The Mapmaker's Children by Sarah McCoy Page B

around the moon, cloaking them in shadow. “The signs be saying change.”
    Something cold and clammy slithered across Sarah’s bare knee in the dirt. On nervous edge already and fearing a snake, she jumped from her hideaway, into full view.
    Gypsy wagged her tail in greeting. Yellow crumbs clung to her shaggy beard.
    â€œMiss Brown?” Freddy came close to see her better.
    As if her family hadn’t endured enough humiliation, now this. Sarahreluctantly pulled the blanket tight around herself, throwing the triangular edge over her shoulder like a scarf before squaring her shoulders. “Yes, it is I, Mr. Hill.”
    Freddy turned to Mr. Fisher. “May I introduce Miss Sarah Brown, Mr. Fisher.”
    Mr. Fisher bowed. “Miss Brown.”
    Sarah lifted her head high. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fisher. Please thank your daughter Siby for the most delicious meal I’ve had in months. As for the moon”—she inhaled deeper than was natural so the gesture could be seen through the sheath of bedding—“Mr. Thoreau insists that a sturdy walk through nature, at any hour or unpredictability, comforts an anxious body and mind.”
    She felt stronger by evoking Henry David Thoreau and hoped Freddy was educated enough to know of him; otherwise it was a lost rationale.
    â€œYour Mister Thoreau be wise, indeed,” said Mr. Fisher, taking a step back. He pointed a finger to the sky. “But Cold Moon Man, he be fickle. I best be home while there’s still light.”
    Freddy cleared his throat—whether of the cold or a laugh, Sarah couldn’t tell.
    â€œGood rest to you, Mr. Fisher.” Sarah curtsied.
    â€œSame to you, Miss Brown.” A nod of mutual understanding passed between the two men before he went back the way he’d come.
    Gypsy licked remnants of corn crumbs off Sarah’s side, making a long sweeping wet spot. She rubbed the dog’s ear. The horse nickered, tired and ready for the warm hay.
    Freddy nodded toward the barn. “If you’re in the walking way—care to help me bed Tilda?”
    Sarah flushed under the coverlet. No proper man would’ve dared ask a woman in her undergarments to walk anywhere. By the same token, no proper woman would’ve been out alone in the dark in her nightgown to begin with. She turned the situation over like a flapjack. What was the best course of action? She crossed her arms over her chest, pretending to be in deep contemplation as to whether he was worthy of her company.
    No one else was awake, so if she chose to forget, it would be gone, she decided. It was the memory that made it real, and the only important thing to remember from the night was that the Hills and the Fishers were most undoubtedly UGRR stationmasters. Whether she helped Freddy barn up the horse or not was of little significance.
    â€œI was headed in that direction anyhow,” she replied and walked to the opposite side, so that the girth of the horse’s muscular neck and head was between them. Gypsy trailed behind, sniffing Sarah’s footsteps for bread crumbs.
    An owl hooted, and the other barn animals bawed and bayed when they swung open the door, bringing with them the chilled air.
    Freddy tied Tilda in her stall. The hay crunched beneath his feet. His silence set Sarah’s mind to worrying despite her resolve not to care—and she didn’t care. At least not in theory. But it needled her: finding her in the garden so indecorously dressed, did this young Mr. Hill see her as unfit? Or worse—juvenile?
    To break the silence, she said the thing on the forefront of her mind: “I like Mr. Fisher. He’s kind, and it meant a great deal what he said about my father.”
    â€œYou heard?”
    She nodded. “But you needn’t worry. I’m a Brown. We’re excellent secret keepers. I know about the…” She lowered her voice to a whisper: “Freedom Train—the