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  “I won’t change my mind,” I say.

  With a shake of his head, he slips down the porch steps and blends into the darkness.

  3

  “Maam and I passed by your place last week. The celery in your garden is coming along nicely. Are you excited?” Mary whispers to me as our needles dive and pull through the layers of fabric stretched out before us. We sit next to each other on hard wooden chairs in the main room of Ruthie Mae’s house amongst the chatter that always accompanies a quilting bee.

  Celery is the quintessential ingredient in about a dozen wedding dishes. Every Amish mother knows to plant extra celery in her garden the May before her daughter’s marriage. Our weddings are in November, after autumn harvest, so it’s natural for the Samuels to take notice of my extra planting as a harbinger of things to come.

  “I just hope it’s warranted. Otherwise, creamed celery every night for dinner.” I raise my eyebrows at her.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” She laughs. “I thought Korwin already asked you and had your father’s blessing.”

  “Deacon Lapp hasn’t approved Korwin for baptism.”

  “Approved?” Mary asks, pausing her stitches. “He’s been in the prebaptismal classes since May. He should be ready by August, yes?” Her words are too loud and the other women at the bee stop their sewing and stare in our direction.

  Old Ruthie Mae Yoder, Jeremiah’s paternal grandmother, raises her ancient, yellow-rimmed eyes from her work to lock with Mary’s. “Got to be sure he’s ready to commit,” she says. “Needs proficiency in Pennsylvania German and to demonstrate an ongoing knowledge and respect for the Ordnung.”

  “Pennsylvania German?” Mary snorts. “These days, it’s more important to speak like an Englisher than Amish.”

  I nudge her with my elbow. “His Amish is very good. Almost as good as mine,” I say. “And he’s demonstrated his commitment for almost a year.”

  “Outsiders always struggle to keep the rules,” Ruthie Mae says. “Too easy for him to go back. Abram is right to wait.” She lowers her eyes to her quilting and says in a bitter, biting voice, “Too many people changing minds these days.”

  I stare at her for a moment, sifting her words like grain through my fingers. Does she mean Hannah and Caleb? How they went on rumspringa and never came home? No. Korwin and I came back. We proved we wanted to be here. This is about something else. My body stiffens.

  “Are you referring to Jeremiah and me?” I ask. My words are soft and respectful but have a slight edge.

  She purses her lips. “That would be one example of the indecision of youth.”

  “Ruthie Mae, there was nothing to be indecisive about. Jeremiah never courted me.”

  “Seems you did enough together since the time you were small. Sometimes you’ve got to judge a thing by actions, not words.”

  My hands tremble. Ruthie Mae, as one of the eldest in our Ordnung and cousin to Abram Lapp, has the deacon’s ear. She is also Jeremiah’s grandmother. She could easily be the reason for the delay. Why hadn’t I considered this before? “Actions? Jeremiah never offered me a ride home from the sing. Never kissed me.”

  “I recall you holding hands a number of times.” Her foggy blues glare at me.

  Shrugging, I try to hold back but can’t. My next words come heated. “I recall many people holding hands without courting or marrying.” I stop sewing. My last stitches are uneven, and I lay my needle down, folding my hands in my lap.

  “Perhaps Jeremiah was waiting for the right time. A good man waits until a girl is ready to be a wife and mother.”

  That sets me off. How dare she suggest that I wasn’t ready last year? If anyone wasn’t ready, it was Jeremiah, who wanted to go on rumspringa before he settled down. I didn’t even want to go. “God’s ways are often unknown to us,” I say. “But I thank Him for bringing Korwin and me together as Korwin is a blessing to this Ordnung and to me.”

  “Maybe. Won’t hurt to wait another year to be certain though. God’s ways as mysterious as they are. I suppose it was God’s will that Jeremiah be born with the face of an angel, and also God’s will that he be scarred by the devil. Mmmhmm, only time will heal old wounds.”

