It turned out to be good advice: Elizabeth found Jemima Southern in the outhouse with a board wedged up under the handle. To her surprise, the child was perfectly calm when she finally emerged.

"I knew you'd find me," she said. And then with a forward thrust of her chin: "They don't like my singing, but I'm going to sing anyway."

"The boys are just overexcited, Jemima. You have a beautiful voice, whether or not they will admit it." Elizabeth could meet her eye calmly, and because this was the truth.

The child's sharp gaze swept across Elizabeth's face. "You would let me sing, even if I croaked like a toad."

A small laugh escaped Elizabeth. "If it were important to you, perhaps I would. But more likely I would try to convince you to recite some poetry."

"My pa liked me to sing to him," Jemima said. ""Barbry Allen' was his favorite of all." With an air of desperation, the child said: "You didn't like my pa, and he didn't like you."

There was a lot of noise from inside the schoolhouse, laughter and a little girl's voice raised in protest, but Elizabeth tried to focus on the small pale face in front of her. "Jemima. Whatever the lack of understanding between your father and me, I am very glad to have you in my classroom. Don't scowl, it doesn't suit you. I will admit that you and I sometimes do not see eye to eye, but I am glad to have you here. And I am glad that you are going to sing. You will do the school great credit. Now, shall we get ready for our guests?"

Ruth Glove's small, sleek head appeared at a window, her eyes round with delight and delicious anxiety, her mouth rimmed with crumbs. "Jemima!" she cried. "Come see our doughnut tower!"

With a grumble that did not quite hide how pleased she was to be a part of the high spirits, Jemima ran up the steps and into the classroom. Elizabeth hung back for a moment, content to let Anna cope while she took this last chance to gather her thoughts.

The late afternoon was clear, the air as cool and crisp as apples. A flock of geese passed over the lake, silent as the clouds above forests of flame and deep green. She wondered if they regretted leaving the world below them behind as they hurried south, to places less colorful but warmer.

Nathaniel was on the path now; she caught sight of him once, twice, and then he came out of the woods just above the schoolhouse. He was leading the bay gelding, loaded with the things she had sent him for: more candles, in case the recital ran past dark; the corn bread and apple crumble that Falling—Day had made for the party; and the packages Elizabeth had so carefully wrapped late last night, her gifts to her students for their work over the summer.

Elizabeth was struck forcefully by the sight of him, coming toward her. It still seemed improbable, that she should have arrived at such a place in her life. She wondered what the world would be like without him in it, and found she did not want to know.

* * *

Nathaniel had just begun to believe that maybe they would get through the whole recital without trouble when the first rumbles made themselves heard.

The crowd's attention was fixed on Ian McGarrity as he fought his way through "John Barleycorn." Elizabeth stood off to one side with her arms folded, ready to prompt him, but the crowd had done her out of the job, and with good spirits. There was not one man or woman in the crowded room who hadn't learned the poem as a child, and didn't mind the chance to prove the fact by helping out Ian.

Elizabeth looked as happy as he had ever seen her; perhaps it was some of that, and her quiet energy, that was wearing off on the crowd. Even those who had kept their children away from the school in the summer after she had run off with him were scooting farther forward with every new piece, as if they would like to be up in front of the room and reciting.

But there was noise outside, and it was more than raccoons after the corn. Nathaniel didn't have to take roll call to figure out who was responsible. Most of Paradise had managed to squeeze in, even the troublemakers: Liam Kirby right up front, his face still shadowed with fading bruises. Dubonnet, with his son sitting on his lap, directing the musical proceedings with a well—gnawed popcorn ball. The Camerons, drunk enough to sing along on "Yankee Doodle." The judge sat well to the back with Witherspoon, both of them slightly blurry—eyed but attentive. It would be all they could do to keep Witherspoon from reciting the bit of Greek poetry he called his own; the judge was sure to offer a story or two of his own adventures.

Missing were Julian and Billy Kirby, and some of the trappers who had been hanging around the tavern lately, but they weren't far off.

Ian finished with a grin and a flourish:

John Barleycorn was a hero bold

Of noble enterprise

and if you but once taste his blood

It will make your courage rise!

Elizabeth was the last person in the world to look for courage in a bottle of whisky, or to promote such an idea, but she had allowed Ian this poem. It was a surprising but wise thing to do, and Nathaniel found himself admiring her tactical skills, once again. Latin or French poetry would have shown off her students' skills, but earned her no marks with the men of the village; John Barleycorn," on the other hand, they could much appreciate. But it had also sent many of them back to the ale barrel, which was certainly not what she had in mind.

From his spot near a window, Nathaniel caught a flash of blue disappearing around the corner. Reflexively, he touched his rifle. He should go out there, put a stop to whatever trouble was brewing before it got out of hand. But it was Hannah's turn, and the sight of her so grown—up and pretty was hard to turn away from.