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C lara’s stomach lurched as she climbed back down the stairs. Her family may decide to live in London? Did they ever care if they saw her again? Her head throbbed. Her stomach needed mint tea. Jenny would fix some.

She stepped through the narrow hall and into the kitchen. “Jenny? I hope you are still here...”

“Yes, chile. You done turned green.”

A warm hand touched her brow.

“You ain’t hot, that’s good.”

“Mint tea—or ginger, please.”

Ten minutes later, Clara rested the warm mug against her forehead, removing it at intervals to sip. The headache cracked on, but at least her stomach had calmed.

Jenny left for bed and took Morrie with her. So quiet, one would hardly think she was in the room. No one ever had to guess with Jenny. Her movements gave her away.

She put her mug on the table and breathed deeply. Nothing like being quiet and alone. Except for Mrs. Ramshaw and Reverend Merrick’s muted conversation from the other room, nothing but the fire crackled in her hearth.

Reverend Merrick had been kind to read the letters to her. She hated the fact that her family problems were open for him to see. Now he knew everything. The thought was downright embarrassing .

Was it a fact of blindness that nothing could be private? That she could never do anything for herself?

Reverend Merrick’s voice moved closer to the kitchen door. She heard him clearly.

“Just because you and the other anonymous ladies have set your sights on Morrie doesn’t mean you should break the law. Besides, where could she go? How do you plan to see her to safety?”

Ramshaw’s voice shook. “In my eyes, the law has already been broken. In God’s eyes too. Was her family not stolen from Africa? Is not rape a crime?”

Clara covered her mouth. Morrie had been forced to...? Couldn’t have happened on her estate. Never . Father wouldn’t allow it.

“I agree with you. But Morrie is a slave, and nothing but the law can change that.”

“Have you no mercy?” Incredulity laced her voice.

He impatiently responded, “I’ve all the mercy Christ must feel on her behalf. I will trust her to Him.”

“That’s too simple and entirely takes responsibility off of your shoulders.

Look, we’ve managed to hide that she’s with child.

” Her hands clapped. “Imagine, we shall save two lives, altogether. It will be easy to shuttle her from house to house until we can arrange the escape. I’ve been teaching her to read for that exact purpose. ”

“What kind of life will she have once she reaches...where is it you wish to send her?”

“New York. I was hoping your family might make the perfect connection.”

The good reverend sighed loudly.

Clara nearly showed herself. They had no right to steal her father’s property!

“You think New York is above the law?”

“No, but Canada is. Or the west. She could move out there.”

“Away from family and friends? ”

“No, Reverend. To freedom. Even the Israelites had to wander the desert for a time.”

Reverend Merrick was quiet for a minute.

“Listen, the Shaker community, twenty miles down towards the river, believes as we do on the subject of slavery. I have a few friends who joined long ago. I visit them on occasion. They have helped more than a few slaves—think of it, Daniel, they are so close to the river. It’s perfect.”

“Why do you need my help? Seems you have it figured out.”

“When Morrie gets to New York, she’ll need to board with your family.” Mrs. Ramshaw’s pled with him. “Convince them to help us. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

Clara shook her head. She had no idea Mrs. Ramshaw was involved in anything so... dangerous . If a runaway was caught, they were whipped. She’d only seen it happen once, by mistake. She was ten years old and supposed to be at her lessons.

She’d sneaked to the orchard for an apple. And watched the shocking drama unfold when a black man had been tied to a fence post, his naked body exposed. At the first strike, she’d run as if her own life had been at stake. Night was filled with tears.

The rule was simple, her father explained. Don’t run, don’t get whipped. They had a job to do and weren’t able to survive without his help.

“Mrs. Ramshaw, I understand that you are perfectly serious. I will pray on the matter. It is not an easy one. But I must declare that I don’t feel personally called end slavery. We shall see.”

He daren’t help Mrs. Ramshaw steal Morrie. Too worried about his own skin, and rightly so.

He’d shuffled to his feet. “Before I go, I need to tell you that Clara received some letters from her family today. I read them to her.”

She masked a gasp .

“She could use some extra kindness.”

Clara fumed. Furious. He wasn’t supposed to tell!

