Birds called in the trees and a squirrel screamed a warning at them; there were tracks in the mud that she might have pointed out: a deer with a fawn, bobcat, quail, bear. Lily took her hairpins down as she walked and put them in the pocket she wore around her waist, shook her head so her hair flew free. Because she felt like it; because she knew that he liked her hair.

They crossed a corner of the Todd pasture that fell away in a slope from the woods. Off in the distance they could see Black Abe tending his charcoal pits, a small figure moving in and out of the smoke. The path went back into the woods, darker here on the east side of the hill that separated this property from Old Judge Middleton's. Lily admitted to herself that she had a destination: her grandfather's abandoned house and farm, on a low hillside that backed onto the endless forests. Whether or not Simon would realize where they were going, that she didn't know and didn't really care, as long as he kept following her.

The house and land belonged to Ethan now, part of his inheritance from his stepfather, but no one in Paradise would ever think of this place as anything but Judge Middleton's homestead.

She said as much to Simon when they had reached the porch. “I hardly remember him,” she said. “But the few memories I do have are all to do with this house.”

“It's been empty a very long time,” Simon said. He was looking at it with his carpenter's critical eye.

“Uncle Todd always saw to it that his property was well looked after,” Lily said. “I don't know what will happen to it now that he's gone. I don't think Ethan thinks much about it.”

She saw Simon's mouth twitched at the corner. “Maybe he can rent it to Stiles for his meetinghouse.”

Lily gave him a hard look and then she went to the door and let herself in without giving him the satisfaction of rising to his bait.

Simon stood on the porch as if he could not quite make up his mind where he wanted to be. Lily said, “He wasn't really my grandfather, you know. Judge Middleton, I mean.”

And she walked away, farther into the house. She had been raised by storytellers, and she knew some tricks when it came to drawing her audience along, oh, yes. As she disappeared through the door at the end of hall she heard Simon's step behind her.

The kitchen was dim and cold: the hearth hadn't seen a fire all winter, and the flagstones felt damp even through Lily's winter moccasins. There were mouse droppings in the corner and cobwebs in the great cavity where the fire should have burned.

“Isn't it sad?” she asked Simon as he came through the swinging door. She pointed with her chin at the empty hooks and trivets in the hearth, the bare dish cupboard, the dust on the mantel.

“No one wanted the table,” Simon said.

“Too big to get out the door. It was built right here, by Curiosity's husband, you see. So she wouldn't let them break it up for firewood either.”

She ran her hand over the oak planking, traced a gouge with her finger.

Simon said, “Are you going to tell me the rest of it, or will you play at games for a while longer?”

Lily pushed out a breath and turned to him. He stood across the table from her, looking at her in his disapproving way down the slope of his nose. No sign of his dimples at this moment. She wasn't in much of a smiling mood herself, she realized.

She said, “It's only my theory, of course. I have no proof. But I think Gabriel Oak is my grandfather.”

Doubt and curiosity flickered across Simon's face. “The man who taught you how to draw?”

“Yes,” Lily said. “There are a lot of small . . . facts, I suppose you'd call them. If you look at the drawings in the book he left me, you'll see the resemblances. When you put it all together, it seems obvious.”

If Simon was shocked, he didn't let it show. “And what does your mother think of this theory of yours?”

Lily shrugged. “I've never had the courage to ask her about it. Maybe she suspects, I'm not sure. There's not much that my mother misses. Curiosity knows, of that much I'm pretty sure. Someday I'll ask her.”

Simon frowned at her. “You brought me here to tell me about your grandfather?”

She hesitated. “I wanted you to know that you aren't the only one with family stories that are best left untold. But mostly I brought you here because I could not stand to be in the village even one moment longer.”

There was a moment's strained silence between them, and Lily realized Simon was thinking of Nicholas.

She said, “I brought you here because I didn't want to listen to talk about the meetinghouse.”

“You know your father won't let Stiles have it,” Simon said. “And he can't just take it. It belongs to your cousin Ethan, after all.”

Lily blinked at him. “But there will be a lot of arguing. No doubt the Reverend Stiles will get into a philosophical discussion with my mother. He will quote the Bible to her and she will quote it back and throw in Thomas Paine and others he won't know, and he'll be affronted and she'll dig her heels in, and my father will have to intercede. I couldn't bear the idea, not just now.” She leaned forward and stemmed her hands on the table.

“Simon.”

“Aye?”

“Did I understand what happened back there? Did Jemima really do what they say she did?”

He had been very tense, but his shoulders sagged a bit now. “Aye, I fear so.”

She turned suddenly and went to the oak mantel that spanned the hearth. The oven built into the bricks stood open, filled not with bread but an abandoned nest.