The last time Hannah had come to the orchard cabin was to see Dolly in the fall. They had sat together on the porch and listened to the workings of the cider mill, a great creaking that reminded Hannah of the noise of a ship at full sail, except it was not wind that moved the cider works but mules. Cookie had been stirring a big iron pot of apple butter and singing to herself, an old ballad well suited to her husky deep voice. The whole world had smelled of apples, and that afternoon, at least, Dolly had seemed a little better.

Those few months ago and so much had changed. When Cookie Fiddler had had the care of this place it had been comfortable, well ordered, and clean inside and out: the porch swept, the kitchen garden weeded and fenced from the attentions of a dozen fat and sassy hens.

Now the snow had wiped most of that away, and the drifts around the porch were littered with broken dishware, the remains of a shattered stool, and a spattering of blood. The cabin itself was quiet, so quiet that a shiver of unease ran up Hannah's back. She waited for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind in the bare branches of the apple trees. At the first step she hesitated and considered the evidence of mayhem at her feet: pottery shards covered with a pattern of twining roses, the handle of a jug, a dented tin cup.

She looked up to see Nicholas Wilde on the porch. He ran a hand over his face and blinked at her, as if he were trying to remember her name.

“Come in,” he said evenly. “Come in and see what there is to be done.”

“This must make you happy,” Jemima said. She was sitting, back straight, on a stool by the hearth. She met Hannah's gaze straight on and composed while blood dribbled over her cheek and neck from a deep gash just over her ear. “What a treat for you. You'll be writing to your sister about this, no doubt. To pass on the good news.”

“I'll need more light, Nicholas, please,” Hannah said as she took what she needed from her bag. And: “Could you open the shutters? Jemima, I'll have to cut some hair away from the wound to clean it out.”

“And what distress it will cause you,” Jemima said.

Nicholas brought the things she asked for while Hannah started her work, and through it all Jemima talked, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“They'll want all the details in the village too,” she said. “So let me tell you what happened. My good husband tried to throw me out of the house. He doesn't want me to wife, you understand, but the law won't oblige him. So he threw me out the door and I fell down the stairs and cracked my head. No doubt he was hoping I'd lose the child, but I'm not bleeding. Do you hear that, Claes? I'm still with child, and with child I'll stay until I bring it into this world, a son, if there's any justice, to carry on your sorry name. And I'll be sure to tell him, as soon as he's old enough to understand, that his father tried to do away with the both of us. He wants to divorce me, you see, and take up again with your sister Lily. I'll make that especially clear to the boy, that the Bonners were behind all of it. We'll sit right there at that table every day and I'll remind him what kind of man his father is, who would throw a pregnant wife off a porch.”

Nicholas said, “I'll fetch more water.”

“Jed wanted to know if I would press charges.” Jemima laughed. “Stupid man. As if I would deprive myself of my husband's loving care and company.”

Hannah cleaned the wound and drew it together, working as quickly and gently as she could and still, she knew, it must cause considerable pain. But Jemima gave no sign of it, not even when the needle pierced her scalp, though she shuddered like a woman in a deep fever.

“Of course, Jed will be back,” Jemima said, her voice cracking with effort. “Tomorrow or the day after when my good husband loses his temper again. Maybe next time he'll kill me. That's what he'd like to do, you understand. I'm sure he lays awake at night thinking of it, wherever it is that he sleeps. Just to be clear, now that I have such an honorable and respected witness, let me say this: if you find me dead, you'll know it was my husband who did it.”

Nicholas Wilde said, “If there's nothing else you need, I'll wait on the porch.”

“He doesn't talk to me, you're meant to understand,” Jemima said tightly. “Hasn't said a word to me since he got back from Johnstown. He'll talk to you. He talks to his horse and to the apple trees and to the clouds in the sky, but he won't say a word to me. He does his best to ignore me, does my good husband, but sooner or later he'll understand that I won't be ignored.”

“One more stitch,” Hannah said.

“You're cut of the same cloth, aren't you. Think you can stand there and ignore me, high-and-mighty Hannah Bonner.”

Hannah said, “Once I amputated a leg on the bare ground. The smoke was so thick in the air that I could hardly see the scalpel in my hand. There were horses screaming and men too, and the fighting was so close that my ears rang for a week afterward with gunshot. And that was the least of it. So maybe you'll understand, Jemima, that your whining doesn't slow me down at all.”

With that she tied off the last stitch and stood back.

Jemima's complexion had drained of all color. Her hands twisted convulsively in her lap and a shudder ran through her whole body, but she never turned her head toward Hannah.

“Get out,” she whispered. “Get out of my house and never come back. I'll bleed to death before I let you touch me again.”