Many-Doves was studying Elizabeth thoughtfully, something that did not escape Lily's attention. She turned to her mother, her brow drawn down to put a crease between her eyes.

“Don't worry about me, daughter,” Elizabeth said, answering the question before it was asked. “I'm just a little tired. It has been a difficult spring.”

But some suspicion had been aroused in Lily; Elizabeth smelled it rising off her skin like sweat. She got up from her chair and leaned over to kiss her daughter, pressing her nose into the hair at the crown of her head. She smelled of herself, of the little girl she had once been and would always be; of the pigments she ground for her paints, of charcoal, of lavender water. Of Simon Ballentyne.

“My sweet girl,” Elizabeth said. “You need your sleep. Go now.”

Over the years Elizabeth had never had a student, no matter how disciplined or eager to please, who was able to concentrate on work on the last day of school. Long ago she had given up trying to instill some order into those few hours. Instead she let them bring treats—dried apple rings, fried bread dough dusted with maple sugar—and was satisfied if the day ended without blood loss or broken bones.

They were full of the spring, like sap that must run and run. While the children made piles of books and slates and wiped tables and swept the floor, they talked and sang and told stories and argued. In Elizabeth's hearing they did not talk about the latest scandal in the village, or at least not about Nicholas and Jemima Wilde; they knew how far her goodwill went, and when it was dangerous to test it.

They did tell her, she let them tell her, about Mr. Stiles and his nephew, a thirteen-year-old boy called Justus Rising. Justus had already won many admirers among the children, who were eager to share their enthusiasm with Elizabeth: Justus could touch the tip of his nose with his tongue, his hands were so flexible that he could bend them in half across the palm, he knew the whole Bible by heart, backward and forward, begats and all. He was strong enough to have wrestled all three of the Ratz boys to the ground at once, and he had lost his parents when they got on a ship that was overrun—by pirates—between Brunswick and Boston.

Elizabeth, who had personal experience of pirates and privateers and the gradations between, kept her doubts and her smiles to herself.

“An orphan. He's got something in common with Callie and Martha, then,” said Henry Ratz, and a hush came over the room. Not out of respect for the girls—Elizabeth was too familiar with the ways of children to tell herself that—but because they knew she would not approve of the topic of discussion.

She straightened from the pile of primers she was counting and looked around at them.

“An orphan is most usually understood to be a young person who has lost both parents. Callie is not an orphan, nor is Martha,” she said. “And I will remind you that you may someday need goodwill and generosity of spirit as much as they do now.”

And yet she was relieved that the girls had stayed away from school today. She was relieved and the Ratz boys were disappointed, no doubt: she kept an especially sharp eye on them, and reminded herself of the cheerful thought that Jem would not be coming back to her classroom in the fall.

None of them would, not to this classroom. When school started after the harvest, this little cabin would be empty again, and the children would be sitting on new benches in the schoolhouse in the village. Whether or not she would be standing at the front of the room was a question she couldn't answer, just yet, though they asked her more than once.

When she had sent Gabriel and Annie ahead to Lake in the Clouds, Elizabeth went out and sat on the porch step, exhausted, relieved, and anxious all at once.

She had taught in this cabin for almost twenty years, and now that time was over. It was a strange idea, but right, too, somehow. And yet she was close to tears, and her hands trembled so that she wound them together in her lap.

Elizabeth was sitting just like that, her face turned up to the bit of sky the canopy of trees overhead revealed, when she heard someone coming up the path from the village. Nathaniel, she told herself, and even before the thought had passed she knew it was an idle wish. Nathaniel had left at first light to track Nicholas Wilde and might not be back for days. The man coming up the trail had a heavy tread, and he breathed as if he were not accustomed to the climb.

Before he came within sight she knew who it would be, and then he was there: Mr. Stiles, his black preacher's hat pulled down tight over his brow, his face bright red with exertion. There was a Bible tucked under his arm.

She should rise, of course, and greet him as he expected to be greeted, but Elizabeth felt a flush of anger: that he should interrupt these few moments of quiet and contemplation on her last day as the teacher of this school.

He stopped before her, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed once and then again. Then he dragged his hat from his head, leaving spikes of fine white hair that stood up like feathers on a fledgling.

“Goodwife Bonner,” he said, inclining his head. “I've come to speak to you about your school. I've heard some disturbing rumors—rumors I might not have believed, had I not seen the evidence myself, on the way up here.”

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, but he pushed on without waiting for her.

“Madam, I understand that you are a rationalist. That much was clear from our discussion yesterday. But I would never imagine that you would go so far as to endanger the souls of children with your foreign notions.” The Bible opened across a spread palm, and he began to riffle through pages.