“Do you advise me, then.”

“I’d say you’re best off going to the Ark and seeing winter out on this side of the water rather than risking a passage now, especially with the kid. The weather’s up and running, and it can only get worse. They say a ship departed yesterday at sunup but came back in again at sundown, full of green faces. Couldn’t keep their stomachs down in waves like that. The ship had just been tossed about. Too overloaded, see? Couldn’t even ride the tide. And far too small. They’d send a sieve to sea if they thought there was a profit in it. The bigger ships start to come again at first blossom. That’s four months yet. A goose — two geese! — is what you need to see you through.”

Margaret took the man’s advice but not his goose. She would make her way to the Ark. He’d said that it was safe, and after the horrors and abductions of the past few days, that was what she wanted most. She was relieved, in fact, to be advised that her departure from America would have to wait at least until the spring. She did not follow the obvious and quickest route through the middle of the town, though. She was certain that the Boses would be there, and they might have parked themselves at the town gate to see if their granddaughter showed up. Surely they would do that, at least. Margaret tried not to give them too much thought. She’d not abandoned them, after all. They were the deserters. The honor debt was theirs, not hers. She’d follow her instincts, even if they were selfish and undutiful, and try not to burden herself with doubt or guilt. She’d just spend a little extra time walking around the outer walls rather than passing through them, into the clutter of people and buildings.

At least the longer route was free of beggars and salesmen, and it took her past Tidewater’s wells and middens, where she found rotting scraps to wash and eat. A woman who leaves her home and family must end up as either a prostitute or a destitute. That’s what the Ferrytown widow who narrated doom-laden stories each evening had told the diners in the guesthouse on several occasions. Well, what was eating rotting scraps of food if not the habit of a destitute?

It took Margaret until the middle of the afternoon to reach Tidewater’s eastern gate and the road that led along the riverbank toward the sea. The birds were mostly dressed in white and either screamed like ghouls or scampered in the mud in synchronized groups, as if they had only one brain to share between them. The smell of water was overpowering, both energizing and nauseating. The wind was sharper than any wind she’d known before. It cut into her face and made her eyes water. It chapped her skin. It tugged at her scarf. It deafened her.

Margaret could sense the sea beyond the distant dunes, although now that it was close she could not imagine it. The largest stretch of water she had encountered so far had been the lake above Ferrytown. She could stand on its shore and easily see banks in all directions. But an undulating, salty lake without banks? That was not within her dreams. She could press ahead, of course, a half day’s walk, and see the ocean for herself. But her legs would not oblige. She knew that she had reached the point of ultimate tiredness. All she wanted now was rest. The ocean could wait. Every step she took was painful. Bella had not gotten any fatter — how could she? — but it felt as if she had. The baby, well breakfasted, for once, on eggs and milk and sleeping happily, felt as heavy as a stone. Margaret’s walk had become semiconscious and mechanical. It was as if just the smell of the ocean, or perhaps the crust of salt on her lips, were a sleep-inducing drug.

Margaret saw the Ark way before she and Bella reached it. At first it seemed to be little more than a massive palisade made out of cut but unworked tree trunks and arranged in a perfect rectangle, too high and smooth for anyone to climb. But as they drew closer, the roof planks and roof weights of several long buildings could be seen, and a half-constructed stone tower at their center, with scaffolding and men at work. It did not look entirely welcoming. The palisade was defensive and discouraging.

And this was odd: in the approaches to the Ark, great trenches had been dug and mostly filled in again, as if there had been an epidemic and a thousand bodies were being buried, had been buried, there. The trenches were not graves but dumping grounds, as far as Margaret could tell, for objects that these Finger Baptists evidently did not want. In the one open trench within sight, she could see some harnesses, a beaten copper tray, and some cans, as well as something small and silvery. Such waste was unnerving. Had she been less tired and dispirited, she might have turned away and gone elsewhere. But she walked on. “It’s not long now,” she said to Bella. “Then we’ll be safe.” What could they hope to find inside, she wondered, apart from not being touched? Free food, at least. The goose man had said there’d be free food. A bed? A winter roof? A place out of the wind, that was for sure. And time, finally, to teach the girl to walk.

. .

There was a single entry to the Ark, a great timber gate, closed but with a smaller door set into it. All who sported the loop of white tape came and went as they pleased, but Margaret and Bella had to get in line. They joined about thirty other travelers who were seeking shelter until the spring and, not daring to sit and sleep, waited their turn. Two keepers moved among the hopefuls, turning away anybody wearing jewelry who would not agree to throw it out or any man wearing a sword or knife or hoping to enter the Ark with any kind of vehicle. A family with a short barrow hung with tools and implements salvaged from their abandoned cart chose to press on and find other winter quarters rather than sacrifice their forage tines, a drag chain, an ax, a kettle, a shovel, clouts, and linchpins, as well as sufficient nails and hames to equip another cart if only they had horses. Another who had hoped to take his horse into the Ark for stabling was told he either had to stay outside or lose his metaled saddle, the horse’s shoes, and his bit and bridle, which had been handed on to him through generations of riders. He chose to stay outside.

The determined survivors, fewer than twenty in number, were allowed through the smaller door into a courtyard between the inner and outer palisades. There they had to form another line, which passed between two long timber tables minded by devotees with the now familiar white tape around their shoulders and carefully expressionless faces. Were these the Finger Baptists? Margaret wondered.

“Nothing metal, nothing metal,” one of them was commanding, walking up and down the line, repeating his instructions and devotions to every group. “Remove all metal from your hair — no antique combs — no knives at all, no silverware, no ear or finger rings, no pans. Metal is the Devil’s work. Metal is the cause of greed and war. In here we are, like air and water, without which none of us can live, the enemies of metal. Check your pockets. Shake out all your rust. Remove your shoes. Unlace your bags.”

Margaret watched as the members of one of the two families ahead of her in line were frisked by devotees in gloves and then required to empty out their bags, every single item, and put their shoes and belts onto the tables. A spoon and a bracelet, wrapped in felt, clearly valuable and probably loved, were thrown into woven baskets under the tables. The father of the family shook his head, hardly able to control his mounting anger when the buckle was snapped off his belt. A coat whose buckle would not tear free from its cloth was thrown out entirely. Their shoes were inspected, and either any brass eyelets or clips were pulled free and jettisoned or, if they would not loosen readily, the whole shoe was thrown out and replaced by a pair of stitched moccasins. Metal buttons were snapped off their coats and pants by expert gloved hands. Seams and hems were checked for hidden metal valuables. The children had to part with toys that they had made from found scrap, and the family dog — a cousin, in looks at least, to Becky, Margaret’s missing terrier — was stripped of its studded collar.