had no memory of. Amy took her customary position on the edge of his cot. Beneath the blankets the shape of his lean, little-boy’s body was barely a presence; around them, twenty sleeping children, a chorus of silence.
“Well,” she began. “Let’s see. Your mother was very beautiful.”
“A warrior.”
“Yes,” Amy replied with a smile, “a beautiful warrior. With long black hair worn in a warrior’s braid.”
“So she could use her bow.”
“Correct. But most of all she was headstrong. Do you know what that means, to be headstrong? I’ve told you before.”
“Stubborn?”
“Yes. But in a good way. If I tell you to wash your hands before dinner, and you refuse to do it, that is not so good. That is the wrong kind of stubborn. What I’m saying is that your mother always did what she believed was right.”
“Which is why she had me.” He focused on the words. “Because it was … the right thing to bring a light into the world.”
“Good. You remember. Always remember you are a bright light, Caleb.”
A warm happiness had come into the boy’s face. “Tell me about Theo now. My father.”
“Your father?”
“Pleeease.”
She laughed. “All right, then. Your father. First of all, he was very brave. A brave man. He loved your mother very much.”
“But sad.”
“True, he was sad. But that was what made him so brave, you see. Because he did the bravest thing of all. You know what that is?”
“To have hope.”
“Yes. To have hope when there seems to be none. You must always remember that, too.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, moist with childlike heat. “Now, it’s late. Time for sleep. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Did they … love me?”
Amy was taken aback. Not by the question itself—he had asked this on numerous occasions, seeking assurance—but by his uncertain tone.
“Of course, Caleb. I have told you many times. They loved you very much. They love you still.”
“Because they’re in heaven.”
“That’s right.”
“Where all of us are together, forever. The place the soul goes.” He glanced away. Then: “They say you’re very old.”
“Who says so, Caleb?”
“I don’t know.” Wrapped in his cocoon of blankets, he gave a tiny shrug. “Everyone. The other sisters. I heard them talking.”
It was not a matter that had come up before. As far as Amy was aware, only Sister Peg knew the story.
“Well,” she said, gathering herself, “I’m older than you, I know that much. Old enough to tell you it’s time for sleep.”
“I see them sometimes.”
The remark caught her short. “Caleb? How do you see them?”
But the boy wasn’t looking at her; his gaze had turned inward. “At night. When I’m sleeping.”
“When you’re dreaming, you mean.”
The boy had no answer for this. She touched his arm through the blankets. “It’s all right, Caleb. You can tell me when you’re ready.”
“It’s not the same. It’s not like a dream.” He returned his eyes to hers. “I see you too, Amy.”
“Me?”
“You’re different, though. Not how you are now.”
She waited for him to say more but there was nothing. Different how?
“I miss them,” the boy said.
She nodded, content for the moment to let the matter pass. “I know you do. And you will see them again. But for now you have me. You have your uncle Peter. He’ll be coming home soon, you know.”
“With the … Expe-dishunary.” A look of determination glowed in the boy’s face. “When I grow up, I want to be a soldier like Uncle Peter.”
Amy kissed his brow again, rising to go. “If that’s what you want to be, then that is what you’ll be. Now, sleep.”
“Amy?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“Did anyone love you like that?”
Standing at the boy’s bedside, she felt the memories wash over her. Of a spring night, and a wheeling carousel, and a taste of powdered sugar; of a lake and a cabin in the woods and the feel of a big hand holding her own. Tears rose to her throat.
“I believe that they did. I hope they did.”
“Does Uncle Peter?”
She frowned, startled. “What makes you ask that, Caleb?”
“I don’t know.” Another shrug, faintly embarrassed. “The way he looks at you. He’s always smiling.”
“Well.” She did her best to show nothing. Was it nothing? “I think he is smiling because he’s happy to see you. Now, sleep. Do you promise?”
He groaned with his eyes. “I promise.”
Outside, the lights were pouring down: not a brightness as total as the Colony’s—Kerrville was much too big for that—but, rather, a kind of lingering dusk, lit at the edges with a crown of stars above. Amy crept from the courtyard,