Jennet agreed that it would be a great relief to her to have competent help, and they did expect her at the clinic.

Mrs. Livingston said, “You have fallen into our ways very quickly. Here it is common to bring a colored child into the nursery when a new child is born in the family. Our Susan’s daughter Pauline has been with Cora since she was a few weeks old. This kind of companion is an excellent thing.”

What Jennet wanted to say was that Adam would not be Nathaniel’s companion, but his brother. She looked at Mrs. Livingston directly, determined to say this, and then knew that she could not. She was a guest in this woman’s home; her husband had rescued them from the need to hide from Honoré Poiterin. They owed the Livingstons as much as they owed the Savards, and she could not repay them in harsh words.

Instead she said, “I would like to get to the clinic. Hannah should see this letter that came yesterday as soon as possible.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Livingston got up and smoothed her skirts. “On today of all days, a distraction will be very welcome. Things have reached a critical point. Mr. Livingston did not come home before three last night, and he says the major general has not slept at all in two days. He thinks the fighting will begin tonight.”

At the door, she cast a last long look over her shoulder. “I will send Marie to you immediately. Mrs. Bonner, promise me you will take two of our grooms when you go out into the streets. These two little boys need you.”

She did not say: because your husband may not come back from this battle, but Jennet heard the words nonetheless.

Jennet dropped a letter in Hannah’s lap. Her expression, her coloring, everything about the way she held herself said that the letter brought good news. Hannah was almost afraid to touch it.

“Go on,” Jennet said.

Hannah observed. Her cousin’s mood was high, but there were circles under her eyes, a weariness that couldn’t be disguised. Yesterday she had left with Jacinthe’s newborn son, gone with him back to the Livingstons’.

She said, “Tell me about the baby first.”

Jennet’s expression sobered immediately. She pressed a fist to her cheekbone and then she pushed out a long and heavy sigh. “He is healthy,” Jennet said. “He took to the breast, suckled like a wee demon, and slept.”

She looked away for a moment. “I intend to keep him and raise him as our own.”

It was the thing Hannah had expected. “You’re sure?”

“Aye,” Jennet said. “There’s naught else for it.”

“A child isn’t a penance,” Hannah said, and Jennet jerked as if she had been slapped. It seemed as if she would lash out in return; the old Jennet would have, but this one, who had been through so much, caught herself.

“For his mother’s sake,” Jennet said. “For his own, and for mine, too. Aye, I willnae deny it.”

“Good,” Hannah said. “Where are the boys now?”

“Mrs. Livingston produced a nurse out of thin air to look after the both of them while I’m helping here. A young woman. Her milk is sweet, I’m told, and in that household no baby goes without noodling for so much as an hour. Now will ye please read the letter? There’s news you must hear.”

Hannah’s hands were shaking by the time she finished.

Jennet said, “Can ye believe it? Your faither and uncle on their way to us now.”

“Oh, yes,” Hannah said. “I can.”

For one moment she thought herself in danger of fainting out of sheer joy and relief. Her father, her uncle. On a keelboat on the Mississippi, on their way here. The image filled her with an old energy that she had forgot about.

Jennet was still talking, holding out another letter, this one unopened. “The direction is to you alone. Is that no Curiosity’s hand? Open it, Hannah, before I bust every button for wondering.”

Hannah did as she was bid.

Dearest Girl, our Hannah,

I have been thinking of you & praying for you every day & every night since you left here with your brother to bring Jennet home where she belongs. Mark me well, I do not say that I have feared for you, for I know no other woman as strong as you, Hannah, and never for one moment have I doubted your resolve nor your ability. When Lily and Simon brought your letters to us your good news was no surprise, but I am thankful & I do praise God. His wisdom is great & His tender mercy is over all His works.

No doubt they told you in their last letter that I am sickly or even on my deathbed. Don’t you believe it. It was nothing but a bitty cold that settled in my lights, but Many-Doves made me onion compresses and her special tisane and within a week I was right as rain, Praise the Lord our God for His Mercy. I was seventy-eight years old this last spring and on that morning I was up at dawn baking, a dozen loaves of good bread and six pies and then I scrubbed my own floor. How many women my age can say half as much? You hear me now: I intend to live long enough to see this new Bonner grandson and more than that, to see you bring a daughter into this world. You & I have stories to share before the Lord (Great & Marvelous are His Mercies) calls me home to join my good husband and daughter.

One last word before they pull this bit of paper right out from under my nose, and that is this: You cannot save the whole world, child. No doubt you have seen terrible things in this newest war and will see worse before you find your way back home, but don’t get caught up in trying to fix every broken sorry creature you come across. Some things must be left to God.