  Not only is she blaming me, the devil, for Jeremiah’s scar, she’s suggesting that I’ve wounded him and should not be allowed happiness while he suffers alone. My jaw unhinges to tell her there are plenty of girls in Hemlock Hollow who would be interested in Jeremiah, scar or no scar. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch electric blue worming under the skin of my thumb in my lap. The tingle is back. Sweat breaks out on my forehead from the effort to contain my power. I am dangerously close to breaking a glow in the dim room. I push my chair back and rush from the room.

  “Lydia?” Mary calls.

  I’m out the door in a flash, bent over and panting in the gravel driveway. The blessed sun shines down masking my glow, but I can tell it’s there, just under the surface. Since our return to Hemlock Hollow, Korwin and I have practiced controlling our abilities. The first time we kissed, we almost blew up the basement garden of Stuart Manor. Now, we can kiss without raising our body temperature. This is the first time in months my electrokinesis has gotten away from me, but then I don’t recall ever being so angry. A year? Another year? It may not be much to Ruthie Mae, but it’s plenty to Korwin and me.

  The door opens and Mary stumbles down the steps to where I’m bent over with my hands on my knees. “Are you okay?” she asks, rubbing my back.

  “I think so,” I say. The tingle retreats with each deep breath. “Ruthie Mae is being cruel. I can’t believe she said that to me.”

  Mary removes her hand from my back and crosses her arms over her chest. “I love you, Lydia, but you must know she’s not the only one.”

  I straighten and turn toward her. She takes a seat on the porch steps. “Still?” I ask.

  “It’s not just that everyone expected you to marry Jeremiah. Korwin is different.”

  “Of course he is. He grew up English. It’s just going to take some time for him to adjust.”

  “He can’t grow a beard,” Mary blurts. “Nathaniel told everyone Korwin hasn’t shaved since he got here.”

  “He-he has a medical condition,” I sputter too quickly.

  “But a beard means something here, Lydia. He’s never going to look… married.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” I scoff. “Our way of living and commitment will be proof enough of our marriage.”

  “Sometimes he tempts people.”

  “Tempts?” Her statement befuddles me. As far as I can tell, Korwin has bent over backward to follow the rules.

  “He was dancing and whistling a worldly tune while he cleaned out the stable last week.”

  Ack. I shake my head. “I bet he stopped as soon as someone called attention to it. I’m sure it was subconscious. Obviously, he is no stranger to hard work.”

  “You have to remember, Lydia, he’s a man. He could be called to lead once he’s married. They won’t baptize him if they don’t think he could minister if it were God’s will.”

  “He could do it. He’s smart and kind. Besides, isn’t that the point of believing in God’s will? If God chooses him, He will make him ready.”

  She tips her head and hits me with the accusation I can tell is the best in her arsenal, the one she’s been holding back for when I wouldn’t listen to reason. “He struggles with vanity.”

  Now I’m offended. I pop one hip out and narrow my eyes at her. “Mary Samuels, there is nothing vain about Korwin.”

  Raising her chin, she refuses to back down. “He’s been painting. Got Elizabeth to bring him back art supplies from the outside. He hides them in the Lapps’ barn loft, but Nathaniel’s seen what he’s done.”

  “No.”

  “Nathaniel didn’t say anything to his father, but he warned Korwin to stop. Told him he’d have to give it up once he’s baptized.”

  “It’s a minor offense,” I say, although I have no idea if that’s
true. Painting itself isn’t a problem. Our order paints their houses and barns. But painting something to hang on the wall would be considered inviting pride. We strive for humility, to be plain. Art could be a way to attract attention or compliments or as a source of self-satisfaction. “How many paintings? What of?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them,” Mary says.

  I shift my hips and tilt my head.

  “But Nathaniel told me on the ride home from the sing. He’s trying to help Korwin. Said he wouldn’t tell anyone if Korwin stopped and got rid of the paintings.”

  But he told you, I think. Gooseflesh breaks out across my arms despite the warm weather. People in Hemlock Hollow are experts at discussing others’ sinfulness. I wonder how far the rumor has traveled and what damage it’s done.

