“I've seen you helping Abe with the charcoal.”

Manny shrugged. “He's got a restful way about him.”

They were quiet the rest of the way until the fork in the path that would take Lily back home.

He said, “I'll have to go see the boy.”

Lily waited, watching his face for some sign of what he was asking. Then she saw that he hadn't really been talking to her, but to himself.

Manny touched a finger to his brow and left her, and for a moment Lily watched him walking away.

The Bonners ate their dinner in the kitchen as there was still no table in the dining room, Lily and her family and the women who came to help in the house and garden all crowded together. Gabriel entertained them all with his stories, and sometimes Lily's mother would read something aloud from the latest newspaper and there would be a discussion.

Lily wanted to draw the scene: Lizzie Cameron listening so hard that all the muscles in her face drew into a knot of concentration as she tried to follow what Elizabeth meant her to understand. Jane Cunningham's little bow mouth with its pale chapped lips pursed in disapproval: she liked the Bonners well enough and was glad of the work, but could not countenance women discussing politics at the dinner table. Lily's father watching all this, amused with it, prone to tease a little. Gabriel sincere and playful at the same time. Lily's mother, pale of complexion, circles under her eyes, worn thin by weariness and the demands the child was making on her, but happy.

Lily liked the noise and laughter and scolding for a number of reasons, but most of all she liked being able to disappear into the crowd and hide in plain sight. If they asked her she gave them some detail of her morning, but mostly the others were happy to carry on without her. Today Lily would have had a good story to tell, about Mr. Stiles and his plan to preach to her while she drew, but she came into the kitchen to find it almost empty, and only two places set at the table.

Her mother said, “I wanted to have a little time with you, daughter, so I sent them all away.”

Just that easily she forgot about Mr. Stiles and Justus Rising and even Manny with tears on his face; she forgot about everything but Simon and the last time he had put his hands on her—yesterday, in the cool of the forests. She could see him still if she closed her eyes, a halo of gnats circling his dark head and his expression so very severe with wanting.

“No need for alarm,” said her mother. “I've no complaints to make.”

Now Lily was very confused, but she forced her face into a calm questioning and took up the loaf of bread to cut slices.

“What did you want to talk about then?” Focusing on the gleam of the knife, the feel of the handle in her hand.

“Money.”

Lily sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

Her mother said, “You know that my aunt Merriweather left me a bequest when she died.”

Lily could not say where this conversation might be going, but there was some small alarm bell ringing in her head. She nodded, because her mother was waiting for a response of some kind.

“It is quite a lot of money, actually. An annuity of two hundred fifty pounds a year. It has been sitting in the bank in England and gathering interest these eight years.”

Lily said, “But you can't get to it just now, then. With the war.”

“Not just now, no.” Her mother sat across the table, her calm eyes seeing far too much, understanding things Lily could not put down even if she had all the paper and paint in the world. “But the war will not last forever. And then I would like you to have it all. I shall have the bequest transferred to your name.”

A soft sound came from her own mouth. Lily pressed her fingers to her lips. “I don't understand.”

“Then let me explain.”

When she had something important to say, Lily's mother was in the habit of turning her head and lowering it until her chin almost rested on her chest. When she was a little girl it had seemed to Lily that her mother was listening to someone only she could hear, and that only if she paid very close attention.

She spread her hands flat on the table and took in a deep breath. “Just before I was to marry your father, my aunt Merriweather gave me the same gift I am giving you now. She offered me money and the opportunity to use it to my own ends, without interference.”

She paused a moment. “What she really gave me, of course, was a choice. Between the opportunity I had always wanted—the one I came here to realize—and life with your father.”

“Did you choose well?” Lily asked, her voice sticking a little in her throat.

“Yes. I chose well. I would change nothing, even if I could. So now I am giving to you what my aunt gave to me, something very simple: the opportunity to choose. You may wait until the war is over and claim the income. With it you could live very comfortably in Manhattan, or in England or even on the Continent. Many painters spend time in Rome, and you could do that too, if you are careful with your expenditures.”

Lily met her mother's eye. There was nothing unusual in her expression; she might have been explaining a difficult passage out of some scientist's treatise on fossils. No anger, no malice, no joy. A waiting, as if she were a vessel waiting to be filled: with cool water or vinegar, that much was up to Lily.

“You don't want me to marry Simon,” Lily said. “Is that it?”

“That is not it, absolutely not.” The first color rose in her mother's face. “Understand me now, daughter. If you choose to marry Simon and go to live with him in Montreal, you will have my blessing. How could I do any less, given my own history?”