She wrapped her arms around herself and walked on, the sweet smells of wet grass and bruised apples rising up like a cloak. At the barn door she stepped into cool darkness, gooseflesh pebbling her wet skin.

Nicholas was waiting for her. The lightning showed him white and blue and white again: more ghost than man, until he came forward and stopped, close enough to touch her if he wanted. If he dared. She imagined she could hear his heartbeat, slow and steady. Such a strange thing, that a heart could keep on without faltering for so many years, undeterred by loss. Lily put her hand on her own chest.

Light flickered on his face: planes and circles and intersecting lines drawn on the fragrant dark. Simple geometry that arranged itself into something extraordinary. When she was still a girl, long before they had stumbled upon each other in the way of man and woman, she had put down his likeness on paper many times.

On the day he married Dolly Smythe she had drawn them together. He had still been in mourning for his sister but his expression had been clear and full of hope. And why not? Dolly was the kindest young woman in all of Paradise, sweet and hardworking both, and she had been in love enough for both of them. And a farmer needed a wife.

Then for a long time Lily had given Nicholas Wilde little thought, until Callie had come into the world and her mother had left it, in her own quiet way.

Dolly lost on the mountain, the second or third or fourth time; they had stopped keeping count. Anyone who could hold a lantern and call her name went looking. The searchers came to Lake in the Clouds for coffee, soup, an hour's sleep, news. Lily was there alone half-asleep in front of the hearth when Nicholas came with Dolly cradled in his arms like a child. He had put her on the cot by the fire so gently, stroked her damp hair from her face, watched while Lily lifted his wife's head and fed her broth. When she was asleep Nicholas went out on the porch and wept.

He had frightened Lily so with the terrible power of his weeping, beyond anything she had ever imagined. She was standing behind him, uncertain and afraid, when he turned and pressed his face into her skirts and wound his arms around her legs.

For an hour or more she had held him while he talked and wept and told her things she had no right to know and did not understand, not really. Then he had raised his head to look at her and all her doubts and worries fled. She had comforted him, somehow, with the simple fact of her presence. They had been friends, at first. Nothing more.

“My brother and Blue-Jay are going to join the fighting,” she told him now. “With Luke.”

His expression softened. “Your parents?”

“They gave their consent.”

“You knew it would happen, sooner or later. He will not be satisfied until he goes.”

“But you won't.” Poking at him with words as sharp as a nail because she did not want to touch him, could not allow herself to touch him. “You won't go.”

“No. You know that I couldn't even if I wanted to.”

The long list of things that could not be done, yes. Lily knew them well. She often went to sleep reciting them to herself: he could not leave his orchards, his wife, his daughter; Dolly could not be cured nor could she die.

Thirteen years and innumerable laws of both God and man separated them. They never pretended otherwise to each other; they made no promises or plans. They had exchanged nothing beyond the occasional awkward and lingering kiss. They could not be together, and so finally Lily had made plans to go to the city, and he had averted his face when he might have asked her to stay.

Such a good man, people said of him. Clever, a hard worker, always ready to help a neighbor, with a calm smile in spite of the burdens he bore.

“Look,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders to turn her.

A rain-soaked orchard alive with the churning wind, shadows that shivered and jumped. She waited for the lightning and then saw what he meant her to see. The bear stood on her hind legs swiping at the ripe apples. Her fur was beaded with light and her eyes shone red in the lightning.

The men in the village shook their heads over Nicholas Wilde, a man who wouldn't shoot the bears who raided his orchard. If they knew, as Lily did, that Nicholas named his bears as a farmer named his cows, they would conclude that he was just as mad as his wife.

“Which one is that?” Lily asked.

“Maria,” he said. “I call her Maria. She likes the Seek-No-Further best of all.”

A terrible sadness came over Lily, a sense of loss so strong that her body could not contain it. It was something she could not hide from him, nor even try.

“Lily,” he said softly. “Tell me the rest of it. What are you planning?”

“I don't know yet. Something. Anything.”

“Montreal?”

In the flashing light she saw his face and wished she had not. How was it he saw the very things she meant most to hide?

“If Luke agrees.”

He grunted softly. “Even if he doesn't.”

She reached out toward him in the dark. “Will you kiss me goodbye?”

“Ah, Christ. Lily.”

She was turning away when he reached out and pulled her into his arms. Where they pressed together from hip to shoulder he was quickly as wet as she; Lily felt him shudder with cold or longing or both. His mouth on the curve of her neck, at her ear, his breath soft and warm.

“You know I would marry you if I could.” It was something he had never said to her before and Lily was surprised to find that those words she had imagined so often could sound so hollow.