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“Miranda don't look at her sister in the parlor door, she keeps staring into the fire. It's a huge hearth, 'cause it's an old house. She grew up seeing them rusted hooks empty over the mantel, but when the time came she knew what they were for. They hold her dried bundles of rosemary, thyme, woodruff, and linden flowers. Her chamomile and verbena. She makes her medicine from those and many others layered in clay jars inside the pantry. But Abigail wouldn't set foot in the other place for that. So Miranda is staring past her dried herbs, past the birth of Hope and Grace, past the mother who ended her life in The Sound, on to the Mother who began the Days. She sees one woman leave by wind. Another leave by water. She smells the blood from the broken hearts of the men who they cursed for not letting them go. She reaches up and touches her own tears. Miranda lets them fall; she wouldn’t have the strength for them later. She finally turns her face to her sister, the weight on her soul reflected in the eyes that meet hers. “It’s gonna take a man to bring her peace” -- and all they had was that boy” (Naylor, 262-263).