Bridget sat on the back landing watching the door of the skinning shed with its smell of butchery and death clinging to the traps and knives and table. If Effie stepped out and started for the river, she’d stop her. A week now since the plate, and Effie still spent her days in there. Traveling all the distance she could from what happened.
The back door of the lodge jerked open. Bridget jumped at seeing Rev. Jackdaw again so soon. Defeat hung in his clothes, in his sagging face, in the eye that looked dying and paler than the other. “Where is she?”
Bridget froze. Effie hadn’t asked about the clothes from Chief, either because she was too distracted to care or didn’t expect the truth anyway. But Rev. Jackdaw? And would he be mad that Effie was in the shed? Bridget couldn’t imagine why.
A
