Moonlight At Mistawis - 12+ Hours - Sleep Support

'Moonlight at Mistawis' is an unofficial, independent fan-written sequel to L. M. Montgomery’s beloved 'The Blue Castle' (1926), written to mark the centenary of the original novel in 2026.Valancy and Barney have returned to their peaceful life on Mistawis after travelling abroad, but a letter from Cousin Georgiana draws Valancy back to Deerwood and back into the life of her cousin Olive, whose engagement has unexpectedly ended. What begins as a tentative reunion gradually opens the door to something neither woman expects. Through summer days by the lake, gentle adventures, new possibilities and the comforting rhythms of Mistawis, the story explores friendship, second chances, creativity, courage and the joy of discovering who you are beyond other people’s expectations.A warm, peaceful continuation of Valancy, Barney and Olive’s story, this 12+ hour sleep-support reading is designed to accompany you through rest.Moonlight at Mistawis is also available as a paperback and ebook.

Transcript

Hello there. Thank you so much for joining me for this long-form, Continuous reading of Moonlight at Nostalwis. This is my unofficial, Independent, Fan-written sequel. To celebrate 100 years since the publishing of The Blue Castle back in 1926 by Canadian author Lucy Maude Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery is most well known for her first novel, Anne of Green Gables, And her book, The Blue Castle, Came many years later in her writing career, And she never wrote a sequel. So, A hundred years later, Here in 2026, I decided to share my version of a sequel to The Blue Castle. You do not have to have listened to or read the Blue Castle before to understand Moonlight Atmospheric, Although it might be more fun that way. Either way, You can hear my recordings of the whole of the Blue Castle and Moonlight at Mastawis here, Either in playlists or in long form tracks. I am a big fan of the Blue Castle and I'm sure I'm not the only one who has wondered what happened to those characters after the end of the book. So this is my version of a sequel to the Blue Castle, I hope to share something that feels comforting, Soothing, Old-fashioned, Gentle, Something that transports us back a hundred or so years to a time when things were simpler and there was a slower pace of life. So for now, Let's just take a moment here. To have a nice Deep exhale. Letting go of the day. Letting go of whichever baggage you might be bringing along with us into this moment. For right now. There's nowhere else we have to go. And nothing else we have to be doing. So we can just relax. Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy moonlight at Miss Darwis. Chapter 1 The Thor at Mystarwis There had been a time, Not so very long ago, When Valancy had not known what it was to wake up happy. Now she woke joyfully with the breeze. It sifted through the pine boughs outside the window, Soft, Familiar sighing, Like a page being turned somewhere in the forest. The curtain, Faded and forget-me-not blue, Lifted at the corners with the lightest breath. A slant of morning sunlight moved across the floorboards and over a scatter of pine needles left by a husband who had allegedly wiped his boots this time. Valancy, No, Moonlight, As she was more often called in this beloved house of two, Stretched her arms, Her legs, And the delicious quiet inside her heart. It was the kind of morning that settled into her bones before she even opened her eyes. They were home. It had been just over a year and a half since they'd left Mastawis, In a whirl of laughter, Clattering trunks, And a sense of daring that still felt intoxicating. They had promised themselves only six months abroad, Maybe eight, But one place had led to another, One marvel to the next, Until seasons changed, Hair grew longer, Shoes wore thin and maps grew soft at the folds. Now, Barely four weeks back, They were still readjusting to the rhythms of Mistawis Island life. Life without hotel bells or foreign train timetables, Life with pine smoke and loons, And the eternal tickling of water on stone. They moved through the cottage like people relearning a familiar dance. Barney kept bumping his hip against the corner of the kitchen counter. Valancy had forgotten which floorboard near the hearth always creaked when you didn't want it to. But the scent of spruce, The lapping of water against the dock, The flicker of lamplight on old wood. Some things never changed. Their hearts, Too, Were relearning the tempo. There was a. . . Quiet intimacy to returning home. Home. Not just to a place, But to something in themselves that had waited here, Like a book left open mid-chapter. Their travels had taken them farther than Balancy had ever dared dream. In her tiny deerwood bedroom. They had wandered through Greece and Rome, Along the Nile. Beneath the shadow of minarets in Cairo. In apple blossom time, They had motored through Normandy, Gallantly losing their way more often than either of them ever admitted. In Sicily, They lay on warm hillsides and counted the stars. They climbed narrow lanes in the Scottish Highlands, Where the heather was just beginning to stir, And walked among stone circles older than memory. In Istanbul, They followed the scent of spices through the grand bazaar. And lingered over coffee in tiled courtyards. They were rained on in Lucerne, Windblown in Venice, And unexpectedly swept into a village festival somewhere in Spain, In a place whose name neither of them could pronounce. They traveled lightly, Laughed often, And lived like people making up for lost time. They scribbled postcards brimming with wonder. Lingered over hand-woven hats at sunlit stalls and ate peaches so ripe the juice ran down