I told myself we were safe.
The wagon rocked as we moved down the road. I kept checking behind, expecting to see my sister following us, all dressed in black. She wouldn’t be there, I told myself. She’d married into another family, moved to a town three days journey from ours. They had been the ones to dress her all in black.
I remembered mother’s face when she saw my sister in her coffin. My sister’s other family must have thought the grief and horror was for seeing her dead, but I knew it wasn’t just that. It was the fine black taffeta dress. The black veil over her white face and curling brown hair.
Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know anything?
She’d been buried in their churchyard, not ours. Why would she come all the way out to haunt us when it had been none of our doing?
Still, I couldn’t help checking behind us again.