  “I have to see.” I grab my bicycle from where I’ve left it near the house and start riding toward the Lapps’ barn, which is more than a mile away from Ruthie Mae’s.

  “I’ll come with you,” Mary says, mounting her own.

  I nod once. We set off in silence, without saying goodbye to the others, although I know I’ll hear about leaving the quilting bee early when the news gets back to my father. It would be a beautiful day for a ride, if not for the worry that Mary is telling the truth and the silence that stretches between us.

  In the English world, Korwin painted as a hobby. He had a studio full of art, mostly colorful depictions of animals. I should have foreseen this. I should have warned him that he couldn’t continue his hobby in Hemlock Hollow. Although, the fact he hid it in the barn means on some level he understands the shame of it. I’m sure I can get him to stop, or redirect his talent to painting in an acceptable way—furniture and walls.

  “Upstairs,” Mary says.

  I climb the ladder to the haymow. As soon as my vision tops the highest rung, I gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” Mary asks.

  “We shouldn’t have come here,” I say. “Don’t come up. I don’t want you to see this.”

  Climbing onto the platform, I approach Korwin’s makeshift art studio. It’s worse than I’d expected.

  Mary gasps when she sees. Obviously, my warning was in vain because she slides into the space next to me, jaw dropping.

  Every portrait is of me. Me in his buggy, the light filtering in from behind my kapp. Me milking Hildegard, my cow. Me quilting. This is a big deal, an obvious and disturbing infraction. The second commandment repeats itself in my head. Thou shalt not make to thyself a graven image, nor the likeness of anything that is in heaven or in the earth beneath.

  My gaze darts around the loft, landing on a bag in the corner. A brief inspection reveals Korwin’s paint and supplies.

  “Help me,” I say, handing Mary a brush.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “No one can see these. Paint over them. All of them. Make them as black as night.”

  She nods her agreement, and we get to work.

  4

  “What have you done?”

  Behind me, Korwin stares from the top of the ladder. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but Mary and I have finished and all six canvases are now slate black. I turn to face him and the hateful look he gives me makes me drop the paintbrush in my hand. My lips part but I don’t know what to say.

  “She’s saving you,” Mary answers for me. She raises her chin. “What you’ve done is sinful. This isn’t allowed here.”

  “Sinful?”

  “You’ve painted her image. Not only is this a source of pride for you, it tempts Lydia to vanity. I could hardly keep my eyes off of it. How is she supposed to? It’s wrong and immodest.” She sounds condescending, and I quickly try to ease the tension.

  “It’s not your fault, Korwin. I’m sure you didn’t realize what you were doing was wrong, but this goes against the law of our Ordnung. It breaks the second commandment. You can’t paint here. Even if it wasn’t prideful, it’s considered impractical and a waste of time.”

  Korwin’s stony gaze peruses the canvas nearest me, the one that used to be of me in his buggy drinking hot chocolate. Truth be known, it was my favorite of them all, and the most tempting. I struggled to paint over it.

  “I know it is against your rules,” Korwin murmurs. “Nathaniel told me.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you destroy them?”

  “Because it’s a stupid rule, and it’s wrong.”

  Mary gasps and all of the breath is squeezed from my lungs. In silence, I wait for him to take it back, to say he understands and will comply with the rules. But he doesn’t.

  Slowly, deliberately, I shake my head. “Korwin, no. You just don’t understand. In time, you’ll see this isn’t important.”

  “It’s important to me.” His hazel eyes burn, and there isn’t a hint of humor in his expression.

  “They won’t baptize you if you refuse to give it up.”

  He shifts his straw hat back on his head and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “How is it different from quilting? Quilting is art.”

  Mary huffs. “They’re not the same at all. A quilt isn’t an image to idolize. It isn’t a representation of a person or a distraction from God. It’s something you use to stay warm. Quilting is work.”

