When the clock struck eight he said, “Nicholas will be home soon.”

She hadn’t realized it was so late. Any moment Nicholas would come in full of stories and in need of a bath before he could be sent off to bed. A boy so full of life that his very presence had roused her from some kind of waking dream; there was no way to resist him.

Ethan said, “Does it matter?”

He knew where her mind was, and she couldn’t pretend he didn’t. Ethan was going to put it into words, and she was almost glad.

“Would you send him away if you knew for sure he wasn’t your blood?”

“That’s the kind of thing Jemima would do.” Her voice was hoarse and she forced herself to swallow. “I couldn’t do that to him.” She met Ethan’s eye. “He’d be better off with us. Can you see us doing that? Raising him?”

“Right now that’s the only thing I can see,” Ethan said. “No matter who he was born to, he feels like ours, now.”

She wanted to tell Ethan that she admired him for his open mind and heart, that she would always be thankful to him, that she loved him, but her throat was tight with tears.

It was then that Nicholas came dashing in, chasing all the quiet out of the house. After that there had been heating the water for his bath, and warming soup, and laying out clothes for the next day.

Now, full awake, she wondered what Nicholas would say if he knew she was about to sell the orchard. Most likely it wouldn’t mean anything to him, as long as he was still welcome there. He might miss the idea of the new house, but Callie thought he wouldn’t worry about it for long. It didn’t seem to be in his nature to covet. But then, she reminded herself, he had never done without, as he would have done if he had grown up with Jemima in Paradise. As she and Martha had done.

Once Martha came to mind Callie admitted to herself that sleep was out of reach. As quietly as she could manage, she got out of bed and dressed in the dark.

The night air was cool and warm all at once, with a breeze that touched her face and combed through her loosened hair with gentle fingers. She had forgot to cover her head, and how odd it felt to be so open to the world.

It was, strictly speaking, not terribly sensible to be on the mountain in the middle of the night without any weapon at all. It wasn’t until she had reached the old schoolhouse that Callie really became aware of where she was, and how foolish she was being. She had no weapons beyond a quick mind and quicker feet, but nobody could outrun a puma or a charging boar. She picked up her skirts and ran, and by the time the path came out of the woods into the strawberry fields her breathing was hoarse and the taste of salt and metal was strong in her mouth and throat.

It took a few minutes for her heartbeat to return to normal, and in that time Callie took stock of Daniel’s place. Of Martha’s place. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark so that she could make out the lines of walls and roof. Since the last time she had come this way the house had expanded on two sides, like a tree putting out new branches. Ethan had told her about all this, but it was still a surprise to see how different things were. Once there had been a small house here such as any bachelor might build for himself, and now there was a homestead. The place where Martha and Daniel would raise children and grow old.

She sat on the porch for a few moments and considered turning back and going straight home. Tomorrow was soon enough to tell Martha about Nicholas and Lorena’s story and to tell Martha another truth: She had been right to doubt. Martha knew her mother best, in the end. Callie felt the vaguest flicker of anger, but it was a poor thing with nothing to feed on. None of this was Martha’s fault.

Just then the dog began to bark. She could hear him scratching at the door, eager to get out here and chase off whatever creature was trespassing. When he paused she heard voices that drifted from the window that looked out toward the valley.

“Probably a fox sniffing around. I’ll go and settle him down.” And: “Don’t even think about getting out of that bed.”

Before things could get any worse, Callie knocked at the door, two hard raps that could not be mistaken. The barking racheted up a notch, and Martha’s face appeared at the window, craned around to see who was on the porch.

“Callie! What’s wrong?”

Behind the door Daniel spoke a sharp word and the dog fell silent.

“Are you hurt?”

Under the long cascade of her hair the skin of her shoulder and throat and face shone, as smooth as cream.

Callie cleared her throat. “Nothing wrong with me. Except there’s things you need to know about, and I won’t get any sleep until I tell you.”

Daniel stood in the open door. His smile was easy, as if it were nothing unusual to be disturbed in the middle of the night. As if she were family, and belonged here.

He said, “You had best come in, Callie. We’ll put water on for tea.”

Daniel lit the lamp and then announced his intention to go back to bed so they could talk, but not before he asked Callie if there was anything he could do.

“I just need to talk to Martha for a little while.”

If he was curious, he kept it to himself. Callie was thankful to him for that, because she needed a moment to gather her thoughts while Martha moved around the room.

Then she came to sit beside Callie and held out a teacup. The lamp cast a soft light over the table, touched the pale hair on her forearm, and sparked the deeper colors of her hair. She wore a night rail of light cotton that moved against the curve of hip and shoulder and breast as she turned to pick up the milk pitcher and then the sugar.