“Not tomorrow,” she said. “New-married people go off together to be alone.”

“Ooooh,” said Adam. “Can we go with them?”

“Then they wouldn’t be alone, would they?” Birdie wished she could take back her tone, but it was too late.

“You are grumpy,” said Mariah. “I thought you liked the idea of having Martha as a good-sister.”

“Of course she does,” said Henry, and she threw him a thankful glance.

“Then there’s no call to be so short,” Nathan said. “Especially now that you got your way about splitting the class in two.”

Unless Martha didn’t want to teach, now that she was married. Birdie kept that distressing idea to herself.

“Children!” called Curiosity from the kitchen. “Come on in here now. Food’s on the table.”

Things got a little better then. The little people liked to eat and they liked nothing better than to eat all together at one table. As long as someone was there to fill bowls and cups, they would all settle in and forget their arguments while they worked their way through soup and cornbread and dandelion greens stewed with bacon.

It was a relief, or at least Birdie expected to be relieved by the quiet, but to her own surprise she found she couldn’t keep her thoughts to herself.

To Curiosity she said, “Do you think they’ll be back today?” and all faces turned to her. Even Hannah looked up from spooning gruel into Simon’s open mouth.

“You know I ain’t never been good at telling weather,” Curiosity said. “Now Jennet, she the one can read the sky like a book. You think the rain going to stop anytime soon, Jennet?”

“Och, aye,” Jennet said, handing Isabel a piece of cornbread. “It won’t last the afternoon. But the roads will be a misery and I doubt we’ll see any of them before midday tomorrow.”

“And then school will start,” Adam said firmly.

“We’ll see,” Hannah said. “There are things they’ll need to attend to.”

By which she meant Jemima.

—

Birdie had spent much of Sunday trying to find a way to get a good look at Jemima Southern. She gave up finally and went home, and not an hour later Jemima had come to Uphill House, her husband beside her but no sign of the little boy, who interested Birdie just as much as his mother did.

If she was his mother. There was some debate about that possibility going on in corners in the village. If her ma and da were thinking the same thing, they weren’t talking about it where they might be overheard. She herself was trying to come up with a way to raise the subject to her ma when Jemima arrived.

Birdie thought right away it must be Jemima, because nobody else from Paradise would knock. A visitor opened the door and hallooed, and somebody hallooed back. You could tell who it was by the halloo itself. Birdie considered herself a pretty good mimic of other people’s halloos; she had once got in trouble for making Curiosity think Becca LeBlanc was at her front door.

That hour of Jemima’s visit was hard. First Ma wanted her to take the little people over to Curiosity, something Birdie most sincerely did not want to do but would have to; she had never directly disobeyed her ma, and knew that it would be a bad time to start. Ma was worried about too many things to count, and angry too, and so Birdie had walked with the little people over to Curiosity’s, listening the whole time to Nathan and Henry and Adam talking about the Fochts’ horses. Boys would get caught up in the least important thing, and then they called girls flighty.

Once she had delivered the little people—waving to Curiosity from the distance so as not to get caught up in having to tell everything—she flew back home as fast as she could, coming around the long way through the woods and in by way of the kitchen door so as not to disturb the grown-ups where they stood talking on the front porch.

And that was an odd thing. It meant that Ma hadn’t invited them into the parlor, a breach of what Ma called etiquette that was hard to credit. She gave even the smelliest trapper a better welcome, offered him food and drink and a bath, if he wanted one. Anyone who took the bath was welcome to come eat in the house and otherwise she sent out a plate.

The trappers mostly didn’t take her up on the bath, because they sewed their clothes on for the season and wouldn’t be bothered. But the point, Birdie told herself, was that Ma would let a trapper eat at her table if he was willing to take a bath, and there stood Jemima in fine clothes and Ma wouldn’t let her over the door swell.

Jemima had come to Paradise with her coach and her servants and her trunks of clothes (four of them, Anje LeBlanc had reported, with shiny brass fittings) and she had turned everything upside down and inside out. Not all of that was bad. Daniel and Martha eloping was a very good thing; everybody seemed to be agreed on that much. To Birdie it was exciting and irritating at the same time; she hoped nobody had the idea that since they got married in Johnstown they could just do without a wedding party.

Birdie thought this through while she tiptoed through the hall and up the stairs to her own room, where she could stand at the window and hear every word spoken on the front porch.

It seemed like Jemima was doing all the talking, but if she was mad, she was holding her temper in check. Her voice was even and reasonable-sounding, but when she paused she never got more than a couple of words in reply, and all of them from Da, who was good at getting his point across with nothing but a sharp look.

Now Mr. Focht was talking, a man like a swollen keg ready to burst at the seams. His hair standing out straight and stiff from his ears and nose and eyebrows and even from his knuckles, like porcupine quills. Asking about legal documents and court hearings and other things that Birdie didn’t understand, and could not even remember long enough to write down in her notebook.