Steve Shell

He appeared to Polly's untrained eye to be a bit past a year old, maybe 14 months or so, with bright eyes and he was dressed in a white shirt and a neat little checkered pant with suspenders.

From beneath his collar peaked the spiky, swirly characters that had flooded Polly's mind only minutes ago.

She could see that they reached down his hands and around his tiny fingers and crawled up the curves of his ears and two perfect little sigils adorned his face, one on each rosy cheek.

Unsteady on his feet, he nearly toppled over, but Bollie scooped him up, bouncing him on her knees.

It's... it's a baby, Miss Barrow?

Crane stammered, somewhat shocked.

A new brother, ma'am?

I see.

What do we do with him, Miss Barrow?

Polly gestured toward the careful markings on the baby's face.

Crane nodded.

Yes, ma'am.

We'll see to it.

The following evening, as the sun began to sink below the gentle curves of the Allegheny Mountains, Polly Barrow's shiny black car wound its way down the mountain into the small but thriving community of K-Burrow.

It was a bit before suppertime, when children had not been called in to wash up just yet, and their smeared daddies had not begun to stagger home, exhausted from the day's labor at Pasco No.

3 Mine.

Home to 397 souls and counting, Cabra boasted a rail station, a small but well-appointed family-run hotel, a two-story general store, and three churches.

Pasco No.

3 and the rail station were, of course, properties of Barrow and Locke, and employed put near every able body in Cabra.

One would think the rabble would be grateful.