She glanced away, as if deciding not to say more. “But, as I said, I do believe this is a true model of a packhorse library. And you girls should be proud of yourselves.”

Margery nodded. It was probably best not to tell Mrs. Brady about the library’s unofficial initiative: each day she sat down at the desk, in the dark hours between her arrival and dawn, and she wrote out, according to her template, a half-dozen more of the letters that she had been distributing to the inhabitants of North Ridge.

    Dear Neighbor

 It has come to our attention that the owners of Hoffman are seeking to create new mines in your neighborhood. This would involve the removal of hundreds of acres of timber, the blasting of new pits and, in many cases, the loss of homes and livelihoods.

 I write to you in confidence, as the mines are known to employ devious and harsh individuals in the interests of getting their way, but I believe that it is both illegal and immoral for them to do what they plan, that it would be the cause of abject misery and destitution.

 To that end, according to law books we have consulted, there appears to be a precedent to stop such wholesale rape of our landscape, and protect our homes, and I urge you to read this extract provided below, or, if you have the resources, to consult the legal representative at Baileyville’s court offices in order to put such obstructions in place as may be required to prevent this destruction. In the meantime do not sign any BROAD FORM DEEDS for these, despite the money and assurances offered, will give the mine-owners the right to mine under your very house.

 If help is needed with the reading of such documents, the packhorse librarians may be happy to assist, and will, of course, do so with discretion.

 In confidence,

 A friend

 

She finished, folded them neatly, and placed one in each of the saddlebags, except Alice’s. She would deliver the extra one herself. No point making things more complicated for the girl than they already were.

 

* * *

 

• • •

The boy had finally stopped screaming, his voice now emerging as a series of barely suppressed whimpers, as if he had remembered himself to be among men. His clothes and skin were equally black from where the coal had almost buried him, only the whites of his eyes visible to betray his shock and pain. Sven watched as the stretcher-bearers lifted him carefully, their job made harder by the low pitch of the roof, and, stooping, began to shuffle out, shouting instructions at each other as they went. Sven leaned back against the rough wall to let them pass, then turned his light on those miners who were setting up props where the roof had fallen, cursing as they struggled to wedge the heavy timbers into place.

This was low-vein coal, the chambers of the mines so shallow in places that men were barely able to rise onto their knees. It was the worst kind of mining; Sven had friends who were crippled by the time they were thirty, reliant on sticks just to stand straight. He hated these rabbit warrens, where your mind would play tricks in the near dark to tell you the damp, black expanse above your head was even now closing in on you. He had seen too many sudden roof falls, and only a pair of boots left visible to judge where the body might be.

“Boss, you might want to take a look through here.”

Sven looked round—itself a tricky maneuver—and followed Jim McNeil’s beckoning glove. The underground chambers were connected, rather than reached through new shafts from the outside—not uncommon in a mine where the owner championed profit over safety. He made his way awkwardly along the passage to the next chamber and adjusted his helmet light. Some eight props stood in a shallow opening, each buckling visibly under the weight of the roof above it. He moved his head slowly, scanning the empty space, the black surface glittering around him as it was met by the carbide lamplight.

“Can you see how many they took out?”

“Looks like about half remaining.”

Sven cursed. “Don’t go any farther in,” he said, and, twisting, turned to the men behind him. “No man is to go into Number Two. You hear me?”

“You tell Van Cleve that,” said a voice behind him. “You got to cross Number Two to get to Number Eight.”

“Then nobody is to go into Number Eight. Not till everything’s shored up right.”

“He ain’t going to hear that.”

“Oh, he’ll hear it.”

The air was thick with dust, and he spat behind him, his lower back already aching. He turned to the miners. “We need at least ten more props in Seven before anyone goes back in. And get your fire boss to check for methane before anyone starts work again.”

There was a murmur of agreement—Gustavsson being one of the few authority figures a miner could trust to be on his side—and Sven motioned his team into the haulage-way and then outside, already grateful for the prospect of sunlight.

 

* * *

 

• • •

   So what’s the damage, Gustavsson?”

Sven stood in Van Cleve’s office, his nostrils still filled with the smell of sulfur, his boots leaving a fine dusty outline on the thick red carpet, waiting for Van Cleve in his pale suit to look up from his paperwork. Across the room he could see young Bennett glance up from behind his desk, his blue-cotton shirtsleeves marked with a neat crease. The younger man never looked quite comfortable at the mine. He rarely stepped out of the administrative block, as if the dirt and unpredictable nature of it were anathema to him.

“Well, we got the boy out, though it was a close thing. His hip’s pretty bust.”

“That’s excellent news. I’m much obliged to you all.”

“I’ve had him taken to the company doctor.”

“Yes. Yes. Very good.”

Van Cleve appeared to believe that was the end of the conversation. He flashed a smile at Sven, holding it a moment too long, as if to question why he was still standing there—then shuffled his papers emphatically.

Sven waited a beat. “You might want to know what caused the roof fall.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

“Looks like props holding up the roof have been moved from the mined-out area in Number Two to support the new chamber in Seven. It destabilized the whole area.”

Van Cleve’s expression, when he finally looked up again, betrayed exactly the manufactured surprise Sven had known it would. “Well, now. The men should not be reusing props. We have told them as much many a time. Haven’t we, Bennett?”

Bennett, behind his desk, looked down, too cowardly even to tell a straight lie. Sven swallowed the words he wanted to say, and considered those that followed carefully. “Sir, I should also point out that the amount of coal dust on the ground is a hazard in every one of your mines. You need more non-combustible rock atop it. And better ventilation, if you want to avoid more incidents.”