“Sorry Tom's cabin is not a mile off,” he said. “We'll spend the night there.”

Even as he was saying the words, a knot of dread pulled tight deep in Lily's belly, and with good reason.

“Sorry Tom!” MacLeod put back his head and laughed, exposing rings of dirt on a neck much like a tree trunk. “I haven't thought of Sorry Tom in many a year, the old thief. By the Christ—sorry, Miss Bonner, but we've been sleeping raw for two weeks.”

Simon might have simply warned them off, but instead he looked at Lily and cocked his head. And wasn't it like him, Lily thought, to leave the hard decisions to her. She could allow them to follow along and spend an uncomfortable night, or suffer the knowledge that could have provided some comfort, and had acted selfishly.

“It's just a cabin,” she said. “But you can put your blankets on the floor and squeeze together.”

When they had started off again Simon put his arm around her and drew her close. “You've a soft heart, Lily Bonner,” he said. “And a generous one.”

She wanted to be irritated, but could not; that was Simon's special talent, to disarm her with the truth when she wanted to be difficult. She couldn't be angry at him when he flashed his dimples at her, all admiration and approval, and underneath that, not very far, the thing that kept drawing them back together. Tonight, of course, they would have chaperones. Twenty-one of them. Lily should have felt relief, she knew, but she did not.

The voltigeurs were men who had never cared much for the ways of civilized folk, but they were jovial and friendly and willing to do almost anything to entertain Lily; one of them had a fiddle, and he offered to play, later, if she would like it; another dug a chunk of maple sugar out of his pack, brushed it off on his mantle, and offered it to her.

They knew who she was, of course, and asked after her father's health and what kind of season he was having. No one asked about her brother, and whether he had joined the fighting. Maybe because they knew the answer; maybe because they didn't really want to know.

After those first few awkward moments, there was nothing for Lily to do except watch them fetch wood and water and arrange the room so that she might have some privacy. They ran a rope across one corner of the room and from that they hung blankets that were pungent, but effective in screening off the one bed from the rest of the cabin. Lily disappeared behind the makeshift curtain as soon as it was up and lay down to stare at the ceiling and listen to the men as they sorted through their packs and shaved and began to cook. They spoke English and French rolled together with words from other languages—some clearly Indian—in that strange but oddly effective manner of the Canadian woodsman. It was rough and musical and Lily liked the sound of it. Someone put meat to roast over the hearth and the smell made Lily realize how hungry she was. Then Simon came in and they greeted him with such warmth that Lily was pleased for him.

After a while her attention drifted to the wall where a picture had been nailed, a drawing of a severe man with a chin beard. Next to him was a much younger woman, round cheeked with a dimpled chin, who was smiling shyly. Lily wondered if this was Sorry Tom, and how he had earned such a name, for in this picture he did not look sorry in the least, but grim and disapproving. Then, intrigued, she got up on her knees and studied the drawing more closely.

Something hard and sweet clicked in her throat, as it would if she had come unexpectedly around a corner to find her mother or father there. She touched the paper carefully with a fingertip and leaned forward to smell it, with the silly thought that there might be some scent left of the man who had done the work. Because she recognized it, now that she looked closely. Gabriel Oak had drawn this likeness; Gabriel Oak had been in these woods some many years ago and had sat in front of the hearth and drawn for his supper and a warm place to sleep. In a corner he had placed his mark, but she would have recognized his work without it.

Gabriel Oak, who had been her first teacher and her most beloved. Hot tears pushed up into her eyes and fell without warning, a great waterfall not so much of sadness, for he was dead these many years, but of thankfulness for the gift he had given her: a knowledge of herself.

Lily thought of the box in the sleigh she had packed so carefully. Her most cherished possessions: the old book that Gabriel had left her, filled with his drawings and notes, the letters her mother had written, her good pencils and a block of paper, things she had meant to use to make a record of this journey. Not once had she opened it, but that would change. She cleared her throat so the voltigeurs would know that she was about to make an appearance, and went out to take their likenesses.

Backwoodsmen, usually solitary by nature, were generally argumentative when herded together, and these men were no different. A fistfight might have broken out over who was to sit for Lily, and in what order, had not Lieutenant MacLeod intervened. The lucky ones were sent out to scrub their faces in the snow, and someone produced a wooden comb out of a haversack and passed it around, though from what Lily could see it would do little good.

For all their grime and coarse talk, they were strong men in their prime, and she found the truth of them in letting her pencil move over the paper.

Her third subject was a man with the remarkable name of Uz Brodie, who was eager to tell her the history of the war farther to the west. That caught Lily's attention.

“You've been as far as the lakes?” she asked.

“I spent three months on the St. Lawrence,” he said, not without pride. “But they sent us home for the Yule, and after I thought I'd be better off under Salaberry, so I joined up with the voltigeurs.”