Good woman gone missing. Mrs. Cookie Fiddler, a free woman of color, resident in Paradise on the Sacandaga. About sixty years, medium complexion the color of milky coffee. Last seen she was wearing a brown blanket coat, a yellow head wrap sprigged with greenery, and sturdy boots. Reward for information on her whereabouts or the fate that took her from us. God keep and protect my mother. Send word to Zeke Fiddler, care of McGarrity's Trading Post in Paradise.

For my part, I must think that some third party was involved, but to what end, that I cannot imagine. For now Constable McGarrity has written his official report of death by misadventure.

In the two weeks since this sad affair, I have seen Nicholas Wilde twice: once when he came to claim his wife's mortal remains, and once in the village. He was and is as distressed as any loving and attentive husband must be by a good wife's unhappy and violent end.

The neighbors have taken it upon themselves to help Nicholas in whatever way they might, bringing him a few birds or a measure of milk or a pie. I am told that Jemima Kuick comes to the orchard house every second day to clean and cook. Callie has not spoken a word, it is said, since she saw her mother's poor body, and she spends all of her time with Martha Kuick and will not be separated from her. An invitation from Curiosity to spend the rest of the winter at the Todds', and a similar invitation from us to come to Lake in the Clouds, were politely refused. My heart goes out to poor Callie, for I know what it is to lose a mother at such a tender age.

The words blurred on the page, and still Lily did not realize that she was weeping until she felt Simon's hand on her arm. She looked up into his face and saw concern there, and curiosity too, though he would never give it voice. Around the room the others had gone silent.

“A friend,” she said, her voice breaking with the effort to be as calm as she wanted to be. “At home a friend of mine has died. She was lost in a storm.”

A burst of laughter tried to force itself up into her throat from deep in her belly. How very inappropriate, her mother would say and at that Lily really did let out a hiccup of a laugh, one that might have been taken for a sob, had been taken for a sob by Simon, who settled down next to her and put an arm around her shoulder.

As if she were his to comfort.

The neighbors have taken it upon themselves to help Nicholas in whatever way they might.

Lily stood up suddenly. “I need fresh air,” she said, holding the letter against her breast. Simon was looking at her, but she would not meet his eye. “Just a few minutes of fresh air, alone.”

Chapter 12

December, Paradise

One of the mysteries of the young United States that Jennet could not sort out to her own satisfaction was the matter of holidays. It seemed that Americans worked every day but the Sabbath, and were loath to give up that habit, even to celebrate, no matter what the reason.

“Why, that's not entirely true,” Elizabeth said when Jennet presented her observations. “You saw that we celebrate Thanksgiving, did you not? And in the summer Independence Day is very important. Then there are the celebrations around Christmas.”

This took Jennet by surprise. “You celebrate Christmas?”

Elizabeth seemed a little embarrassed to admit such a thing. “Really, it is more a matter of going along with the Dutch,” she said. “There are so many of them here, you realize, and they have particular ways of celebrating. Hannah can tell you about it, or better yet, ask Gabriel and Annie.”

Soon after, on a snowy afternoon when Annie and Gabriel and Leo Hench were playing with Blue's new puppies before the hearth, Jennet raised the subject again.

“You mean Saint Claas?” Leo asked, his brow creased with excitement. “Why, he's a Dutch saint, come over on a ship, I suppose, just like the others.” To this he added, very thoughtfully: “Nobody ever has told me what a saint is, not so as I understand it.”

Annie gave him a look that was evenly divided between tolerance and irritation.

“The important part,” she said with a superior air, “is that Claas comes to Paradise on the sixtieth of December, every year.”

“The sixth of December,” Gabriel corrected Annie, giggling as a puppy clambered up his arm to lick his face. “There's no sixty days in December.”

“He's a tall man with dark eyes,” Leo went on, ignoring the smoldering argument.

“And a wild beard,” Annie said. “The grown-ups take special note of his beard, 'cause it grows all over his face. Like a dog, except yellow as corn silk.”

Elizabeth was at the far end of the room sorting through some clothing, but Jennet heard her muffle a surprised laugh. The children were too wound up in their story—and puppies—to take note.

Gabriel pursed his mouth in disgust. “What's important is, Claas carries good things in his pocket.”

“Only in one pocket,” Annie corrected in turn. “In the other pocket he's got a bundle of birch rods as thick as my father's thumb. For the children who don't deserve sweets.”

At this she sent a pointed look at both Leo and Gabriel, who were stacking puppies like wood chips, one atop the next.

“And he comes to the door?” Jennet asked Gabriel.

“Oh no,” he said. “Well, at least not when children are about. He comes in the night, you see. The Dutch children in the village hang their stockings up, and old Claas, he comes by and fills those stockings up while they're all asleep.”

“Ah,” Jennet said. “And what about your stockings? Does he fill them too?”