Sorry to have taken so long. This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write. I knew what needed to happen to move the plot forward, but it just wouldn't flow. Reviews and constructive criticism always welcome.

Nestling bird nor star in heaven

Christine sat in the farmhouse living room, amidst boxes and more boxes. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and sighed. Home. She was home, in her house. It had taken nearly a year, but she had given up the lease on the Philadelphia row house and moved back to Lancaster County. Mrs. Giry, the local real estate agent, was none too pleased to lose the handsome commissions she had made renting it out to vacationers and such when the Daaes lived in Philadelphia. Now the city was too full of Gus. He was the one who loved the city. Here, in the rolling farmland, Christine felt at peace.

The white clapboard house was the one she had grown up in, the house that had sheltered Andersons since before the Civil War. It was a hodge-podgey sort of house, added on to and modernized many times over the years. Black shutters bordered the windows. The porch floor was a soft gray. Just like when she was a girl, scratchy coir mats sat outside each door ready to scrap off dirt and mud. A shallow, well-shaded creek ran along the eastern border of the property, near the old summer kitchen. An old wire fence marked the back of the property, beyond which generations of Lindgren rams had spent their summers away from that farm's ewes and lambs.

Inside, some of her grandmothers' things; her things, really, were still here. The old hand-colored photograph of Clarence, an uncle or distant cousin-she could never remember which, hung at the bottom of the stairs. He'd gone off to fight in World War I and died in France. His mother, along with other Gold Star mothers, had sailed to France and brought back a set of porcelain salt and pepper shakers. They held pride of place in the corner china cabinet until Great-grandmother Valerius gave them to her as a wedding present. Christine reached into her purse, where they had traveled, wrapped in a kitchen towel, on the drive from Philly. The corner china cabinet stood empty and could use a good dusting, but she opened the doors anyway and placed the little pink and white shakers in their rightful place on the middle shelf, carefully aligned so that one shaker appeared in each of the two center panes of glass.

She turned from the dining room and walked into the sunny kitchen. It took up the entire width of the house so that the window over the kitchen sink looked out onto the front porch and the road while the back door opened out into the backyard. That door burst open now, admitting two muddy boys.

"Mama! Mama! There's a creek and there were minnows and we saw a beaver dam!" announced a breathless Kurt.

"It is not a beaver dam, it's just some old sticks that got stuck on the rocks," corrected big brother Peter.

"Is too a beaver dam, isn't Mama? Just like in Narnia."

Christine smiled at her sons. "I'm not sure without looking at it. We'll take a walk down there later, I promise. Now, take off those muddy shoes and socks before you track mud all over the house. Maybe you ought to take off those wet jeans, too. We can look for dry pants upstairs."

Upstairs, the boys flopped on mattresses in the middle bedroom, giggling and wrestling.

"Are you sure you two want to share a room? There are enough bedrooms-you can each have your own," asked their mother.

"I want to be with Petey!" answered Kurt in a babyish voice.

"We need to be together," agreed Peter solemnly.

"Okay. I'll have Mr. Buquet put your beds together in here tomorrow then."

"Um, Mama?" asked Peter.

"Yes?"

"This room is pink." He pointed to the faded pink wallpaper striped with daisies.

"Yes, darling, I know. But this is the biggest bedroom. Besides, all the rooms up here have kind of girly wallpaper. We'll go to the hardware store soon and you two can pick out a color you like."

Later that evening, the three Daaes lay in the old-fashioned double bed in Christine's room. Christine was reading The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe to the boys.

"Read the part about the beavers, Mama, so Peter will know I'm right."

"Yes, Mama, and then use your phone to find stupid Kurt a picture of a real beaver dam."

"Shhh-both of you. Lay still and listen so you get sleepy. We have a lot more unpacking to do in the morning."

She started to read again. "Kurt, darling, lie still!"

"I hafta pee."

"Well, then go to the bathroom-we'll wait for you."

Kurt slithered out of the bed and padded across the hall.

"Mama! Mama! I'm lost!"

