How can I not fret? Scarlett wanted to shout. My life is ruined, and I don’t know what to do. I need Rhett, and he’s gone. I need you, and you’re leaving me, too.

She lifted her head, wiped her tears away on her sleeve and straightened her aching shoulders. The coals in the pot-bellied stove were nearly used up, and the bucket was empty. She had to refill it, she had to feed the fire. The room was beginning to chill, and Mammy must be kept warm. Scarlett pulled the faded patchwork quilts up over Mammy’s frail form, then she took the bucket out into the cold darkness of the yard. She hurried toward the coal bin, wishing she’d thought to put on a shawl.

There was no moon, only a crescent sliver lost behind a cloud. The air was heavy with night’s moisture, and the few stars not hidden by clouds looked very far away and icy-brilliant. Scarlett shivered. The blackness around her seemed formless, infinite. She had rushed blindly into the center of the yard, and now she couldn’t make out the familiar shapes of smoke-house and barn that should be nearby. She turned in sudden panic, looking for the white bulk of the house she’d just left. But it, too, was dark and formless. No light showed anywhere. It was as if she were lost in a bleak and unknown and silent world. Nothing was stirring in the night, not a leaf not a feather on a bird’s wing. Terror plucked at her taut nerves, and she wanted to run. But where to? Everywhere was alien darkness.

Scarlett clenched her teeth. What kind of foolishness was this? I’m at home, at Tara, and the dark cold will be gone as soon as the sun’s up. She forced a laugh; the shrill unnatural sound made her jump.

They do say it’s always darkest before the dawn, she thought. I reckon this is proof of it. I’ve got the megrims, that’s all. I just won’t give in to them, there’s no time for that, the stove needs feeding. She put a hand out before her into the blackness and walked toward where the coal bin should be, next to the woodpile. A sunken spot made her stumble, and she fell. The bucket clattered loudly, then was lost.

Every exhausted, frightened part of her body cried out that she should give up, stay where she was, hugging the safety of the unseen ground beneath her until day came and she could see. But Mammy needed warmth. And the cheering yellow light of the flames through the isinglass windows of the stove.

Scarlett brought herself slowly to her knees and felt around her for the coal bucket. Surely there’d never been such pitch darkness before in the world. Or such wet cold night air. She was gasping for breath. Where was the bucket? Where was the dawn?

Her fingers brushed across cold metal. Scarlett scrabbled along on her knees toward it, then both hands were clasping the ridged sides of the tin coal scuttle. She sat back on her heels, holding it to her breast in a desperate embrace.

Oh Lord, I’m all turned around now. I don’t even know where the house is, much less the coal bin. I’m lost in the night. She looked up frantically, searching for any light at all, but the sky was black. Even the cold distant stars had disappeared.

For a moment she wanted to cry out, to scream and scream until she woke someone in the house, someone who would light a lamp, who’d come find her and lead her home.

Her pride forbid it. Lost in her own backyard, only a few steps from the kitchen door! She’d never live down the shame of it.

She looped the bail of the scuttle over her arm and began to crawl clumsily on hands and knees across the dark earth. Sooner or later she’d run into something—the house, the woodpile, the barn, the well—and she’d get her bearings. It would be quicker to get up and walk. She wouldn’t feel like such a fool, either. But she might fall again, and this time twist her ankle or something. Then she’d be helpless until someone found her. No matter what she had to do, anything was better than lying alone and helpless and lost.

Where was a wall? There had to be one here someplace, she felt as if she’d crawled halfway to Jonesboro. Panic brushed past her. Suppose the darkness never lifted, suppose she just kept on crawling and crawling forever without reaching anything?

Stop it! she told herself, stop it right now. Her throat was making strangled noises.

She struggled to her feet, made herself breathe slowly, made her mind take command of her racing heart. She was Scarlett O’Hara, she told herself. She was at Tara, and she knew every foot of the place better than she knew her own hand. So what if she couldn’t see four inches in front of her? She knew what was there; all she had to do was find it.

And she’d do it on her feet, not on all fours like a baby or a dog. She lifted her chin and squared her thin shoulders. Thank God no one had seen her sprawled in the dirt or inching along over it, afraid to get up. Never in all her life had she been beaten, not by old Sherman’s army, not by the worst the carpetbaggers could do. Nobody, nothing could beat her unless she let them, and then she’d deserve it. The very idea of being afraid of the dark, like some cowardly cry-baby!

