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There was no chance of sleep that night.

Emily lay in the dark, wrestling with her thoughts and tormented by memories.

She missed the distant howls of coyotes and wolves, the soothing snort and snuffle of animals nearby, the warm press of Henry’s body against hers.

The sharp noises of the city beyond the window kept her awake, while the sudden cracks and creaks inside the house set her nerves on edge.

But it was the cries from Dorothy’s room, as the child woke from a bad dream, that Emily found the most disturbing.

She lay stiffly beneath the bedsheets, hobbled by indecision as she heard Cora go to the child.

Should she go and help, or leave Cora to it?

How would she and Henry ever console the child if the nightmares continued in Kansas?

Her mind was a muddle of questions for which she didn’t have any answers.

The jarring awkwardness of her earlier attempts to interact with the child taunted her through the small hours.

Their conversations had been stilted and forced, Emily’s manner overly friendly one minute and too serious the next, every painful pause emphasizing the emotional distance between them.

Even the apple peel trick had failed to impress.

Cora, watching from a distance, had encouraged Emily not to give up.

“It’s no surprise she can’t see any wonder in the world, Mrs.Gale.

She’s lost everything. She’ll come around, in time.

” The words had fixed on Emily like a compass point to guide her.

That was her responsibility now: to restore a sense of wonder to Dorothy’s shattered world.

The prospect was terrifying. What wonder was there left for the child among the rubble of such an awful tragedy?

It still seemed impossible that a telegram had arrived a week ago bearing the devastating news that Annie and John had drowned in a boating accident on Lake Michigan.

Emily was sewing flour sack dresses at the time.

She’d been saving the sacks printed with blue and white gingham—the pattern a favorite among the girls.

Now the blue and white checks would forever remind her of the single word that had fallen from her lips as the telegram dropped into her lap: “Dorothy.”

With no bodies recovered from the lake, there’d been no wake, no caskets, no burial, no graveside farewell. Emily and Henry had missed the memorial mass due to bad weather.

“A few friends and business acquaintances attended,” Cora had said. “Dorothy’s teacher and school friends. And a man who sat at the back and left straight after the service.”

Everything Emily had learned about death, every part of the mourning process that was meant to bring comfort, had been denied her, but it was Annie’s lingering presence in the house that made it so hard for Emily to believe that she was gone.

How was it possible when she’d seen the imprint of Annie’s lipstick on the rim of a water glass beside the bed, the furrows of her fingertips in a jar of Arden’s Eight Hour Cream, her bookmark poised for her to return to the story, an appointment diary full of approaching anniversaries and arrangements.

Annie was everywhere, and yet nowhere, leaving Emily suspended in an emotional no-man’s-land, unable to mourn her sister properly, unable to find the tears that Cora couldn’t keep at bay.

As Cora padded back to her room and a hush descended over the house again, Emily lay in the dark, willing herself to sleep so that she might get some relief from the boulder of grief and guilt that had rolled over her heart.

—

The morning brought no release. After a few fitful hours’ sleep, Emily washed and dressed and began to make her way downstairs. As she passed Dorothy’s bedroom, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

She paused and peered inside.

The child was fast asleep, russet hair spilling in rumpled waves over her pillow, one arm wrapped around her toy lion, one leg dangling out of the covers.

Emily stepped quietly into the room, lifted Dorothy’s leg back into bed, and straightened the comforter.

She stood for a moment, watching her, waiting for a surge of maternal affection for this sweet little girl who’d lost her mother and father, but all she felt was sorrow. For them all.

Downstairs, she absent-mindedly prodded her fork at a mound of scrambled eggs.

“Not hungry?” Cora asked.

Emily shook her head and put down her fork. “Not especially. I’m sorry. You went to so much trouble.” She sipped her coffee, glad of the bitter liquid’s warmth.

Cora assured her that a couple of scrambled eggs and a round of toast was no trouble at all.

“You should try and eat something all the same. Keep your strength up. You’re ever so pale.

” She offered the toast rack and a sympathetic smile.

“They say we’ve to eat more wheat. Wheat with every meal, to help the farmers.

But I don’t need to tell you that. Is there as much surplus as they say? ”

Emily nodded. “Millions more acres were plowed up last year, and there’s more and more folk arriving on the trains every week, fooled into thinking they can turn wheat into gold.