  Korwin places his hands on his hips. “All I hear is that you have an acceptable way to be creative and I don’t.” He scowls. “Mary, if the quilts are just to keep you warm, why isn’t the material all the same color? How come you girls sew them in pretty patterns?” He circles his finger as if tracing the rings on a double wedding ring quilt.

  “The patterns are traditional. Each has a meaning and we finish the quilts as a community,” I say.

  “Right. It’s okay because you all do it,” Korwin says sarcastically. He rolls his eyes.

  “When you came here, Korwin, you promised to follow our rules. We have rules for good reasons.”

  He crosses his arms and steps toward the canvas. “What if I want to remember you just as you are, today? I can’t take your picture.”

  “Why do you need to remember me? I’m right here.”

  “Once I’m baptized and we’re married, we’ll be caught up in family and farm. It will never be like this again. I want a remembrance of this.”

  “It’s not supposed to stay like this,” I say softly. “Things change. People change. The only thing permanent is God. That is why we keep our focus on Him and practice piety and hard work. ”

  Mary backs me up. “Everyone falters. That’s why we help each other to do the right thing.”

  Korwin’s eyes shift toward her. “Am I supposed to say thank you?”

  Even I can hear the venom in his words. “Korwin…”

  He rolls his neck and gives me a hard look.

  “You’ll understand when you’re one of us and have learned what we know. It won’t be so hard once you finish classes and get baptized. It’s just the way it is,” I say.

  “We’d better get back, Lydia,” Mary says, frowning. “I think Korwin needs some time alone to think about his actions.”

  After one last disappointed glance toward Korwin, I follow Mary down the ladder.

  “Get rid of them, Korwin,” I whisper in my kindest voice, paused on the top rung. “It’s a worldly trapping. Cast it aside.”

  I’m disheartened when he looks away from me, toward the black canvases, with nothing even close to an acknowledgment.

  The rest of the week goes by in a rush, ushered away on days spent managing the farm while Dad and the other men do the threshing and put up hay. Our garden is exceptionally fruitful for July and I’ve already started canning peas and green beans. Mary often helps me, and I return the favor, even though my help is hardly necessary given her large family.

  After a day of canning at the Samuels’ home, I detour to Bishop Kauffman’s, the weight of Korwin’s transgression weighing my shoulders. In my soul, I know if he is baptized his doubts about this life will melt away. Once we are together, he
’ll be too busy building a life with me to worry about painting. I blush as thoughts of being with Korwin come to me—to be able to kiss and touch without guilt or limits. November seems like an eternity to wait. I have to ensure it isn’t longer.

  “What brings you here, Lydia?” Bishop Kauffman says when I enter the barn where he does his woodworking. He does not stop sanding the top of a headboard he’s working on, what will likely be a new bed for one of the couples getting married this November. A sudden longing fills me. I want the bed to be mine.

  “Can we have a talk? About Korwin?”

  “What type of talk?”

  “An important one.”

  He stops sanding and turns his bearded face toward me. “Is this a confession? Private confessions should be made to one of the deacons.”

  “No. Not a confession,” I say. “I come to you as family and because I trust you.”

  “Ack, my Katie is better at personal advice than me. Do you want me to get her?”

  I shake my head.

  He pulls over a crate and sits down, spreading his hands and waiting for me to begin.

  “At the quilting bee yesterday, Ruthie Mae said something to me, and I want to ask you about it.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said…well, she implied that Korwin won’t be baptized in August with the rest of the candidates because Deacon Lapp thinks he isn’t ready. But when I confronted her about this, she let on that there was more to the deacon’s decision than Korwin’s readiness. She said ‘too many people changing minds these days.’ I think she might be angry that Jeremiah and I didn’t end up together. Maybe Deacon Lapp believes Korwin could change his mind about Hemlock Hollow or I will change my mind about Korwin. Regardless, it weighs heavy on my soul that judgments about me might keep Korwin from God or his proper place in our Ordnung.”

  He rubs his calloused palms on his thighs. “I was afraid this might happen.”