I guess I let things get me down as far as a person can go, she thought with disgust, and her own scorn warmed her. I won’t let it happen again, ever, no matter what comes. Once you get down all the way, the road can only go up. If I messed up my life, I’ll clean up the mess. I won’t lie in it.

With the coal scuttle held in front of her Scarlett walked forward with firm steps. Almost at once the tin bucket clanged against something. She laughed aloud when she smelled the sharp resinous odor of fresh cut pine. She was at the woodpile, with the coal bin immediately beside it. It was exactly where she’d set out to go.


The iron door of the stove closed on the renewed flames with a loud noise that made Mammy stir in her bed. Scarlett hurried across to pull the quilts up again. The room was cold.

Mammy squinted through her pain at Scarlett. “You got a dirty face—and hands, too,” she grumbled in a weak voice.

“I know,” said Scarlett, “I’ll wash them right this minute.” Before the old woman drifted away, Scarlett kissed her forehead. “I love you, Mammy.”

“No need to tell me what I knows already.” Mammy slid into sleep, escaping from pain.

“Yes, there is a need,” Scarlett told her. She knew Mammy couldn’t hear her, but she spoke aloud anyhow, half to herself. “There’s all kinds of need. I never told Melanie, and I didn’t tell Rhett until it was too late. I never took the time to know I loved them, or you either. At least with you I won’t make the mistake I did with them.”

Scarlett stared down at the skull-like face of the dying old woman. “I love you, Mammy,” she whispered. “What’s going to become of me when I don’t have you to love me?”

2

Prissy’s head poked sideways around the cracked-open door to the sickroom. “Miss Scarlett, Mister Will he say for me to come sit with Mammy whilst you eat some breakfast. Delilah say you going wear yourself out with all the nursing, and she done fix you a fine big slice of ham with gravy for your grits.”

“Where’s the beef broth for Mammy?” Scarlett asked urgently. “Delilah knows she’s supposed to bring warm broth first thing in the morning.”

“I got it right here in my hand.” Prissy elbowed the door open, a tray in front of her. “But Mammy’s sleeping, Miss Scarlett. Do you want to shake her awake to drink her broth?”

“Just keep it covered and set the tray near the stove. I’ll feed her when I get back.”

Scarlett felt ravenously hungry. The rich aroma of the steaming broth made her stomach cramp from emptiness.

She washed her face and hands hastily in the kitchen. Her frock was dirty, too, but it would have to do. She’d put on a clean one after she ate.

Will was just getting up from the table when Scarlett entered the dining room. Farmers couldn’t waste time, especially on a day as bright and warm as the one promised by the golden early sun outside the window.

“Can I help you, Uncle Will?” Wade asked hopefully. He jumped up, almost knocking over his chair. Then he saw his mother and his face lost its eagerness. He’d have to stay at table and use his best manners, or she’d be cross. He walked slowly to hold Scarlett’s chair for her.

“What lovely manners you have, Wade,” Suellen cooed. “Good morning, Scarlett. Aren’t you proud of your young gentleman?”

Scarlett looked blankly at Suellen, then at Wade. Good heavens, he was just a child, what on earth was Suellen being so simpering sweet about? The way she was carrying on you’d think Wade was a dancing partner to flirt with.

He was a nice-looking boy, she realized with surprise. Big for his age, too, he looked more like thirteen than not yet twelve. But Suellen wouldn’t think that was so wonderful if she had to buy the clothes he kept growing out of so fast.

Good heavens! What am I going to do about Wade’s clothes? Rhett always does whatever needs doing; I don’t know what boys wear, or even where to shop. His wrists are hanging out of his sleeves, he probably has to have everything in a bigger size. In a hurry, too. School must be starting soon. If it hasn’t already; I don’t even know what the date of today is.

Scarlett sat with a thump in the chair Wade was holding. She hoped he’d be able to tell her what she needed to know. But first she’d eat breakfast. My mouth’s watering so, I feel like I’m gargling. “Thank you, Wade Hampton,” she said absently. The ham looked perfect, richly pink and juicy with crisply browned fat rimming it. She dropped her napkin in her lap without bothering to unfold it and picked up her knife and fork.