Prologue

Euphrates O’Shea, the black one, fled the tattletale ruins of her twin brother’s secret strawberry patch. Sticky-sweet red berry juice stained her hands, mouth, and the front of her flour-sack dress. She was screaming like a bogeyman was about to get her as she ran zigzagging out of the stand of flowering dogwoods.

Angus O’Shea Jr., the white one, was on his sister’s heels like one of Marse Henry’s hounds chasing a runaway. “Damn you, Euphie,” he shouted. “This time I’m gonna choke your skinny butt.”

Euphrates knew her brother meant it, too. It was the hottest blessed day of July and Angus hadn’t slowed none.

She made it out into the grassy open meadow and headed down to the river bluff. Ever since he had helplessly watched their uncle drown, two summers ago, Angus refused to go near water any deeper than his ankles. No way he was going to chance tromping along the crumbly cliff above the swiftly moving James River.

What did Papa call the river? A grave of shattered bones and stolen dreams.
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