Lily dressed carefully, slowly, and then she opened the door and went out into the near dark. She took one of the lanterns that hung in the entryway out of the wind and began her walk across the city.

It was a cold night but not especially windy, and the snow seemed to hover in the air, not quite ready to fall. She passed the bakery where she visited most mornings, a milliner who had a fur-lined cap she had long admired, the butcher, other shops, all closed up for the day with shutters firmly latched. Her boots were hobnailed and she moved quickly and surely, throwing little divots of hard-packed snow up with every step. A soldier passed her and touched the brim of his hat; Lily averted her eyes and dropped her chin, walked a little faster until she was sure that he had gone on.

It was full dark by the time she came to the rue St. Paul, but she found the door without trouble. Between a bookshop and a tailor, she had heard him say, and here it was. The two small windows were shuttered like all the others but light leaked out from around the edges, like the halos that the saints all wore in the stained-glass windows of the churches.

Lily had visited Ghislaine's family in a house just like this one, and she knew what she should find here: a ground floor that served as a stall, home to one or two cows and goats and perhaps a pig, while the family slept and lived overhead. Lily was frontier raised and it took a lot to affront her sensibilities, and still it surprised her to find Simon Ballentyne living here. The man she knew took great pains with his clothes and his speech and had ambitions, or so she had thought.

She contemplated the knocker for a long moment and then used it: once, twice, three times, firmly. There were voices, one female, and for the first time Lily felt a rush of doubt. She would have turned right then and run away but the door opened. The woman who stood there was old, but straight of back and unflinching, her red hands folded below a substantial bosom.

“Mademoiselle?” she asked, her expression a little surprised but not unkind.

Lily opened her mouth to ask, and found she had lost all her French, every word of it gone.

She said, “I'm looking for Mr. Ballentyne. Simon Ballentyne.”

Then he was there. It seemed he was twice the size of the servant woman, and his face was in shadow.

“Simon,” said Lily, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. But it was enough. For him, it seemed, her almost-smile was enough.

Simon Ballentyne kept no animals, after all. The cobbled floor was scrubbed to gleaming, covered here and there with thick rugs. A hearth and scullery took up the far end of the long room. Near the door there was an oven tiled in the Dutch fashion, a table, a settle, and some other furniture she could not make out in the shadows. A screen as tall as she was kept the draft from the door out of the rest of the room, and Lily saw, with some surprise, that it was finely carved and painted with an elaborate hunting scene. On the opposite wall three paintings hung in simple frames, all landscapes. One of them, Lily saw immediately and with some surprise, was her own work: a small oil she had done after one of the sleighing parties. She had made a gift of it to Monsieur Picot when he admired it.

Behind her Simon Ballentyne said, “I bought it from your teacher.”

“Ah,” she said, a little affronted at Monsieur for selling her gift and, at the same time, pleased that Simon Ballentyne should have bought it and said nothing to her. It was a true compliment, and she meant to repay it in kind but found she could not. She said, “I should have thought to give you one of my paintings. I didn't realize you were interested.”

And turned her face away, because it was a lie and they both knew it. Simon showed as much interest in her studies and work as Luke did. More, sometimes, and she had never had the feeling that his questions were simple courtesy.

The old woman served them soup and bread and they ate in silence at the table. The little house was spartan, but comfortable; well ordered and clean. Every once in a while Lily thought of the letters—one unopened, one tucked into her bodice, the last burned—and that image shook her out of her daze.

Simon Ballentyne didn't notice, or perhaps he chose not to. He spoke to her as if this visit were nothing out of the ordinary, an unmarried young woman of good family calling on a single man, alone. She answered him in the same way. They spoke of the weather, of her brother's trip and when he might be back, of the business he hoped to accomplish in Québec. Simon told her what he had read in the day's papers of the war, and to this she listened a little closer for names of places that were close to home, and hearing none, relaxed again.

When they had finished eating the old woman cleared the table and then put on her mantle and her clogs and went to the door. Simon followed her and said a few words, put something in her hand and waited for her nod.

He said, “Genevieve will send her grandson to Iona to say where you are, that she's not to worry and that I'll bring you home this evening.”

There didn't seem to be any words left inside her, and so Lily said nothing. She straightened the saltcellar on the table and brushed away some crumbs and studied the wood grain.

Finally when she understood that he would not make it any easier for her she said, “You have a very comfortable home.”

“And so do you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “But here you sit. I'm mindful of the honor, lass, but—” He spread out his hands.

Lily said, “Does one friend need a reason to visit another?” It sounded silly and false to her own ears, but Simon was kind—she must credit him with that—and he spared her the sharp words she had earned.