The water rolled. A slow, thick bubble rose to the surface of the cast-iron pot, bursting with a wet *plop*. Steam curled up, heavy and grey, drifting toward the water-stained ceiling of the cabin. Joy Bray watched the steam. She stood perfectly still. Her hands were clasped in front of her apron, knuckles white, concealed in the folds of the fabric. The kitchen smelled rich. Too rich. It was a savory, deep scent that coated the back of the throat. It smelled like Sunday dinner. It smelled like safety. But beneath the rosemary and the crushed garlic, beneath the heavy dose of black pepper she’d ground by hand until her wrist ached, there was something else. Something sweeter. Something that smelled like iron. Joy reached out. Her hand didn't tremble. It hadn’t trembled in years. She picked up the long wooden spoon, the handle worn smooth by decades of use, and dipped it into the roiling broth. She stirred. *Clunk.* The spoon hit something hard. A heavy, solid weight at the bottom of the pot. Joy’s eyes flicked to the window. Outside, the Appalachian sky was a bruised purple, the sun dying behind the jagged line of pines that walled them in. Rain battered the tin roof, a relentless drumbeat that usually soothed her. Today, it sounded like fingers tapping. Thousands of fingers. She needed more rosemary. She turned to the counter. Her movements were efficient. Silent. In Blackwood Hollow, noise attracted attention, and