their wrists. And yet, Miss Starwyce had never left them. It was home now, Completely and unquestionably, To both of them. The cats, Banjo and Good Luck, Were sprawled on the sun-warmed windowsill like a painting of household chaos. Banjo, Grey and striped and gorgeously disreputable, Snored with the steady assurance of someone who had never once doubted they belonged exactly where they were. Good Luck, Slender and solemn, Gazed at the treetops with his usual air of contemplation, As though deeply considering the state of the world, Yet unwilling to make a fuss about it. But Lancey watched them with affection. My fuzzy philosophers, She murmured. She'd missed them more than she'd let herself admit while they were gone. Letters from cousin Georgiana had told her how they were faring, Yes, But Nothing could quite replace the warm, Breathing weight of a cat in your lap. Or the peculiar comfort of being ignored by a creature who loved you deeply and would show it in no visible way. Outside, The lake was just beginning to give up its ice. The surface looked like glass held at the moment of shattering, Long cracks shimmering like silver veins beneath the rising sun. The air had the sharp, Cold promise of March's end. With just a whisper of April behind it. There was a hush to the world that only came during Thor. The trees held their breath. The lake stirred without speaking. Even the crows were tentative, As if nature itself were uncertain of the next line in its script. A tapping at the window startled her. She turned quickly and saw one of the two crows, Nip or tuck, She was never quite sure, Perched on the sill. Peering in with what could only be described as indignation. Late again, Are we? She said aloud. The crow fluffed its feathers, Turned one beady eye towards her, And then launched itself back into the blue. Leaving behind a smear of damp claw prints. The crows had reappeared two days ago, From whatever snowy corner they'd haunted all winter. Resuming their post in the tall pine near the point, Like they owned the place. One of them had dropped a snail shell on the roof the previous morning. And Banjo had treated it as a personal declaration of war. Barney had taken the canoe to the mainland earlier that morning. We're down to half a tin of tea and no soap, He had announced in his most tragic voice, Standing barefoot in the kitchen. Which, I believe, Constitutes a domestic emergency. One of his uneven eyebrows rose gravely. You just want an excuse to go to town and talk to Fiddlehead Mike, She'd teased. And if I do. . . The man has an aura of. . . Mystery. And dirt under his fingernails. I admire him. She'd sent him off with a list, A kiss, And the quiet confidence that he'd come back with three unnecessary tins of sardines and some inexplicable purchase that he'd be very pleased about. She stoked the fire, Fed the cats, And brewed a pot of what she insisted on calling Witch's Tea. A dubious concoction of peppermint spruce tips, Dried rose hips and whatever optimism she found in the cupboard. Then she stood by the west-facing window and soaked in the day. The morning light touching her short black hair and small, Pointed face. Her dark eyes with their curious upward slant were especially bright. There were birch trees in bud, Damp moss reclaiming the path, And a squirrel conducting a determined campaign against the woodpile. The lake, Stirred and glinted, Somewhere across the water came the haunting cry of a loon, Thin, Sorrowful and lovely. She'd dreamed of days like this once, Back in Deerwood, Curled in her bed with old books and older fears. She'd imagined a place of her own. Her beloved. Blue castle. Where she could live unafraid and be utterly herself. But this reality. This quiet, Fragrant, Wood-smoked happiness. Was even better. Than dreams. She. Was happy. And so. . . Of course. Something had to happen. Barney returned just before noon, Whistling tunelessly as he clambered up from the dock. His tawny hair windblown and his arms full of supplies. He dropped his burdens on the kitchen table with a flourish. Soap, Tea, A newspaper two weeks out of date, A mystery novel involving spies and pigeons, And a tin of red paint. "'You'll see, ' he said, Tapping the paint with the air of someone preparing to unveil a surprise masterpiece. Valancy raised an eyebrow. "'A new art movement? Miss Starwyce modernism? ' Barney grinned. "'Better. A bold architectural improvement. I'm thinking. The outhouse door. She laughed and kissed his cheek. He handed her a final item. A single envelope. Pale, Creased, Addressed in a neat, Upright hand that seemed to apologize for existing. Valancy read the name. And felt a small uneasiness stir within her. Cousin Georgiana Sweet, Shy, Spinsterish Georgiana. Who had looked after Banjo and Good Luck while they were away. Tending to them with a gentle fretfulness and writing faithfully about them. Her letters had arrived with regularity. Small missives from a world Valancy had half forgotten. Full of minor dramas about banjo's moods, Good luck's fussiness over unfamiliar scraps, And conjecture about whether or not the cats might be missing their home. She had always seemed like a wisp of a woman. Easily overlooked at sterling gatherings, Sandwiched in silence between louder aunts and pompous uncles, And yet, In her own tentative way, She had a sturdiness. A kind of quiet persistence that Valanci had come to respect and appreciate. Valancy smiled despite herself. Georgiana's letters also invariably contained at least one death. Two illnesses and a highly detailed account of somebody's funeral arrangements. For years, Balancy had privately suspected that cousin Georgiana regarded bereavements as other women regarded garden