Against her ear Simon Ballentyne said, “Ach, Lily my love. You've got the heart of a lion, lass, but you must learn to bend or you will break.”

They stood like that for a long time until her breathing had righted itself, the shuddering lessening until she could hear the beat of her own heart and his, the fire whispering to itself, the wind in the trees around them, purposeful and growing louder.

Lily let herself be led to the single cot, she let Simon tuck her in and kiss her cheek. She watched him wipe the table and heat water and get out his razor and set about shaving, something he hadn't done since they left Montreal. He scraped the bristle from his cheeks and chin and throat carefully, working without a mirror, using his fingertips to tell him what he needed to know.

Then he came to her and sat on the floor on the furs and blankets he had put down for himself. That way he could look at her directly, his face so close that she could smell the soap still on his skin.

“Sleep,” he told her. “Go to sleep now, lass, and I'll keep watch.”

When she woke, finally, thirsty beyond memory, the skin of her face tight with dried tears, it was to the howling of the blizzard. The only light in the world came from the banked fire, a few pulsing coals. Lily sat up and tried to remember where the water bucket might be.

“I'll fetch you a cup,” Simon said in the darkness beside her, and she started at the sound of his voice, so close, and then settled back and waited while he stirred the fire and moved through the near dark. Then he pressed the cup into her hands and she drank greedily, icy clear water that was the best thing she could ever remember tasting.

“What time is it?” she asked finally, pressing the cup to her cheek.

“Past dawn,” he said. “But you needn't rouse yourself. We can't travel in this storm.” He sent her a glance over his shoulder. “I'll go see to the horses.”

It was his way of giving her some privacy, and Lily was glad of it. When he was gone she drew out a cracked chamber pot from its spot beneath the cot and laughed out loud to find that it had been painted, not with flowers or vines, but with the likeness of old King George.

The mad king had no good news for her: her courses had not started, and now she was too awake to put that thought conveniently out of mind. While she washed in the last of the water and shook out her clothes and brushed her hair, she thought of that simple lack of blood and tried to reconcile herself to what it most probably meant, until Simon came in and suggested a game of cards.

They played through the morning, talking a little of unimportant things and drinking cup after cup of strong tea laced with sugar, a going-away gift from Ghislaine, who had been worried about the lack of comforts during such a long and difficult journey. When they tired of cards Simon lit a candle and Lily read to him, first from Poor Richard's Almanac, a little book she had taken with her to Canada out of sentimentality, and finally from one of the newspapers her mother had sent, not from the essays or war reports but the advertisements.

“Oh, look,” Lily said. “Poor Mr. Mather, his wife has run off again.”

Simon sat straight up and looked at her. “You know this Mather?”

“Not really,” Lily said. “Except through the advertisements he puts in the paper, just about every year at this time.” She read: “‘Hereby be it known that Margaret Mather, lawful wife of the subscriber, has eloped from a faithful and good husband. She took with her a half-dozen silver spoons as well as the subscriber's best coat with pewter buttons. A reward will be paid for return of the silver and coat, but a husband so oft maligned is glad to be free. This time he will not allow the wanton back into his home. He will pay no debts of her contracting. Jonah Mather, Butcher. Boston Post Road.'”

Simon frowned at Lily as though she had made the whole thing up. “You mean to say this isn't the first time the man has put such a thing in the paper?”

“I'm afraid not,” Lily said. “She seems to leave him at least once a year, and he always claims he will not take her back again. But it looks as though she does come back, and he does take her in, and then in the deep of winter, she goes again.”

Simon grunted. “The more fool him, to put up with it. Has the man no pride?”

“What he has, I suppose, is hope.” Lily put down the paper. “What would you have him do when she comes back? Turn her out to starve?”

“I wouldn't be waiting for her,” Simon said, putting both hands flat on the table and leaning toward her a little, as if he were speaking a language she only understood imperfectly. “She would come back to find me gone, for I'll let no one make a fool of me twice.”

There was a moment's silence between them, awkward and uneasy, filled with the howling of the storm.

“My mother says that love makes a fool of everyone.”

If Lily could have reached out and caught up those words out of the air, she would have done it. But they were said, and they had done their mischief. Across the table from her Simon Ballentyne's expression had gone very still, but his eyes were sharp with anger. He got up so suddenly that the table rocked on its legs.

“I'm off to look after the horses.” In a moment he was gone, the door shutting firmly behind him.

She had hurt his feelings, or his pride. Or both, Lily told herself, because of course she had reminded him of what might be ahead. She was not his, not really; she might never be. Most of the time he kept his uncertainty and hopes to himself, but they were there, just under the surface. Like a careless child with a stick, she had poked too hard and exposed what he was determined to keep to himself.