With her nose pressed to the cold ice, Lily considered. There was enough firewood in the meetinghouse to keep them comfortable for a good while, even overnight if need be. She had a small store of food; there were two chairs. She lifted her head to look at the trading post, which seemed ten miles away.

As if she had been called, Anna McGarrity appeared on the porch wrapped in shawls, her hand shading her eyes as she looked in their direction. Then her voice boomed out over the distance.

“It's no use!” she shouted. “Back to where you came from!”

That was enough for Lily. She scooted all the way back, refusing to let Simon help her to her feet.

“My mother will accuse me of planning this whole thing, ice storm and all,” Lily said later. They had eaten the little bit of dried venison and cornbread she had stored away, and now they sat in front of the stove in the light of the candles. Very comfortable, and at ease. Lily realized that she was tired of arguing, and content to sit with him like this, talking as they used to.

“Your mother means well,” Simon said.

“I am just starting to feel a bit more generous toward you,” Lily said. “But that could change quickly.”

He smiled into his cup of tea, this time without milk or sugar. “Very well. I'll not mention your mother—”

“Or my father.”

“Or your father, if you won't.”

“Agreed.”

They were quiet for a moment, listening to the wind. In a conversational tone he might use with a stranger on the street Simon said, “The weather's shifting again.”

“Hmmmm.”

And then, when she felt she could keep her eyes open no longer, Simon said, “You haven't asked about the letters.”

She sat up straight. “Is there one for me?”

He pulled them out of his coat and squinted to read in the dim light.

“One in your brother's hand addressed to your father. One in your sister's addressed to the family, and a thin one from Jennet. ‘To my cousins,' she's written.”

“I'm her cousin,” said Lily. She felt Simon's gaze on her. “I'm sure they wouldn't mind if we read it.”

Simon made a sound that might have been disapproval, or complicity. He grinned.

“Gabriel will be aye furious if you read it first.”

“Reason enough,” Lily said, holding out her hand. “The little monster has been far too cheeky of late.”

The seal on the letter broke with a soft crack. It was a single sheet, closely written. Lily handed it back to Simon.

“You read it.”

He cocked his head at her.

“Go on,” she said. “I've never heard your reading voice.”

“A test, then.”

“One test, yes.”

He grunted softly and took the letter, his eyes running down it. Then he hitched his chair closer to the table where the candles stood.

“‘Dear Cousins,'” he read in a clear, clipped voice. “‘Today a dozen fat pigs broke through their pen beside the cookhouse to escape the butcher's knife. It was my good fortune to be close by, for I'll never see the like again: a herd of swine leading His Majesty's finest men-at-arms on a mad chase while the colonel's cook watched from the ramparts, waving his arms in the air and shouting in a lovely broad Scots.

“‘Now, the spring mud is very deep and slippery, which pleased the pigs far better than the men. Mud showers drenched each and every one of them from hat to toe. Oh, and the cursing and the shouting. I was put in mind of the Pirate Stoker.'”

“She does love that pirate,” Lily said, delighted. “She never misses a chance to tell a story about him.”

“Fabricated out of thin air, no doubt,” said Simon with a frown. “It's been twenty years since she saw the man.”

He went on: “‘Now, just when it seemed the men had lost all patience and would soon end the fun by means of their muskets, the porkers seem to realize that the river was their only chance of escape. All at once they turned and stampeded for the shore and launched themselves, every one, onto the bit of ice that still remains. Of course it could not hold their weight and they all fell through. The last we saw of them were rosy pink rumps bobbing their way toward Halifax.'”

Lily was laughing with great appreciation, but Simon only stared at the letter in his hand.

“What is it?” Lily said. “Go on.”

He cleared his throat. “‘And all the while the cook shouted crossly for his porkers, as if they were naught but playful children sure to come home for tea once they had had their fun.

“‘The best part is this: the prisoners had been set to wood-chopping nearby and thus saw it all, from muddy beginning to watery end. It was aye good to see them laugh. Yours aye, Cousin Jennet.'”

Lily laughed until tears ran down her face but all Simon could produce was a weak smile.

She said, “You're not feeling sorry for the redcoats?”

“Ach, ne,” Simon said, and gave a chuckle that convinced Lily only that something wasn't quite right.

She watched him for a moment and then, leaning over quickly, snatched the letter from his hand. He made a grab for her wrist, but Lily was already up and away.

“Give it back,” he said, advancing on her with a thunderous expression.

“Not quite yet.” When she glanced at it he took the opportunity to leap at her, but Lily wiggled away neatly and ran to the other side of the room, trying to scan the page as she went.