Why did he think he could? He promised her!

Men were not to be trusted. Hadn’t she already learned that lesson?

Did he think he was honorable when he said that some men would not abandon her as Christian had?

As if he had the same kind of honor. She could spit in his face. Would have if he’d been closer.

She slammed the mug onto the kitchen table. Didn’t care who heard.

Mrs. Ramshaw and Daniel walked through the swinging kitchen door. She believed they must be staring at her.

“Oh my. What are you doing down here?” Mrs. Ramshaw said.

“I live here, do I not? Though I have often requested to go home. If you do not wish me to enjoy this kitchen, then please do let me know ahead of time.”

Reverend Merrick spoke. “You overheard us, didn’t you?”

Clara didn’t have to say anything.

Mrs. Ramshaw reached out to Clara. “Can we trust you to keep the secret?”

Clara shrugged. “No one visits. Who would I tell?”

Mrs. Ramshaw lightly squeezed her arm. “More than one life is at stake if this gets out.”

“You should be more careful,” Clara said. “From what I understand, trust in any man is volatile.”

Reverend Merrick grumbled. “Any man, Miss Stanton?”

“Any and always.”

She turned from them and climbed the back stairway. Too much. Life happened around her and she remained out of orbit, like a forgotten star.

Perhaps she would escape with Morrie. She’d provide the perfect cover...a blind person could never be a part of a nefarious plan. What was she doing, playing devil’s advocate ?

She put on her nightgown and crawled into the brick-warmed bed and wrestled with the forever darkness.

AS TIRED AS HE WAS , Daniel slept fitfully.

Something about Clara’s change of emotions bothered him.

Girls always had moods, but this was different.

She had gone from being kind and happy to see him to—well—spiteful.

Grateful for his assistance in reading those letters.

Understandably sad. But he’d been tender with her.

Why had she been so...angry?

He tried to recall the conversation about seeing Morrie to freedom. Surely the life of one slave girl wouldn’t set her on edge? Well, perhaps Mrs. Ramshaw would talk gently with her about abolition. She would understand and not be so offended.

For once, he was grateful the girl was blind and couldn’t write to tell her father. Just being party to such a conversation put him at risk, and if he wanted to keep his pastorate, no one could find out. Ever.

Honestly, the whole business scared him. He was no Moses, and no burning bush had caught fire in front of him. Unless Mrs. Ramshaw herself was a dangerous flame. He imagined her magnitude of gray hair on fire and laughed despite his fears. Without a doubt, the woman had spirit.

He moaned and punched his pillow. It wasn’t his lot in life to please his parishioners, either.

Each wanted him to agree with them, do as they wished, go where they told him, say long glorious prayers, which he was no good at, and buy all his goods from Green’s and not Young’s.

The countering view, of course, was that he should purchase everything from Young’s and not Green’s.

But where one made purchases was a far cry from uncaging young Morrie. Which was more dangerous—a life on her own, or with others who could potentially protect her? Would she be as much prey outside as in? Lord? Your input would be appreciated .

Good thing Francine was coming. He needed her spontaneous laughter. Hopefully by the next time Mrs. Ramshaw cornered him, the whole plan would be discarded. And another, more reasonable plot in place. If they turned in the nasty man who’d raped her instead...that would be a start.

He tried to pray for Clara. Thankful that God heard his prayer, even though he was too tired to formulate the words.

He slipped off in a dream. Clara’s hand was tucked in his arm.

And on and on they traveled through a foggy Kentucky countryside.

They could not see where they tread. She tried to pull away. ..he held her fast...

When he woke by a rooster’s crow, he could not shake the vision. At last he knew. He’d broken her confidence. Completely and utterly. That’s why she’d been angry. He’d promised not to mention the letters to Ramshaw.

He’d been so tired and only wanted to make sure Clara had an easy time of it.

How often had he preached about the difference between gossip and prayer requests?

Losh, he was no better than a biddy, however unintended.

But she had heard him—that’s why she’d said what she did about placing trust in any man. She was talking of him.

The girl needed to calm down. He’d spoken out of kindness, whether she could see that or not. It was her choice to wallow in self-pity or move on. He couldn’t make that decision for her.

