Who had been the one to bear the bruised-skin baby? Surely it had been Maw. They had discussed the matter together until Maw knew the texture of the dead baby’s skin as well as she knew the back of her own teeth. Maw looked younger every day, fuller, more handsome. Years dropped away when she wore Claudine’s lavender dress. Her hands no longer ached—she missed the child, but she could have another, soon enough. It had been Maw’s bruised baby, it had been Maw’s sweet natured husband, hadn’t it, who had seen the swamp overtaking her and had rushed strong and proud to care for her so honorably, so attentively—with such love—