Finally she picked up the letter again.

. . . I might have started this letter—perhaps I should have started this letter—with very different, far more cheerful news of your brother and cousin. We have had a letter from Daniel and Blue-Jay, written in tandem, it seems, passing a quill filled with bullet lead back and forth. They are well, they tell us, and seem to be relishing the soldier's life. Gabriel is just across from me at the table, copying out your brother's letter to include with this one, so that you may read the news for yourself. Your little brother takes this job very seriously and I fear in his concentration he may bite through the tip of his tongue and never notice until blood spots the page, already much mishandled and smeared. In itself the letter is a true portrait of Gabriel, one you will appreciate, I think, for its own self.

Of your uncle Todd's death I find myself strangely unable to write at any length, but Mrs. Freeman assures me that she will do this and indeed you may have read that letter first, and of course Mr. Bump will have passed along our messages. It must suffice to say that he suffered greatly in the last weeks and is now at rest, for which we must be thankful.

Finally there is news in the village, news of such a shocking nature that I find myself again unable to even begin any reasonable accounting. That story I leave to your cousin Jennet, who is not so very attached to the persons involved and will, in this matter at least, be more capable than I of putting the story into words. I have specifically requested that Mr. Bump not speak to you of this matter, so that you have the whole directly from Jennet, who experienced much of it personally. Once you have finished reading you may wish to interview him, and indeed I believe he will have much to say, and his own perspective to add.

Having piqued your curiosity, I will close this already very long letter with the assurance that we here at Lake in the Clouds are in good health. As to your sister Hannah, I can say only that there is a blessing to be found in those sad events of Christmas Eve. For so many months she carried a terrible burden hidden inside her that is now open to the healing power of light and air and reason, and will mend, we trust and pray, in the fullness of time.

I have not written anything here about you or the news in your last letter, I realize now, but you mustn't believe, even for a moment, that I do not think of you. You are in my thoughts constantly. Some might believe that by now I should have become accustomed to your absence, but every morning it is a surprise to me to see your bed without you in it.

You must remember that whatever foolishness the men might discuss among themselves, I know you to be an intelligent and sensible young woman, capable of making decisions for yourself. They may not always be the decisions I would make. They most probably will not be the decisions Luke will try to make for you, in his brotherly concern and overly protective way. They may even be wrong decisions, at times, but they will be your decisions. And yet I am still your mother and so I will ask you (as you have been waiting for me to do, no doubt) to strive to favor the rational over the subjective as you select one course of action among those available to you.

I will admit that I hope you will not settle too far from us when the time comes (if, indeed, it does come; you may decide to travel from one teacher to another for the next ten years, and in that, too, I would support you, for how could I not support a curious daughter who longs to see the world?).

Your loving mother,

Elizabeth Middleton Bonner

January 3, 1813

It was an hour before Lily could bring herself to open Jennet's letter. She sat with it in her lap, and thought of throwing it in the fire. In it was a story so upsetting that her mother had not been able to write of it.

Lily felt in her bones that it must have something to do with Nicholas. This story, whatever it was, would explain why there was no word from him.

The very worst news, of course, would be that Nicholas had died. She imagined what Jennet might have written: of fire, of runaway horses or fever or a hunting accident. A strange thought came to her, one that sat heavy in her throat and would not be swallowed: If he is dead, then the worst has happened. If he is dead, I am free of him.

She was shocked at herself, so shocked that she looked around the empty room, sure someone must have heard her, for how could such wickedness be kept quiet?

Lily opened the second letter and began to read.

Later, she fell into a weary sleep with Jennet's letter pressed to her breast; she slept so long and so deeply that when she woke at sunset she was disoriented and even frightened, forgetting for that moment where she was in the world, thinking first of her mother, until she saw the canopy covered with embroidered flowers over her head. Her cheeks were tight with dried tears, but why?

The crackle of paper under her cheek brought it all back, every word and image. Lily sat up and looked at the letters, her mother's words and her cousin's. Curiosity's letter was still unopened.

There was a hollow feeling deep inside, as if someone had stolen something from her while she slept. Lily got up and walked to the hearth, stood for a moment looking into the flames and then dropped all the closely written pages in Jennet's hand into the heat. She could destroy the words on the page, at least. They caught one by one, glowed briefly, curled along the edges and became nothing more than drifting ash.

She washed her face and hands at the blue and white basin, pouring water that was close to freezing from the ewer and scrubbing her skin until it burned. Then she straightened her hair and went out into the hall and down the stairs.

The house was quiet and dim. Standing in the front hall Lily listened very hard and heard nothing but the wind in the shutters and the faraway voices of the women working in the basement kitchen. There was no sign of Bump, and for a moment she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Then she saw the smear of ash on her hand and she had one thought only: to get away.