“Blueberry is sleeping,” she said. “And let’s leave things be. My liver has been mauled enough for one day. Simon, what story was Curiosity talking about?”

He drew in a deep sigh and held it for a moment. His expression alarmed her, and she said so.

“It’s just Jemima,” he said. “She’s back.”

And in response to her sharp look, he told her the rest.

“If I were able,” Lily said when he had finished, “I would march down to the Red Dog and have a word with Jemima, sick or no.”

“Aye,” Simon said. “I ken ye so far, Lily. But we must leave this to the others.”

“It’s our own fault,” Lily said. “We were so surprised to see her again, we all backed down. She shows up and makes demands and carries on and we let her.”

“And if that’s so,” Simon said, “it won’t be the case for long.”

“But she’ll make everyone miserable between now and then. If we let her.”

“Do ye no think,” Simon began slowly, “that it’s Martha’s place to decide how best to act in this case?”

“No,” Lily said. “Martha doesn’t see any of this clearly.”

“And who does?” said Simon. “In the whole Bonner clan, tell me, which of ye sees clearly how best to handle Jemima?”

Chapter LXI

Birdie had no memory of falling asleep. One minute she was stretched out on the floor straining to hear the men talking about things that might be interesting some other time, but which right now only got in the way. She never meant to fall asleep, but the sound of their voices was better than a lullabye and sleep came between her and her good intentions.

When she woke the house was quiet and she was aware of two things: She had slept for a long time and must be missing the dancing, and the men were gone without her ever finding out what exactly was going on. As soon as she sat up a few other facts presented themselves: her legs and arms were covered with scratches from climbing the trellis, and she had a cramp in her neck.

Birdie was halfway down the stairs when she heard people coming back into the kitchen. She sat right down where she was and hoped whoever it was was in a talkative mood, and that they’d stay out of the front hall where any grown-up was bound to ask her a dozen questions.

She heard Curiosity say, “Set there while I get some things together. By and by we’ll get you settled upstairs. How close are the pains?”

Jennet’s voice said, “A quarter hour or so. No great hurry.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Curiosity said, “I hope Hannah is staying away from the Red Dog, but I doubt she will.”

“Jemima will cause as much trouble as she can manage,” Jennet said. “And Hannah is drawn to trouble. We all are, who are of Carryck. It’s in the blood. All ye need to do is look at the little people, and there it is, plain to see.”

Birdie slipped out the front door after a short debate with herself on whether she should stay and help Curiosity until Luke found Hannah and brought her home, or whether she could go down to the Red Dog and find out for herself what it meant that Jemima was back. The fact was, she still did not know what had happened to make all the grownups gather in the middle of the day to talk about it. One thing seemed pretty clear: Something was wrong, and it had to do with Jemima. If that was indeed the case then she, Curiosity-called-Birdie, would just have to step in. It would be the quickest way to the answers that seemed determined to hide themselves.

And she was good at talking to difficult grown-ups. She had developed her methods in Daniel’s classroom, and perfected them at the dinner table.

It would have been useful to know where everybody had gone, because if she ran into Ma or Da or anybody else who considered themselves in a position to order her around, she’d never get to the Red Dog.

She heard the music before she ever got as far as the main road, which meant the dancing was still going on, and that would make things much easier. Every non-Quaker in Paradise would be there. And then it turned out that her ma and da were in the common room at the Red Dog, which brought her up short for all of ten heartbeats. They were here either to talk to Jemima or because they had already talked to her, but there wasn’t any time to waste and so Birdie took herself in hand and found her way around and up by way of the rear stairs.

Pressing her ear to the door gave her no information at all, and so she scratched, very softly. And then more loudly. In response the door thumped as if someone had thrown a book against it.

“Go away,” came a woman’s voice, rough and raw. “Leave me be.”

Birdie took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was dim and it smelled bad, and the woman on the bed—fully dressed, down to her shoes—was the color of new cheese, a sickly yellow-white. She smiled in a way that reminded Birdie of a hunting cat.

“You are the image of your mother,” she said. “But take heart, she got a husband in the end, didn’t she. So maybe there’s hope for you.”

“Oh,” Birdie said. “You mean to say my ma’s ugly. But that’s not true, so it can’t upset me.” And: “You don’t have to prove to me how mean you are. I know that already.”

Jemima struggled to sit up higher on her pillows, glaring at Birdie as though she’d like nothing better than to take a bite out of her.

“You’re sick,” Birdie said. “I didn’t know.”