“Boots—” Nathaniel began, and she cut him off with an upraised hand.

“If anyone should be condemned to hang—and I do not see that anyone will, if the rule of law is followed—no one will be compelled to watch. In fact, you will not be allowed to watch. No child will, if I have my way.”

“Not even Martha and Callie?” Annie asked, in a surer voice.

Elizabeth blanched visibly, and then the color rushed back into her face in uneven blotches. “Most especially not. Neither Martha nor Callie,” she said. “I will have a talk with Jem Ratz and make the matter clear to him too.”

Nathaniel said, “Woe unto Jem Ratz.”

“The very idea,” Elizabeth said. “I can hardly imagine what silliness people will begin with next.”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” said Annie, completely at ease now. “They're saying that Jemima is a witch and that if they don't hang her they should burn her. And,” she hurried on, eager to tell all of it, “they say that Jemima spins all day, tow enough for a thousand candlewicks, but that nobody will buy any from her for she weaves a spell in with every twist of the spindle, a curse on all of us in Paradise.”

And with that she turned and skipped away, a child who had unburdened herself to those she loved and trusted.

With considerable disquiet of his own Nathaniel saw Elizabeth's expression and recognized it too well. His wife gearing up for yet another battle. One he feared she could not win, not if she took it into her head to protect Jemima Wilde from the entire village of Paradise.

Chapter 17

January 1813, Montreal

Luke was gone to Québec on business, and the house on the rue Bonsecours had grown larger without him in it. Lily thought it would be good to be free of her brother for a little while, but before two days had passed she missed him, despite his moods or maybe, she realized, because of them. Luke gave her something to think about that wasn't Nicholas Wilde, and the letter that would not come.

The noisy dinners around a crowded table had stopped when Luke left, and Lily was at first surprised and then hurt and then a little embarrassed to realize that the company who had joined them was less dependent on her than she had imagined. It was odd to eat alone at the big table with Iona, who did not need to fill the emptiness with talk. It was not that she was unsympathetic to Lily's loneliness, she realized, but that Iona was not one to talk unless she had something to say. Much like Lily's Kahnyen'kehàka cousins, but here in Montreal it did not suit.

And she suspected that Iona would have even less patience with Lily's confused heart than Lily had for herself. It all sounded too silly to her own ears. The Catholics, she learned from Ghislaine, believed that a person could be possessed by the devil or an evil spirit, a belief the church of Rome had in common with the Kahnyen'kehàka. To be possessed by the idea of a living man was not much different, and Lily thought sometimes of finding a priest to ask about how to be free of her thoughts.

She thought of going home, but how would she explain herself? I have studied enough, she might say. I was homesick. Her mother would look at her face and know the truth. Lily wished she could sleep through the rest of the winter like a bear.

Ghislaine, keen and clever enough to guess at least part of the problem, suggested that Lily go visit a black woman from the Sugar Islands who lived on the outskirts of the city. This woman could give her potions to make her forget about Nicholas Wilde and Simon Ballentyne both.

Lily had sent Simon away, and he had gone. Without the strong words she expected. Without argument. Another thing to wonder about, what it might mean; why it was such an irritation to her to have him do what she asked him to do. Contrary creature that she was, Lily missed him, or perhaps, she admitted to herself, the things Simon had given her: sleigh rides and snow picnics and outings with people her own age.

And kisses. She had liked kissing him, liked it so much that she felt guilty later, thinking about it. It was best that he was gone, and if she needed someone to talk to, there were her teachers, and Ghislaine, and the old lady in the bakery who was always glad to see her. And there was her work, which was distraction enough, in the daylight.

At night she thought of Nicholas Wilde and Simon Ballentyne and suffered sharp dreams that woke her to find that she had sweated through her nightclothes.

On a Saturday when Luke had been gone for a week and would be gone for another, Lily and Iona sat down to another solitary dinner just as someone knocked at the door. The gust of cold air came from down the hall, sharp and sweet with snow, to announce the visitor. Lily would have got up to see for herself who it was out of simple curiosity and boredom, but Lucille came straight in to announce the company.

“A visitor for you, Miss Lily,” she said, not so grumpy as she usually was, with a flush of something that might even be curiosity.

“Who is it?” Iona said patiently.

“A strange little man, called Mump or was it Bump, who,” she added in a disapproving tone, “has no French.” Lucille had very little English, and was proud of that fact.

Lily was up and flying down the hall before Lucille finished, and there he stood: Cornelius Bump, as true as life. No taller than she was herself and humped of back, with a face as creased and folded as an apple forgotten in a dark corner of a winter cellar. His head, the shape of a lopsided egg, was covered with a thick pelt of hair that stuck out from under his cap as straight as straw, the color of yams heavily peppered with gray. His long earlobes were fire red with cold, in contrast to the blue of his eyes, endlessly old and wise and sweet, her old Bump, her friend. Lily's face was wet with tears as she hugged him.