This was an official inquiry, then. Lily did not know what to make of that, but she managed to keep her curiosity to herself and not ask any of the many questions that came to her, most of them highly unsuited to the occasion.

The major stood before her with his hands crossed on his back; Lily thought of reminding this English-schooled gentleman that it was rude to stare. Instead she counted the silver buttons that marched from the scarlet sash around his waist up the dark green coat to disappear in a ruffle of silver lace that spilled over a black velvet collar and lapels. His epaulettes were silver too. Altogether this Major Christian Wyndham was a splendid example of his kind, and now Lily remembered something: her teacher Monsieur Duhaut had been engaged to paint this man's portrait as soon as he returned to Montreal from an assignment to the west. No doubt she herself had prepared the very canvas where his likeness would be preserved, in green and black and silver. Lily thought of telling him that he had chosen the right unit—a scarlet coat would not have suited his complexion half so well. Instead she gave him a narrow and impatient smile.

The major did not like her smile, it seemed; he turned his back on her.

“Where are you going, Miss Bonner, in the middle of winter, and why?”

In a situation such as this, Luke and Simon had told her, the truth is the only defense. And what else? She struggled to remember. It came to her then: Say as little as possible, and volunteer nothing at all.

“Mr. Ballentyne is taking me home to my mother and father,” she said. She meant her voice to sound as it would when she spoke to any well-bred gentleman she might have met in her brother's parlor. She feared it did not, but then hoped that her fall and injury would explain any agitation.

“In the middle of winter, by such a backwoods route?”

“It is the fastest way to travel, in a sleigh. Or so I understand it.”

“And what is the hurry?”

She could not read his thoughts from the straight back or the set of his shoulders, but his tone gave her the idea that he did not believe anything she said.

Lily said, “That is a very personal question, sir.”

“One that requires an answer nonetheless, Miss Bonner.” He stood at the window, looking at his troops. The shutters had been pried away and lay about his feet in splinters.

Lily took a very deep breath. She said, “I wanted to be married at home, with my parents' blessing.”

“Ah,” said the major. “The infamous Nathaniel Bonner.”

To that Lily could say nothing. Of course her father's reputation would be known to this man. He had caused the British army enough trouble over the years.

Major Wyndham said, “I know your mother, or I knew her.”

Lily tried to look politely disinterested. “In England?”

“Yes, in England. You are familiar with the Spencers of Manhattan?”

Uneasy, Lily shifted and remembered her ankle, too late; it began to throb more insistently. “I have an uncle Spencer—”

“Once Viscount Durbeyfield,” said the major. “A traitor, I am sorry to say, to king and country. This continent seems to breed them.”

“Sir,” Lily said. “Whatever quarrel you have with my uncle, it has nothing to do with me.”

He shot her a sharp look. “You are not in Canada at your uncle's request?”

Lily wondered if she looked as surprised as she felt. “I came to Montreal to study painting.”

“That is the story people tell, yes.” He studied her as though she were some odd insect, and Lily did not like it.

She said, “I am not a spy, I never have been.” She thought to say that she had not seen her uncle Spencer in two years. Then she remembered that she was not to volunteer anything.

It struck her suddenly as almost funny, that this man should really believe she might be a spy. She might have laughed, but for the way he was contemplating her; but for her brother and Blue-Jay.

“And your brother?”

She started to have her thoughts plucked from her head and presented in words, but the major didn't notice. He was gesturing to the ensign who stood at attention at the door. He was so young that Lily doubted he had to worry about a beard. The boy was well trained, at any rate; he brought the major the papers he wanted without even glancing at Lily.

What Wyndham held in his hand, Lily saw now, were her own papers. The letters from home in her mother's handwriting, her sister's, Curiosity's. She closed her eyes and fought her temper, concentrating on the throb in her head and ankle, on the vision of her brother in chains.

“Your brother serves in the American militia.” It was not a question, and so she did not answer it. He did not seem to know that Daniel had been taken prisoner, and she couldn't think what that might mean: was it good news, or bad?

After a while he said, “You have nothing more to say in your own defense?”

“If you are accusing me of spying, then I say very firmly that I am not, and have never been, a spy.”

“You speak Mohawk,” he said.

Lily pulled up in surprise. “I do, yes.”

“Fluently.”

“I learned it as a child.”

“And the Mohawk seem to consider you family.”

“We are family, by marriage.”

His gaze narrowed. “I should not pronounce such a thing so proudly, if I were you.”

“But of course,” Lily said, her anger pushing up again, harder to govern with every passing moment. “You would not. But I am proud of all my family.”