easter came to spoon-feed her broth and tea and gossip every morning, slipping the matron a few coins for an extra blanket and the promise to call her if Ruth took a bad turn. And she’d pressed Judy Rhines into an hour of service during the evening, when Easter could not leave the tavern.

  Judy arrived at dusk to wash Ruth’s hands and face, and feed her some milk toast and egg. Then she’d sit beside her and read softly from the newspaper.

  Ruth wondered if she knew this woman with the

  spectacles and the sweet voice, but she could not get her thoughts to rest on any one thing for more than a moment at a time. Her attention flitted from the ragged breath of the man behind the screen to the nasal whine of the elderly lady across the room, to a memory of a stone well placed, a meal once eaten, the dog. She trolled her mind for words to thank the little woman (Easter, whose name returned to her from time to time) who wiped her chin, washed her bottom, and fed her, all with such good cheer.

  Ruth was not too alarmed by her inability to find words to express her ideas or urges. Last summer, lying among the dogs, she had been unable to summon the word for “cloud”

  or “itch.” It had not mattered to her then: her voice had always seemed out-of-tune to her own ear. It had been a relief to become more and more mute. But she did want to thank Easter, and the other woman. And the man who brought her, the tall one. And what of the tan dog? Where was she?

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  Tan was outside. Easter caught sight of her lurking in the alley beside the workhouse and called, “Here, girl.”

  But the dog ran down the lane and disappeared. Judy Rhines brought a meaty bone and hid it under a rotten barrel, but a city mongrel took it. After a week of watching, Tan was starved and listless. But when she caught Cornelius’s scent, her ears pricked up and she crept out of her hole.

  He arrived after midnight and went in to stare at what was left of Ruth. She was wasted, diminished to what looked like half the size of her healthy self. It seemed impossible that this frail woman—for there was no mistaking this fine-boned creature for a man anymore—had once been as strong as him. Knotted mats of white hair escaped from the too-small cap on her head. She was so still, he wondered if she was dead.

  Just then, her eyes flew open and searched the ceiling, as though she was expecting a visitor from on high. She looked frantic and afraid until she saw him and moaned.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  She flailed her head from side to side and he saw tears glitter at the corners of her eyes. Her suffering overwhelmed him. She was alone and terrified, in pain, despairing.

  He could deliver her from this misery with the blanket or even with his bare hands, he thought. It would be a mercy, like putting down a horse with a broken leg. But he had never killed a horse, much less a woman. It was not in him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Ruth closed her eyes and grew still again. Perhaps she had understood his apology. Perhaps she had just been dreaming. Whatever her thoughts, Cornelius felt that

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  he’d been dismissed. He set down the pile of kindling he’d brought and fled.

  When he reached the Dogtown cottage that he would always think of as Judy’s house, he held the door open for Tan, who had followed him. She hesitated for a moment but then ran to a corner, watching him. He lit the fire and stared at the flames, haunted by the image of Ruth alone and forgotten in a cold room on a hard bed. Cornelius looked at Ruth’s dog, who had made her way to the hearth and was curled at his feet. He wished her mistress an easy death. Then he wished the same for himself.

  Sometimes, when Easter was there, Ruth tried to speak. But all she could muster was a croak.

  “Does it hurt?” Easter asked, alarmed. “Would you like a dram?”

  Ruth closed her eyes wishing she could say, “I need nothing.” She would have taken Easter’s hand and finally said her thank-yous.

  Though speech was lost to her, Ruth’s hearing seemed sharper than ever. In the night, she heard the halyards clang in the harbor and thought about how different winter sounded in Dogtown—a dark hum in the pines, a slow hiss in the leaves.

  Through the thin panes of glass, she heard the splash of waves and remembered how the ocean had made itself heard all the way up in the hills; the surf on distant boulders like a muffled knock on an enormous door.

  Ruth heard snow against the workhouse window, and

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  recalled a storm that had coated the bare trees with salt spray, which disappeared in the morning sunlight with a brittle clatter of falling ice.

  During the day, Ruth listened to the sounds from the street: horses clopping, wagons rumbling, the mismatched chorus of voices: greeting, laughing, swearing, selling, urging. There were gulls, too, barking and shrieking, like gulls everywhere.

  Days passed over, around, and through Ruth. One

  morning during Easter’s visit, the doomed sailor woke up, shouting and cursing. Easter ran over to see what had happened and rushed back to give Ruth the full report. “No one can talk French, but he was pointing to his mouth and to his stomach clear enough,” she said. “Poor feller was half-starved, of course. When Matron brought him the thin stuff she passes off as gruel, he threw it at her. They sold everything he had, down to th
e boots, don’t you know,”

  Easter confided, as though she and Ruth had always shared these kinds of stories. “They counted on him dying, so now they got to scramble up some clothes and shoes for him. You should have seen the fellow’s face! Mad as a wet hen.”

  The sailor’s departure seemed like a good omen to Easter, who’d always thought the workhouse a stepping-stone to the grave. But within the day, the angel of death did take up residence, as the old lady’s cough grew deeper and louder, wearing her out so that every breath became a gasp.

  It was Judy Rhines who noticed the solid silence under her blanket.

  After the brief, hushed commotion of removing the body, Ruth listened to the steady tap-tap of Judy’s knitting needles and the sound settled her to sleep.

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  In the morning, Ruth’s eyes were gummy and

  unfocused. She did not blink or glance about, and by midday her face was hot to the touch. She slept all afternoon and Judy could not rouse her for supper. She’d brought a camphor rub, and applied it to her chest thinking that Ruth was sleeping just like Polly’s babies: as though she was working at it. As though it was her calling.

  In Ruth’s dream, she was in the high meadow with Tan and Bear and others from the old pack. It was summer, and mice skittered in the brush. There was a swarming of bees, screaming cicadas, and a great symphony of birdcalls: robin, jay, mockingbird, pigeon, pheasant, woodpecker, duck, and goose. She sank into the thicket of wild music, to the beat of her own heart.

  Suddenly, a racket of gulls drowned out all the other sounds. Ruth was amazed by the variety of their calls: one was just like a crow’s caw-caw, another sounded like the creaking of a broken tree limb. There was wild laughter, braying, screaming, keening. One of the birds sounded exactly like a weeping woman. “Oh, oh, oh,” it sobbed, nearly human.

  “There, there,” Ruth said in her dream. She opened her lips and nearly summoned the words, but not quite. No matter, she thought. It’s only a gull.

  Easter decided she wanted a proper burial for the African and got a couple of gravediggers, two of her loyal customers, to help her buy a spot inside the cemetery, not outside the wall, where vagrants and paupers were usually