A laughing child, bright-eyed and keen, with full round cheeks. Lily held out the drawing to Manny and he took it without looking.

“Here's another one, the last time he was here. Two years ago, I think, just before he started as a cooper's apprentice.”

Manny looked at the drawings, his face set and blank.

“A cooper's apprentice, you say.”

“In Albany. He's got a real talent for the work, I've heard. And he writes to your mother faithfully, every month.”

In a voice small and far away Manny said, “He looks like his mama. Like my Selah.”

“Does he?” Lily leaned over to look at the drawing. “I never did get to take her likeness, I'm sorry to say. She was here for such a short time with us.”

“It was a short time,” Manny said. “Too short.” Then he raised his head and looked at her. “I think of her every day.”

“Of course you do,” Lily said. “How could you not?”

Without warning Manny leaned toward her, and Lily had the odd and disquieting idea that he was going to whisper a secret in her ear. But he had nothing to say, not in words. Manny simply put his forehead against her brow, gently, lightly. She felt him tremble and then stop trembling.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Why, you're welcome.” Lily brought up a hand and patted him on the shoulder, as a mother pats a child who needs comfort but believes himself too grown-up to ask for it and would be mortified to know how very clearly he wore his need on his face.

For that moment they stood just so, forehead to brow, her small hands patting. Lily made soft sounds, humming sounds in her throat; she had no singing voice but wished just now that she had, so that she might sing to him as Curiosity would.

Then another sound, an indrawn breath, and Lily jumped in surprise.

Justus Rising was standing in the open door, his mouth a perfect O of surprise and astonishment and delight. Lily saw that much before he dashed away, his heels kicking up dirt. And she saw something else, something more disturbing: a look flashed across Manny's face. She could not call it anger, no more than she could compare the weak flame of a tallow candle to a lightning strike.

Most days she would wait for Simon to break at noon and they would walk together to their dinners: he ate at Curiosity's table and Lily went home to her mother's. But the morning's work had unsettled her and she started off with Manny. No sign of Mr. Stiles or Justus, and Lily was relieved and then angry at herself, to be so easily unsettled by the disapproval of a slow-witted boy.

It might have been awkward walking together; most men could not suffer to be near a woman who had seen them in a moment of weakness as she had seen Manny, weeping for his father and sister. But Manny seemed to have forgotten the whole episode, or at least to have put it away for now.

Lily's own mind was not so obedient; she could hardly walk this path without thinking of Simon. First she had run away from him in Curiosity's kitchen and now she had gone ahead without him to dinner. He would think her angry, or playing at games, when in reality she was disappointed to have missed him.

And what a surprise that was. After Nicholas she had believed herself unreceptive to such things, but Simon had sneaked up on her, wooed her so efficiently that she had little way to defend herself. She had gone from liking him to falling in love with him in a long, slippery sliding motion, her heart and her body wound up in it so tightly that she couldn't say what part of the things she felt were love and what was lust.

And here was the stand of birch trees where they often stopped, without discussion. Simon would catch her wrist and pull her to him and they would kiss until they were both breathless, with the birds flitting around them, buntings and cedarwings and sparrows. They would press together and move together until he broke away, flushed and at the point of no return. It was always Simon who stopped, and every time Lily was surprised and unsettled and frustrated by his self-control. Later, her irritation was replaced by other worries: that he would think her wanton. A strange word she had never really understood until now, the power and heft of it.

When Lily got up the courage to ask him, to use that word, he had looked at her with such honest surprise that she had the first vague understanding that he was as lost as she was, as given up to it.

Sometimes, when she was feeling the weather and the rush of her own blood with more intensity than usual, Lily would touch him in ways that she knew he could not ignore, and with those touches she would draw him deeper into the shadowy woods and they would make a place in a bed of new ferns, and come to dinner late, each making excuses to the faces around the table that no one believed.

But now there was Manny, walking not with her but a little ahead, his eyes moving constantly as any good woodsman's must. It was his walk that made it clear how long he had lived among Indians, and how deeply he had gone into that way of life. Lily thought of Hannah when she first came home after such a long time away.

She said, “You could write to Hannah, you know. My parents send letters and packets through my brother Luke, every few weeks.”

“I haven't writ a word in more than ten years,” Manny said. Not an outright rejection of the idea, and that meant something.

“It's not something you forget. If you've got a mind to write, that is.”

He pushed a thoughtful breath out and pulled another in, and then he smiled a little. “Don't know that I've got much of a mind for anything at all these days.”