“Weel. In his later years MacQuiddy took to dragging a stool wherever he went, and he'd climb up on it so as to look a person in the eye when he had a word to say. And sometimes he'd hop from foot to foot so that the stool rocked and wiggled. And woe to him—or her—who laughed. As wee a man as he was, MacQuiddy had a fist on him like a giant and a tongue as sharp as a new-stropped razor.”

“How big was he when he died?” asked Hardwork.

“And have I ever said a word about MacQuiddy dying?” asked Jennet, wiping Horace's face with the freshly dampened linen.

“He's still living?” Horace's voice was hoarse with strain, and he didn't open his eyes.

“That I canna say.” Jennet tilted her head as if to consider whether or not to tell the rest of the story.

“But this much I can tell for certain. One day at sunrise when MacQuiddy didna come into the kitchens, the cook went to look for him. She must start her day with a good battle of wills, you see, so if MacQuiddy didna come to her she must go to him. But his bed was empty, and neither was he anywhere in the castle nor on the grounds. The men went out to look for him and the children too, and they looked under every bush and peeked in every hidey-hole and picked up every rock. There was no help for it, MacQuiddy was gone.”

Hardwork let out a sigh. “He was never seen again.”

Jennet gave him a reproachful look. “I wouldna go so far as that. You see, were you to go to Carryckton and pay the milkmaids a visit in the gloaming you might see what they see, most summer evenings just as the last of the light goes from the sky. A couple walking across the fields arm in arm, neither of them any bigger than a child of three years. One of them with long hair the color of gold, and the other as bald as a peeled egg.”

Hardwork turned to his father to see whether or not he dared believe something so strange and wonderful. Then his face fell.

“Look,” he said, disappointed. “Pa's fallen asleep right at the best part of the story.”

“Hmmm.” Jennet knew a faint when she saw one, but she saw no reason to further upset the boy. She said, “You'll have to tell him how it ends when he's had his rest.”

At the far end of the bed Hannah was looking very flushed. Her hairline was damp with perspiration but she managed a small smile. “Well, it wasn't pretty, but it isn't as bad as it looked either.”

Hardwork looked at Jennet with relief and a new respect. “You're done, and we didn't even have to tie him down. Miss Jennet,” he said solemnly, “your stories are better than ropes.”

“Och, I canna take all the credit,” she said easily. She began to help Hannah gather her things. “A man's pride will tie him doon as sure as any rope ever made. Or story told.”

Hannah allowed herself to smile. “I think the stump will heal now as long as he keeps it clean and drained. And he must drink a weak tea made of this—” She handed Hardwork a brown paper packet tied with string. “Every four hours. A full cup, mind.”

When they left the cabin Jennet was surprised to find that night had fallen. Less of a surprise was Nathaniel, who was waiting for them with the horses so that they wouldn't have to walk back to Lake in the Clouds in the full dark. He saw them mounted and then he trotted off to scout the path ahead of them, his rifle resting easy in his hands.

Because, Jennet reminded herself, there were wild beasts about, and for all its appearance of peace this village had seen a great deal of treachery over the years. Indian raids, schoolhouses burnt to the ground, murder. The Bonners did not share these stories with many, but Jennet was a cousin and would be more once Luke came back for her.

The day after the matter was finally settled Gabriel and Annie had shown her the secrets of the mountain: the caves under the falls, the cavern on the north side of the mountain where the Tory gold had been hidden away for so long, the silver mine that had given up the last of that precious metal some ten years ago. Paradise could be a dangerous place for so many reasons. The miracle of it all was that the idea should excite her more than it frightened her. She liked to think of herself as brave, though she knew her mother would call her foolish; her father would have had stronger words still.

“Your menfolk are as protective of you as any of mine are of me,” Jennet said now to Hannah, deeply satisfied that it should be so. As they had not yet started up the mountain proper the horses could still walk side by side and she turned to look at her cousin's profile.

Hannah was often in a subdued and sometimes melancholy mood when she finished with a patient. Now she looked up at the sound of Jennet's voice with a start, as if she had forgotten where she was altogether. In the swaying light of the pierced tin lamp she carried, the bones of her face cast shadows that made her look more spirit than breathing flesh and blood.

Jennet was afraid for her suddenly and did not know why, or if there was any comfort she might offer.

Then Hannah said, “I didn't mean to practice medicine again. Ever again.”

Jennet considered all the things she might say or questions she might ask, and she discarded them one by one. They went on in the soft warm night, through a world of sounds: night birds and creatures that hunted in the dark, the wind in the trees and leaves fluttering to earth. In time the horses began to climb, muscular sides clenching, sure of foot and eager to be home.

A half hour passed and then another and then the sound of the falls at Lake in the Clouds came to them. Once in a while Jennet caught sight of Nathaniel just ahead of her on the path, but she had the unsettling notion that if she were to turn around she'd find that Hannah was gone, hiding herself until she had sorted through memories she had locked away but could not always govern.