Chapter 149

"Margaret Lee's daughter—gone just like that?"

Emily Johnson's fingers trembled slightly around her teacup. The shrill cicadas outside couldn't drown out the chill creeping into her heart.

"Exactly," said Daisy Miller, slapping her thigh with a sigh. "The Clarks claim she jumped into the river herself. They never even found the body. And what did the Lees do? Went straight to the Clarks to demand the dowry money back—only to be chased out with brooms."

The teacup clinked against the table. Emily suddenly remembered the girl she'd once seen crying in the cornfield. Just a few months ago, she'd been alive...

"Honestly, the Lees were selling their daughter!" Daisy leaned in, lowering her voice. "Three Turns and One Sound, plus two hundred dollars? Even city workers couldn't afford that—they were setting impossible terms!"

Sunlight filtered through the window, casting fractured patterns on Emily's hand. The brightness suddenly felt harsh.

"That's not how bridal dowries work in our village, is it?"

"Of course not!" Daisy counted on her fingers. "Fifty to a hundred dollars, plus the Thirty-Six Legs—that's the proper way."

"Thirty-Six Legs?" Emily blinked. She'd only read about this in period novels.

"Four stools, one table, a wardrobe, a dresser, a writing desk..." Daisy recited like an expert. "Miss a single leg, and the bride won't even step into the wedding sedan!"

The sudden pounding of running feet interrupted them. David and Tommy Stone burst into the yard like little cannonballs, followed by Grace's son, Jack.

"Auntie!" The boys' eyes sparkled. "We finished our homework!"

Emily pushed aside her thoughts and pulled out an oil-paper package from the cupboard. The sweet aroma of cream-filled cookies filled the room, the children's laughter dispelling the earlier gloom.

"Take some for your sister too." She bent to ruffle Jack's hair when the gate creaked open.

Michael Stone stood at the entrance, holding a squawking hen, his pant legs splattered with mud.

"Wife, stew this for you—you need the nourishment." He grinned, shaking his prize.

Once the children ran off with their cookies, Emily leaned against the kitchen doorframe. "I heard about Margaret—"

"Dead." Michael deftly slit the hen's throat. "The Clarks say she drowned, but between you and me..." His voice dropped. "She might've been pushed."

Emily sucked in a sharp breath. Water bubbled in the pot, steam fogging her vision.

"If she's lucky..." Michael suddenly whispered in her ear, "she might be lying in some clinic right now, with no memory."

The words sent a jolt through Emily. Outside, the cornstalks swayed, and for a moment, she thought she saw the girl in the floral dress again.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the last golden light swept over the brand-new Thirty-Six Legs furniture. In the twilight, the wood grain looked eerily like streaks of drying blood.