In the distance, just above the receding waterline, a group of people were trying to pull what looked like a pig out of the mud.

“From the smokehouse,” Nathaniel said.

She hadn’t thought of the smokehouse. The men had got together some years ago and built it for the use of the whole community. A dozen families had the entire winter’s worth of meat stored there. All gone.

There were scavengers everywhere, mud-covered and grim as they searched for anything that might be used to rebuild. Katie Blackhouse went by with a chamber pot under one arm and a cooking pot under the other.

Joshua Hench and his sons were at work shoveling mud out of the smithy. At the trading post there was a makeshift raft tied to the hitching post, and they watched as the Mayfair sons threw bundles and sacks and parcels out of the window and onto it.

“That’s enough,” their father called to them, ready to take up his pole. But even as he spoke a small barrel came flying out the window and thumped onto the raft, which immediately listed and began to sink.

“Nails?!” he shouted. “Hast thou lost thy head, Samuel?” He was trying to lift the keg of nails to hand it back through the window, but instead he lost his balance and fell backward into the muddy waters. There was a great cry from inside the trading post and from the smithy as well. Three Mayfair sons catapulted themselves out the window to their father’s rescue and, in the process, sank the raft and everything on it. Tobias Mayfair came up coughing, the keg of nails clasped in his arms.

The schoolhouse stood on dry land now, and it looked to be intact. Two windowpanes had broken and some boards were missing from the steps, but the roof was whole and in general the building had survived. What it must be like inside, Elizabeth could hardly imagine. She very purposefully turned her mind away from the question of schoolbooks.

“There’s Daniel,” Nathaniel said. He pointed with his chin to a group of men who were examining what was left of the smokehouse. Gabriel was there too, prying something out of the mud with a crowbar. Luke and Simon would be nearby.

“This is so much worse than I imagined.” Elizabeth turned to Nathaniel and saw that his attention was elsewhere, somewhere behind her, and that there was something wrong.

The first scream was so loud and piercing that everyone turned together, like ladies and gentlemen performing a country dance. The screams doubled and then tripled before Elizabeth could locate the source.

A group of women stood pointing, all of them, toward the far shore of the bloated river. Men were running from every direction, jumping over debris, swerving around fallen trees. Jumping from safe spot to safe spot rather than risk sinking neck-deep in the muck. And all the time the keening spiraled up and up.

Elizabeth did not want to look, but she felt helpless to resist.

For twenty years on the mountain she had never feared the wolves it was named for. Not once had she seen a wolf attack a man, or even threaten. They never lacked for prey, even in hard winters. But now a large wolf—an animal she recognized by the blaze on his forehead and one damaged ear—was pulling at a human form, half submerged in the river. He had grasped it by the wrist in a pose that looked almost dainty.

“Who is it?” someone shouted. “Who is that?”

It was impossible to tell, battered and muddy as the body was. The wolf tugged harder and the corpse turned.

“His eyes are open!” Jane Cunningham moaned.

“It’s one of the Sampsons,” shouted a man’s voice.

Old Father. The wolf’s name came to her suddenly. They called him Old Father, for his calm dignity, and for his intelligence. Now he had judged himself safe from the humans across the water, or his hunger had overridden such calculations.

Old Father tore into the soft, bloated belly of the dead man on the ground.

Nathaniel took her horse by the bridle and was turning her away, but she couldn’t leave, not yet, because Daniel was moving.

He ran forward, his good arm hooked behind his back to grab a tomahawk. That same arm came up and around in an arc and then the tomahawk was flying, flashing as it turned over and over, like a child’s whirligig.

The heavy thunk of the blade burying itself in bone was loud enough to hear over the rushing river water.

“By God,” said someone nearby. “I doubt there’s another man living who could have made that kill. An angel of death with a bloody tomahawk instead of a scythe.”

“You see,” Nathaniel was saying. “Daniel’s took care of it. Come, Boots, come away now.”

Chapter XIII

Along with Ivy House, that had been made available for Lily and Simon for as long as they cared to stay in Paradise, came a Mrs. Thicke. The housekeeper was a widow and good-sister to Ethan’s own housekeeper, another Widow Thicke; both had come with him from Manhattan when he moved back to Paradise.

“Ethan would tear every building down just to build it up again, if we let him.” Lily’s father had told her about this soon after they arrived in port, in one of many long conversations about the changes she would see at home. Ethan had hand-picked families to take up vacant farmsteads in Paradise, and made sure that they would bring the skilled labor he wanted. There were carpenters, joiners, cabinetmakers, and masons. Farming was a risky business in the Sacandaga valley, but Ethan kept finding things to build or rebuild, and he paid the skilled workers well.

Lying in bed that first morning Lily took in the details that had been lost on her yesterday. Carved lintels where rabbits played among foliage; a washstand with a marble top; the hearth lined with beautiful tiles of a type she had never seen before, with a raised pattern in deep cobalt blue.