Curtains jerked as they were hastily drawn back. So. The street might be quiet, but that didn’t mean no one was watching.

I squinted into the shadows, found a house number, tried to figure where I was in relation to the Hoobin place.

It wasn’t far. My feet sent up a fresh pair of aches to let me know what they thought about that judgment, but I waved at my audience and moved on.

Maybe, thought a small petty corner of my mind, maybe they’ll have supper done by now.

I found the Hoobin place, banged on the door, waited while windows flared with sudden lights, dogs began to bark and I heard the sound of tramping feet behind the door.

A panel opened in the door, and a pair of suspicious blue eyes regarded me from a cautious distance.

The eyes went wide.

“The finder!” shouted a Hoobin. Young Borod, I decided. “Ethel, it’s the finder!”

Latches clicked, and bolts clacked, and I counted the release of four different locks before young Borod flung the massive door open and hauled me indoors with a frantic beefy handshake.

His face was aglow, but that didn’t last long.

“You did not find our Martha, no?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

Ethel came clambering down the stairs to the right of the door. He was wiping his mouth with a napkin. The other brothers were fast behind him.

“Finder,” said Borod. “It is after Curfew. What is the matter?”

I blinked in the light. My shoes scraped on clean white tiles.

“Nothing,” I replied, trying not ogle. Tiles on the floor, walls of smooth new plaster, doors framed out in oak and cherry. “I’ve been out asking around, came up with a few more questions for you and your brothers.”

“After Curfew?”

I shrugged. Let them think I was Markhat the fearless finder, heedless of the halfdead. That was better than telling them I lost track of time and, by the way, I could use a bite of supper.

“Finders can’t keep banker’s hours. Forgive me for interrupting your meal.”

“You will join us of course,” said Ethel. “We talk and eat, no?”

I nodded, and there was maybe just a ghost of a grin on his wide burn-marked face.

“Yes,” I said, and Ethel turned and led the way.

“Martha did all the cooking,” said Ethel. I suppose he was apologizing for the rudeness of the fare. He need not have, and I told him so.

Roast beef, hot and plentiful, and steaming butter-filled sweet potatoes too. The Hoobins ate with the gusto one normally doesn’t see outside barnyards at feeding time. I noted that “leftovers” were a concept unknown to our brave New People as every morsel of every dish quickly vanished.

Borod pushed back his empty plate and belched, and Disel caught him an open-handed slap on the back of his head. Ethel returned the blow to Lowrel with about double the force, and then everyone laughed, punched each other in the shoulder and stood.

“We talk in great room,” said Ethel. He nodded at Borod, who sighed and set about clearing the table.

And to the great room we went.

We went down a hall filled with doors, two on each side, and then down the stairs, and then through a set of tall double-doors that creaked and screeched as they opened. Disel and Lowrel darted about lighting lamps, and Ethel motioned me toward a chair.

“Nice room.” I meant it. They’d apparently gutted the bottom two floors of the building, just to make this one room. The walls were stone and plaster, rough-hewn beams spanned the far-off ceiling, and a monstrous soapstone fireplace and hearth covered most of one wall.

I sat. The Hoobins took their places. Three chairs were empty-one for hapless Borod, who had garnered kitchen duty, a dainty one that must have been Mama Hoobin’s before she’d had her stroke and a well-upholstered cherry-framed Regency style recliner that I knew instantly was Martha’s.

Ethel’s chair wasn’t central to the fireplace. Martha’s was. And beside her chair sat a small Regency claptrap table, its polished round top covered with a neat assortment of sewing goods, a pair of expensive gold-rimmed reading glasses and a thick leather-bound black book with gilt-edged pages.

Ethel saw me look and nodded.

“Martha’s,” he said. The other Hoobins nodded. “Now tell us, finder. What have you come to say?”

“I’ve been to the Velvet. I spoke to a woman named Darla.”

“We know this woman Darla,” said Ethel. His tone was neutral, merely matter-of-fact, but it hid a hint of disdain. I gathered Ethel didn’t approve of Darla’s un-Balptist sense of humor.

“I’ve also talked to some Watchmen,” I said. Disel snorted, went quiet at a glance from Ethel. “The Watchman remembers seeing Martha, now and again. He doesn’t recall anything unusual, on that last day.”

Ethel nodded.

“I’ve got a feeling that’s all we’re going to get out of the Watch or the Velvet or the people on the street,” I said, gently. “That’s all we’ll get, because that’s all they know.”

Ethel looked confused, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I need to look in other directions,” I said. “And I need to start by looking here. In Martha’s room. At her things.”

Lowrel and Disel, in perfect unison, sat bolt upright and half-rose from the enormous chairs. Ethel stilled them both with a slight lifting on his right hand.

“Missus Hog told us you could see through shadows that left others blind,” he said, staring at me. “She said we were to do as you ask, even if it goes against our ways.”

Lowrel and Disel sat, turned their glares on the toes of their boots.

“What you ask-to touch her things, to see what only a husband must see-is it necessary, finder? Do you must?”

“I must. There might be something there-or something missing-that could tell us what happened.” I spread my hands, imploring. “Martha’s been gone seven days. You don’t know where she’ll be, this night. I don’t know either. But if we all agree that she isn’t where she is by choice, we must also agree that she is probably in danger.” I rose. I’d saved my best for last. “Didn’t Mrs. Hog tell you I could be trusted?”

Ethel was still a moment. Then he nodded, once, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Up the stair. Third floor. Last door on left.”

“Is it locked?”

“This be home,” said Ethel. “What manner of people lock their doors at home?”

I didn’t answer. I just got up, found the stairs and ascended before one or all of the brothers changed their minds.

But the stairs remained empty behind me. I found the third floor, counted doors and put my hand on the polished brass knob that led to Martha’s room.

I put my hand on it, but didn’t turn it right away. I listened to the sounds of the house-the creaking of wood beams, a soft hooting of wind somewhere up in the attic, a gentle snoring that came from the bedridden Mother Hoobin’s room. All the sounds were muffled and faraway, lost in the big solid confines of the house. They were gentle sounds, homey sounds, the sort of easy familiar sounds that lull you right to sleep.

I turned the knob, pushed and let light from the hall lamps spill in before me.

It was just as I imagined. Neat and orderly. Hand-sewn and bright and comfortable. There was a four-poster bed with veils hung across the posts and a big iron-banded cedar chest at its foot. There was a polished oak dresser that hadn’t come from any flooded farmstead, a big round mirror hung on the plaster wall above it. There was a nightstand on the far side of the bed, a flower-box beyond the window and a door that led to a bathroom on the far wall. There were lamps, and a handful of long matches in a silver vase. I lit both lamps and looked about.

The wood floors were covered with two big red rugs, the weave and dye so fine I found myself unconsciously tip-toeing over them.

A pair of fuzzy slippers waited by the bed. A second pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses sat atop a book on the nightstand. A long-hemmed, plush, red bathrobe hung on a hook by the bathroom door.