We’re growing more grain than anyone knows what to do with, and surplus grain means prices are at a record low.

Breaks our hearts to see all that hard work left to rot by the grain elevators at the station. ”

She took a triangle of toast, but what she saw on her plate was last year’s moldering grain and the look of despair on Henry’s face as he recorded the plunging prices in his ledger. The toast turned to dust in her mouth. She put it down and reached for her coffee again.

“Which part of Ireland are you from, Cora?” she asked, eager to change the subject. “It’s nice to hear the accent again.”

“Donegal. Ballyliffin. Can’t get much farther north before falling into the Atlantic. Do you know it?”

“I don’t, but I hear Donegal is very beautiful. You must miss it.”

“I’ve lived in Chicago eighteen years and still feel as Irish as the day I stepped off the boat. I even made a St. Brigid’s cross yesterday.” Cora pulled the distinctive woven cross from her pinafore pocket. “Couldn’t let the first day of spring pass without it.”

Emily offered a tired smile. The familiar shape of the St. Brigid’s cross reminded her of happy moments with Annie and Nell as they made the traditional crosses every year to mark the arrival of Imbolc and to bring good fortune for the new season.

A memory came to her then of her father weaving dolls of straw to bring good weather for the harvest. The Irish traditions were embedded in her like a seam of iron in rock.

“I was only five when we left Ireland,” she said. “But my parents insisted we continue to speak the language and learn the traditional songs and stories. I feel more Irish than American.”

Cora nodded. “Ireland will always be home, no matter where I lay my head at night. Now, will ye have more coffee. Or would you prefer a decent cup of Irish tea? I’ve some in the caddy. A gift from a friend who went to visit her family in Galway last month.”

Emily smiled. “Coffee is fine. I’ll need it to stay awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Emily shook her head. “Not really.” She paused before broaching the subject of Dorothy’s dreams. “I heard Dorothy cry out in the night once or twice. Does she have the nightmares often?”

“On and off since she was very small. Used to walk in her sleep too, but she doesn’t do that as often now.”

“As often?” An image of the child wandering across the prairie in the middle of the night flashed across Emily’s mind. “How often?”

“Hardly ever. I expect it’s the shock has brought it all on again. I’m sure it’ll pass soon enough.”

“What does she dream about?”

“Nobody knows. The black wind, she calls it. She can’t remember anything about it the next morning, thanks be to God, although it’s terrible real to her at the time.

Such a curious child. Black wind one minute.

Flying monkeys the next. I can’t keep up with her!

Shelves full of books and a head full of stories, that one. ”

“She likes books?”

“Oh yes! Dorothy is a real little bookworm!”

Emily was glad to hear it. “I’ll have to take her to the town library. They don’t have a huge selection, but I’m sure she’ll find something she likes.”

“She’ll enjoy that. Annie read to her every night. Irish legends and myths, stories of the little people, Tír na nóg, Fionn Mac Cumhaill. And, of course, Gráinne Ní Mháille, the pirate queen. That’s Dorothy’s favorite.”

“It was my favorite, too.”

“Well now. There you go. You have something in common already.”

“Perhaps.” It was a glimmer of hope, although Emily knew that stories of pirate queens and mythical lands wouldn’t keep Dorothy entertained forever.

“And you’ll be glad of the extra pair of hands on the farm, no doubt,” Cora added as she reached for the marmalade. “Must be hard going with just the two of ye. My old da always said farming folk are family folk.”

Emily stalled. It was an impossible statement to respond to without elaborating on the absence of children, and nobody ever wanted the detail. “We didn’t…”

“Don’t mind me, Mrs.Gale. I talk too much. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s fine. I just…”

Cora waved her hand in the air, embarrassed and eager to move on. “No need to explain.”

For a rare moment, Emily wanted to explain, but Cora had already moved on.

“Dorothy needs time to grieve, and to get to know you.” She placed a reassuring hand on Emily’s arm.

“It’s not going to be easy, Mrs.Gale, and there’ll be plenty of bumps along the way I shouldn’t wonder, but you’ll figure it out, the two of ye.

You’re her mother’s sister, after all. Family’s family. ”

Their conversation was interrupted by Dorothy calling for Cora.

“Should I go?” Emily asked, standing up.