After he revealed the final portion of the letter, he’d get Francine to take over reading chores. He needed to stay out of her way and give God room to squeeze into the eternal equation. “And that,” he concluded, “is my job.”

It would have been easy to keep this conviction, except the very next evening, he dreamt of her again, moving about in thick fog, danger imminent.

The image was difficult to shake, so he tried to focus on his sermon.

Didn’t work. He’d have to reveal what the end of the letter said: that Lucy and Christian had set a wedding date .

An idea slammed him. It was a bad idea. Perilous. The girl needed a husband, didn’t she? He might woo her. Well, why not? She would love him enough not to reveal that he was involved in Morrie’s escape. Protection for him. And, of course, he could lead her to Jesus...

Cat pawed through the study door.

“I am not getting enough sleep. One can’t catch a girl like you catch a mouse. Much more complicated. I’d be doing it for the safety of my own hide, too. Rotten of me. Thank the Lord, I’ve more sense than to follow through with such crazy plans.”

Daniel stroked the cat and prayed until God’s peace flooded him. Overwhelming his ridiculous notions. He didn’t have to know the next step. Only obey and give glory to God in everything he put his hands to.

A better idea came. Years had passed since his father died.

Together, they’d spent many hours carving canes for the poor and those who needed a ‘gift from the hand’, as Father liked to call it.

He took out his knives from the chest, unused since the casket closed over the face of his father forever.

If anyone came to his door today, he’d not be found. He was going on a hike. His heavy heart lifted from all his duties...and the difficult decision about Morrie.

He trusted God to lead him in the heavy things. Why not the light ones as well? God would lead him to the right piece of wood, at just the right moment.

He packed lunch of cold biscuits, country ham, and a canteen of water. His New Testament bulged from an inner pocket. He donned his hat and dashed out of sight before Old Ruby’s relatives flagged him down.

THE NEXT MORNING, DANIEL invaded Mrs. Kilgore’s workspace for carving. After some two hours of hiking the day before, he’d found the perfect branch. He had already sawed it to size and stripped the bark away. He’d spend most of his day carving and sanding.

A pot of rich coffee steamed beside him. Mrs. Kilgore even seemed to be in a good mood, breakfast had been delicious.

He used glass to sand, short firm strokes around all portions of the long, slender cane.

Once the wood was stained, the rich cherry color would surface.

Too bad she’d never see it. But she would feel the smoothness, no rough parts.

Nothing to hurt her. He would not do only half a job as he once tried in his youth.

His father had urged him to do his best, even for the wretch—in his opinion—that was to receive the cane.

A drunkard, he’d stumbled in front of a coach.

They had visited him in the infirmary, and promised a new walking stick to the man with a broken hip and a crushed foot.

Such was the price for drowning a sorrow.

It had been his first cane. No matter that they had money enough to buy canes to give away.

His father explained that gifts of this kind needed to come from his own hands.

It wouldn’t be enough to merely pay for an item.

He wanted Daniel to feel the effort, to know what it meant to give hours away, to see the glory of God come to a man that did not expect it.

The work had been half frustrating at times.

He didn’t always feel the glory. Some men didn’t deserve the fine gift.

His father had said it once: that was the point.

None of us do. The gift was about mercy and grace.

What happened with the old drunk had changed Daniel’s life.

With the stick’s help, the man now stumbled along in a straight line, right into the den of his addiction.

He loudly and lovingly preached a sermon to those who would listen.

An act of kindness had opened that door—and the man led a few precious souls to the love of the Savior .

Daniel slowed his strokes and ran his hand down the wood. “One thought leads to another,” his father had said, “A cane or a cross...a shepherd’s crook or a Moses’ staff...”

A Moses’ staff...freedom. Freedom for captives. Daniel closed his eyes. Lord.

“You aren’t sick, are you Reverend?” Mrs. Kilgore drew near.

“Sometimes God’s messages are loud, aren’t they?” He knew what he had to do.

“I’ve heard a preacher yell before an’ some take to shoutin’. I can’t abide it.” Her hands were firmly planted on her hips. “Wanted you to know where I stand.”