The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan

Hickey, the Reverend’s wife. Her lips were pinched with displeasure, her wet eyes rolling, like two cloudy glass baubles floating in vinegar.
    â€œIdn’t going to get cleaned by gawking at it,” Mrs. Hickey bellowed up towards the rafters.
    â€œThat’s right,” Mrs. George replied. “A good scrub before the Lord comes in. Lots of burden to lay down this week.”
    At once, Delia wanted to run back home, hide in the outhouse, lean her head against the splintery wall, and listen to the scratchy sound of spruce trees, intoxicated by summer sun. But instead, she began to collect worn prayer books, stack them on the rickety table near the back door. Slight dizziness had settled on her shoulders, and when looking downwards, she thought the floor appeared slanted, buckled in places. All the stress of the week, she decided, what with the fire.
    â€œCould’ve been the lanterns,” Mrs. Primmer said. “Something as simple as that.”
    â€œGot my doubts,” Mrs. Hickey replied. “My bet’s on that Johnny Bent. Smokes like a tilt, he do.”
    â€œMen just don’t heed that sort of thing,” said Mrs. Burden.
    â€œSure, a flick of ash on a bit of tinder. That’s all it takes.” Mrs. Wells now.
    â€œA shame.”
    â€œA real shame.”
    â€œWhat about Fred Batten?”
    â€œBut he never smoked a day in his life, maid.”
    â€œDon’t matter. He drinks like a fish. Every second day I sees him hauling up the lane, falling all over hisself.”
    â€œAnd the temper on him!”
    â€œHilda got no control over him. So drunk, he gets right wild every time.”
    â€œA decent woman wouldn’t let him out through the door.”
    â€œA decent woman would never of let him in.”
    â€œGot no business bothering the men, he don’t.”
    â€œAnd look what happens. No good.”
    â€œBurnt down to the dirt, it is.”
    â€œGone.”
    Last Tuesday night, Delia and Percy had awoken simultaneously when the acrid stench of smoke began to ooze in around the window to their bedroom. She arose quickly, drew back the curtain, and witnessed a warm glow just beyond the trees.
    So close
, she thought.
Our home
.
    Percy was silent for a moment. “No, ’tis too far off.” Then, “The mill, by Christ. That’s the mill. I’ll bet you a damn.”
    Grabbing his trousers from the chair, Percy jammed one leg in, the other bounding after. As though by magic, Amos appeared behind him, both dashing from the house, suspenders flapping, buckets in either fist. Alongside his father, Amos was whippet-thin, but, Delia believed, what he lacked in bulk, he possessed in conviction.
    Delia was suddenly alone, waiting in a cool creaky house, aware of measured time. Staring at the brightness through the trees, she saw it swell into a broad band of orange wisps, smoky ghosts circling. She had the urge to nudge Stella, tell her what was happening, but when she stood over her, Delia changed her mind.
    In her sleep, Stella’s plump face lightened, then smiled, giggled even, with an amusing dream. Delia felt a tinge of bitterness, as she knew that, when awake, Stella saved those expressions for her brother and father. In truth, she didn’t blame her. Delia had barely been a mother to Stella, and a groove lived between them, liquid sourness coursing along. There had been occasions of lightness and giddy joy, but she could count those on one hand. And she rarely thought of them, never spoke of them, because the scarcity of those moments only made her sad.
    Her illness might have been part of the cause. Throughout her childhood, Stella was required to nurse Delia and appease her. But Percy had never encouraged the child to openly love her. The choice was hers, and it was clear to Delia she chose not to. And, in turn, Delia held herself at such an aching distance, sometimes she could make Stella practically disappear.
    Maybe, as