It was the loss of his father that seemed to settle on Manny hardest. Like a man caught in an unexpected hailstorm; he must take what the heavens served him.

She said, “He has an awful lot of grieving to catch up on.”

Somehow that turned out to be the right thing to say. Curiosity's expression cleared, her distraction giving way to thoughtfulness and, then, resignation. She took Lily by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

“You got a lot of your mama in you, Lily. I know you don't like to hear such a thing, no girl your age do. But you got the best of her.”

“But I don't mind,” Lily said, embarrassed and pleased. “Just lately I've been wishing I could be more like her. More rational.”

That made Curiosity really laugh, a deep, heartfelt laugh, and she wrapped her arms around Lily and rocked her.

“Feel a little crazy, don't it? Sometimes I wonder what the good Lord thinking arranging things the way he do. Falling in love ain't no better than losing your mind, seem like.”

Lily nodded, too embarrassed to respond.

“Let me tell you something I told my girls when they fell. There ain't no shame in it, what you feeling. And the truth is, it don't last, child. No fire could burn that hot and bright without letting up. The whole world would burn down. So you be thankful for it while you got it. What comes after has got its own charms.”

“How long will that take?” Lily asked.

Curiosity hummed a little, thoughtfully. “For some the burning part don't last no time at all. For most I suppose it take a year or so before they slow down a bit. And then there's folks like your daddy and ma—”

“Oh, no,” Lily said, pulling away. “I don't want to hear this.”

“—who never do lose that feeling, not entirely. Not many women your mama's age got to worry about increasing, after all. Look at you blushing, child. You make me laugh.”

“Jokes this early in the morning?” Simon said at the door. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and a deep beard shadowed his cheeks.

Lily opened her mouth to say something and then shut it again, shook her head and turned away.

“I have work to do,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Simon called after her. “I'll walk down to the village with you.”

Lily fluttered her fingers at him without turning around. “You haven't had your breakfast. Goodbye.”

Curiosity's laughter stayed with her all the way down the garden path.

A difficult morning was made worse by Mr. Stiles, who was waiting, Bible tucked under his arm, at the door of the meetinghouse. Lily was still fascinated by his person, the contrast of his dusty black clothing and white hair and pinkish eyes, the way the blood moved beneath skin the color of January ice. Those things intrigued her, but not enough to make her want to listen to the man preach. That she would hear no matter what her feelings when he took up his spot just outside the trading post and launched into his daily sermon.

Mr. Stiles was particularly fond of St. Paul's gospel and his wisdom on the place of women, and returned to the topic—it seemed to Lily at least—every other sermon. Now he had decided he must bring the word to her directly, and there was nothing she could do, really, to evade him. Her mother, who was both frustrated by the man and vaguely interested in him, had made it clear that they were all to be polite.

Which would not include turning around and running away, Lily reminded herself, though the thought had a certain appeal. She could spend some time with her mother, just the two of them. It was something Lily hadn't done since they moved into the village. Because I've been busy, she told herself. No other reason. And: What an awful liar you are. You can't even fool yourself.

“Miss Bonner,” Mr. Stiles began, bowing stiffly from the shoulders. “Can you spare me a little of your time?”

Lily managed a tight smile and a nod, and then she went through the door he held open for her.

He was patient, Lily had to give him that much. While she arranged her worktable and sorted through brushes and looked at great length for a drawing that didn't exist, he stood quietly, hat in hand, and waited.

It was no use, of course. Lily pushed out a sigh. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I would like you to take my likeness,” said Mr. Stiles. “And one of my nephew as well. To send to my brother and his family in Maine.”

She had been expecting something very different, and for a moment Lily could hardly think what to say.

“You do take commissions?” Mr. Stiles cocked his head, lifted a shoulder.

“I suppose I do,” Lily said. “The question has never come up before. Did you want a painting? Oil? Watercolor?”

“Oh, nothing as fancy as that.” His gaze skimmed over the work pinned to the walls. “A good likeness in pencil will serve very well. I can pay any reasonable price.”

Lily stood with her hands pressed to the tabletop, leaning forward a little. “Mr. Stiles, I have the impression you do not approve of the work I do here. From your sermons . . .” Her voice trailed away. She had not meant to give him that, the acknowledgment that she must listen to his preaching.

It pleased him, as she knew it must. His expression was eager. “Yes?”

“You do not hold a very high opinion of independent women.” And then something occurred to her, something that struck her as almost funny. She said, “You will preach to me while I work, is that it?”