"Kurt, the house isn't that big..." Christine threw back the covers and went out into the hall to find her son. The little boy stood with his hand on the doorknob of an open door. A musty odor wafted on cool air into the well-lit hallway. A few feet of unfinished wooden floor and stone walls could be seen before darkness took over. Kurt stood shaking, freckles dark on a pale face. With his other hand, he clutched his crotch in an effort to hold nature at bay.

"What is this?" he asked.

Christine smiled and sighed. "It's the bolt hole. I'd forgotten all about it." She shut the door and led Kurt to the bathroom further down the hall.

"What's a bolt hole, Mama?"

"Well, this house is very old, remember? It was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Have you learned about that in school yet?"

"I have!" Peter yelled from the bedroom. "It was for slaves to escape to freedom. Good people hid them in their houses."

"Yes, Peter, that's right. That door leads to a staircase that goes down through the basement and up into the summer kitchen. Someone could escape from the rooms up here down to the basement and hide in the summer kitchen if there was trouble."

"Cool!"

"Awesome!"

"And you two will stay out of it! Who knows what condition those stairs are in? I hope Mr. Buquet has some locksmithing skills. I'll add new locks to his list of chores."

Two very disappointed boys crawled back into bed with their mother.

"Please, Mama?" asked Peter.

"Yes, please, Mama? Can't we 'splore the hole?" his brother chimed in.

"Absolutely not. At least not until I have time to check it out myself. Now snuggle down. Where were we...?"

The next morning as the family was eating breakfast, a burly man in a dirty t-shirt appeared at the back door.

"Miz Daae?" he called through the screen.

"Yes?" Christine turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Joe Buquet. Toni Giry sent me over. Said you needed a handyman."

Christine walked across the kitchen and opened the door.

"Mr. Buquet. Thank you for coming. Yes, I need to have the boys' beds put together and I need some locks put on the old staircase that goes out to the summer kitchen."

"Call me Joe. That ol' summer kitchen's haunted you know. Ghosts of them old darkies..."

"Goodness. I lived here all my life and never heard of such a thing. Boys, put your dishes in the sink when you've finished eating. I need to show Mr. Buquet what needs to be done upstairs.

As Christine showed the handyman the beds in the boys' bedroom, she said, quite sharply, "Mr. Buquet, I do appreciate your willingness to work. However, I must ask that you refrain from discussing ghosts or using racial slurs in front of me and my children."

Joe Buquet smirked at the petite woman who stood in front of him. "Yes, ma'am." Christine realized that she was being humored but turned on her heel and started to leave the room. "If you have any questions, the children and I will be outside until lunch time."

Outside, Peter squatted at the edge of the creek, poking at the schools of tiny minnows with a stick. Christine pushed Kurt in the ancient tire swing.

"Mama?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Is the summer kitchen really haunted?"

"No, darling. I lived here with my grandmothers from when I was littler than you until I went to college. I never heard or saw any ghosts. In fact, we fixed up the summer kitchen into a little apartment for my Grandma Valerius. It was quite pretty. I think Mrs. Giry used to rent it out to summer people. She wouldn't be able to do that if it were haunted, would she?"

Kurt's face fell. "No. But ghosts would be cool!"

Christine laughed a light, happy laugh. "They would be interesting, anyway."

Her phone rang and she pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans.

"Hello?

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Giry. Yes, we are settling in nicely.

"Yes, everything seems to be in good order. Thank you for taking such good care of the place.

"Yes, Mr. Buquet is here. Thank you for the recommendation. I'm sure he'll do an acceptable job.

"Hmmm? The summer kitchen? Um, I suppose, I hadn't really thought..." Christine stopped pushing the swing and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. She bit her lip as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

"Ok. I haven't even been...I see...Yes, I can ask Mr. Buquet to check it over for us. Did you give me the key?

"Of course you did. Right. Ok. Bye."

Christine shoved her phone back into her pocket and started pushing the tire swing again.

"Mama, what? What does Mr. Bouquet hafta check?"

"Hmmm? Oh, Mrs. Giry has someone who wants to rent the summer kitchen for a while. It would mean a little extra money..."

She shook her head and gave the swing an extra vigorous push. "Well, what should we use the money for, Kurt?"

Kurt held on for dear life as the tire swung out over the creek. He laughed. "Ice creeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!"