Which was all the permission she needed. Before Ma or the little people could appear and spoil her plan, Birdie flew out the door. She held her breath as she passed the Downhill House, for fear that she would be seen and hailed. Before she talked to anybody about last night, she needed to talk to Hannah.

Hannah was the one most likely to understand the dreams that had plagued her. Somehow Curiosity’s story had got all tangled up with the flood and other things and Birdie just didn’t know what to make of any of it. In some things Hannah was far more Kahnyen’kehàka than white, and reading dreams was one of them. She would take Birdie’s worries seriously.

As would her mother, of course. But she wasn’t ready to talk to Ma yet.

She was glad to be outside so early. The growing weather had settled in and the morning was very clear, so bright that it seemed as if she could see each pine needle and budding leaf. She did mean to ask Lily if there were names for all the different greens in the world. To Birdie it seemed impossible but somehow necessary. Without names it was very hard to recall the exact shade of the new leaves on the sugar maple, something she wanted to be able to do, though she couldn’t say why.

Birdie found a spot on an outcropping of rock where she could warm herself in the sun and see into the village as far as the bridge. As soon as she caught sight of the others she’d run to meet them, take Hannah’s hand, and pull her aside so they could talk the rest of the way home. Before she was overrun by little people who would be as happy to see her as Birdie was.

It was so good to be warm like this that she felt herself slipping away into sleep more than once, and then had to get up and run in place. A walk up the mountain would keep her awake, but Da had said she mustn’t, and so Birdie turned her back on the bridge and focused on the pastures and fields. Friend Blackhouse was crossing the Rountree’s pasture on the far side, carrying a rake over one shoulder and a pannier on his back. He was wearing a widerimmed straw hat against the sun, but it was Arthur Blackhouse; Birdie could tell just about anybody by the way they walked. Just the same way a person could name a bird, by the way it moved itself through the air. Shapes within shapes.

The planting would begin just as soon as there was no more chance of a frost at night. The best thing about this time of year was the smell of sunshine on newly turned earth.

The faint sound of horses coming toward town on the Johnstown road came to her. More than one horse, and the rumble of wheels. The only people who were away that Birdie knew about were Praise-Be Cunningham, who had gone to buy some lambs, and the Magistrate, who had taken off for Albany on a big gelding called Popeye. Whatever was coming, there were four horses or more, pulling something bigger than a flatbed wagon.

In the ten minutes it took for the travelers to come into view, Birdie debated with herself on whether she should withdraw to a more hidden spot. Then she saw them and forgot everything else.

The four horses were perfectly matched and very beautiful, and they pulled a carriage the likes of which Birdie had only ever seen in Johnstown or heard described. A closed carriage, very large, it was painted a shiny black with yellow trim around the doors and curtained windows. The wheel spokes were bright red where they weren’t covered in mud. There was a lot of luggage tied to the top, and two coachmen who sat on the box. They were perfectly matched too, so alike in face and figure that they could only be twins. They were strongly built, with complexions a far deeper black than any of the Africans Birdie knew. The coachmen wore red coats with brass buttons, high-crowned beaver hats, and fawn-colored breeches spattered with mud. They must have set out from Johnstown long before dawn, which was in itself so odd that Birdie could hardly make sense of it. Who would do such a thing, and why?

She wouldn’t have been surprised if a queen had stepped out of the carriage, but when the coachmen opened the door the woman who appeared seemed just another lady, maybe as old as Hannah and Jennet. She was very finely dressed, in a beautiful traveling cloak of deep red velvet with embroidery around the hem, and fur on the cuffs and collar. Her bonnet was made of the same heavy velvet, with a scoop brim so deep that Birdie couldn’t make out anything about her face. She held out a gloved hand and one of the coachmen helped her down. She didn’t seem to mind the poor condition of the lane. She just looked around herself, turning in a circle to scan everything from earth to sky. Birdie wondered what she was looking for.

The man who came out of the carriage behind her was older, with a full iron-gray beard. He was just as fashionably dressed with his long coat and high hat.

He turned to speak a word to somebody and then a boy came out. An ordinary boy, no bigger or smaller than most, brown of hair, pale, but dressed like the grown-ups in clothes too fine for traveling.

The three of them stood there for just a moment while the man spoke at the boy, who was nodding as though he didn’t like what he was hearing but knew better than to speak back. Then the lady turned her head and called out. “Helene!” in a strong, vaguely displeased voice.

Two more people stepped out of the carriage, both of them as dark-skinned as the coachmen, and both dressed plainly. Servants, their arms filled with leather satchels and boxes.

Who were these people, and what were they looking for in Paradise? Birdie was so absorbed in watching them that she didn’t hear the others approaching from behind her until Hannah was standing there. Her sister put a hand out and Birdie took it, coming down from her perch in a hop. But Hannah wasn’t looking at her at all; her attention was on the newcomers.