“There now, girl, there, Lily my sweet. No call for tears, none at all.”

She did not trust her voice at first and so she hugged him again. He had always been small and light of bone as a bird. As a child she had often asked him if he was a pixie, a question he had never answered with anything but a smile.

“I've been wishing to see somebody from home,” Lily said. “I've been wishing and wishing. And here you are. Did you come from Paradise? Did they send you? Do you have news? You must be hungry.”

He laughed at her good-naturedly, the odd little man who had been such a friend to her when she was a girl. While she tugged his coat from him and his cap and his mittens he answered her questions: he had indeed come from Paradise with news enough to tell and he would welcome a bit of dinner, milk would be much appreciated if there was any to be had, and would Lily remember her manners please, they weren't alone in the house after all.

She took him by the arm and led him into the dining room, only to find out that there was no need of introductions; Bump was no stranger to Wee Iona.

Iona, as settled and unflappable an old woman as Lily had ever known, was so happy to see Bump that there was a glittering in her eyes when she took his hands in her own.

“Weel, and look at you now, Cornelius. Look at you. How long has it been? And are you well?”

“Too many years, Iona my dear. Old bones and growing older, but old friends too, to ease the ache.”

“And so they do,” Iona said, and without warning she leaned forward to kiss the old man on a bristled cheek.

Standing back, Lily watched and listened and saw things: Iona and Bump were much of a size, so that for once she herself seemed to be the tall one, without Luke here to prove her wrong. The servants saw how Iona had greeted the stranger and they began to flit around him, offering food and drink and the comforts of the house.

Bump said, “First things first.” He began to undo the letter case he wore around his middle, his fingers working the buckle and the ties and more ties until it was free in his lap. He unfolded the leather flaps and a whole great stack of letters appeared. Most of them he put on the table. “For Luke.”

On the top of the pile Lily recognized a letter in Jennet's small, angled handwriting, but then Bump was holding out more letters, to Lily. A smaller packet tied with string. Lily could barely keep her hands from trembling, and the urge to get up and run from the room was so strong that for a moment she feared the others must see her agitation and ask questions she couldn't answer. This was the first post she'd had from home since the news about Dolly's death.

“There are packages for you in the sleigh,” Bump said. “But I expect the letters are what you want first.”

She nodded because she did not trust herself to speak.

“Now,” Bump said with a smile that showed off a row of small white teeth. “Is that soup I smell?”

Lily's hunger had disappeared, but she ate nonetheless from the bowls and platters that Jeannette and Lucille put on the table: stew thick with potatoes and bacon and beans and cabbage, fresh brown bread still warm from the oven. A steaming bread pudding studded with cherries and apples and currants, with a jug of cream to pour over it.

She had so many questions to ask but then so did Iona. Lily must wait, though she could not keep herself from jittering while they spoke of the war and of old friends and of the things that Bump had seen and heard as far away as Washington and Baltimore and Philadelphia. The letters in her lap seemed almost to hum at her, as impatient to be read as she was to read them.

“I didn't know you came so far north in your travels,” Lily said when it seemed that Iona had had her fill of Bump's answers.

“Not often,” Bump admitted. “Only when there's special reason.”

“Don't you ever tire of traveling?” Lily asked him, because it had already occurred to her that it would be a fine thing, indeed, if Bump should decide to stay in Montreal for the winter.

At that Iona snorted softly. “You might as well ask your brother if he never tires of work. It's in the blood, is it not, Cornelius? Your mother's people were tinkers in the old country.”

At that Bump only gave them his small smile, the one that meant he would keep his thoughts to himself.

“Have you really been as far as Washington?” Lily asked the question more out of politeness than real interest, and because she imagined her mother had asked the same question. Her mother was always interested in what was happening in Washington.

“I have,” Bump said. “Though the credit must go to my good little horse. She does all the heavy work. Now you tell me, Lily, where is this Simon Ballentyne I've heard so much about? Is he gone to Québec with your brother, or will he come by this evening so I can see him? I did promise your father I would pass on a message to him.”

A silence fell around the table. Even Lucille, who had been gathering up bowls, stopped to watch Lily, who felt herself flushing with embarrassment and anger, white and strong.

“What—” she began in a voice that wavered and broke, though she meant it not to. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”

Bump's smile trembled and faded, and Lily's fear grew all the brighter, and on its heels came a keen cold anger. “Did my brother write home—” She stopped and tried to think how to say the awful things in her head. “What did he say? What have you heard?”

Bump's expression was solemn now, his quick blue eyes adding things together and taking things away. He said, “You're not set to marry, I take it.”