parties. Melancholy, Certainly, But socially stimulating. She wondered whose burial might be catalogued in this latest missive. And felt her usual inward flicker of gratitude that Dr. Trent's solemn prophecy of her own early death had failed so thoroughly to materialise. And she had not yet become the star of another soft-voiced tragedy in Georgiana's collection. Barney had already vanished outside. Something about a theory involving the Crows, His missing glove, And possible sabotage? So Valanci took the letter to the window seat and opened it slowly. The birches outside stood like sentries. The lake whispered along the shore. Dearest Valancy, I hope this finds you well. And I suppose I must hope it finds you at all, Given your habit of vanishing into the woods like some sort of romantic heroine. I didn't want to trouble you when you'd only just returned. I thought it best to let you settle in again. And give dearest banjo and good luck. Time to reassert their authority. I do hope the boys are doing well. I must ask. A favour. Not for myself, You must believe that, But for someone. . . Ooo cannot ask it herself. I wouldn't write if it weren't important. If you can come to Deerwood. . . Even for a day or two. I would be ever so grateful. It's about your. . . Cousin. Olive. She may not think she needs you, But. . . I believe. She does. Ever yours. Georgiana. P. S. Before I forget, Mrs Weatherby's funeral was last Thursday. It was quite a day. Beautifully arranged. Though I do think her son chose rather unfortunate flowers. Still, One cannot expect everyone to have an eye for such things. Valancy shook her head gently, Folded the letter slowly along its original crease and tucked it into her cardigan pocket. Her fingers. Lingered there a moment. Of course, She knew about Cecil. Everyone knew. Small towns didn't need telegrams or headlines. News moved in the hush between pews. In the halls at the post office. Cousin Olives lengthy engagement to Cecil. Hand. Quietly unraveled. While Valanci and Barney were abroad. No fireworks, No accusations, Just a calling, A slow fade. A silence loud enough to echo. Valanci had been surprised. Olive had always wanted something grander than Deerwood. And Cecil. Clever. Handsome. And very much one of the Port Lawrence prices. Had seemed such a promising match. He'd just finished his studies in civil engineering when they got engaged. And the wedding had been planned for the moment he secured a contract. Yet. There had always been something that seemed slightly. . . Unreal about it all? As though olive were staging happiness. Rather than actually living it. Belancy couldn't say what had changed, Only that something must have. The hope chest, The heirloom veil, The exquisite trousseau. What became of all that? What Valancy really didn't know was how Olive had borne the unravelling. For a moment. Unexpectedly. Old deerwood feelings stirred like ghosts within her. Olive. Beautiful olive. Capable olive. Olive. With her smooth golden hair, Peaches and cream complexion, And superior little smile, With an air of having been born knowing exactly how life ought to be arranged. Valancy could not remember a time when she had not been compared to her. Olive sat properly. Olive danced gracefully. Olive certainly never said peculiar things at the dinner table. Olive could be counted on to be sensible. And reliable and uphold the sacred family traditions. Olive had bows galore. Olive would make a splendid match someday. According to her doting mother, Aunt Wellington. Who always spoke as if arranging marriages were a branch of military service. And then there was Valancy. Awkward, Unattractive, Timid, Downtrodden little Valancy. Forever saying the wrong thing or, More often, Nothing at all. The family had always discussed her, Over her head and around her, With the sort of detached concern people reserved for disappointing weather. Olive herself had never been openly cruel in any dramatic way towards Valancy. That would almost have been easier to bear. It was the little things. The dancing amusement in her eyes, The whispered side comments, The effortless exclusions. Olive, Had possessed the remarkable ability to make Valancy feel childish and insignificant merely by entering a room. Although Valancy was the Elder, By a year or so, When they were girls, Balanci had trailed hopefully around after Olive more than once, Only to realise that. . . She was being tolerated. Rather than want it. And yet. Sitting there now with Georgiana's letter in her lap. And the lake murmuring softly beyond the window. Balancy found the old pain strangely faded around the edges now. She only wondered, With a sudden, Curious ache. Whether Olive herself had ever truly been happy. Inside all that. Perfection. Barney came back inside. Gloveless. Muddy. And radiating satisfaction. He carried a half-eaten currant bun and a broken pine bough he was convinced was shaped like Newfoundland. She handed him the letter. Wordlessly. He glanced at the envelope, Then at her face. His smile faltered, Replaced by a flicker of concern. "'What's this about? ' he asked, Brow creasing as he took the paper. "'Cousin Georgiana, ' she said softly. About Olive. Barney read the letter. You're going? She nodded. I think I ought to. He studied her for a moment. Then gave a small Thoughtful nod. Do you want me to come with you? No, She said. Not yet, But thank you. He set the pine bough reverently on the table and placed a small paper twist of maple sugar beside it. Then he kissed her forehead. Banjo stretched and yawned in approval. Outside, One of the crows gave a single rasping caw. That night, There was moonlight at Misdarwis. It spilled across the dock like silk and shimmered on the black, Breathing lake. Valancy stood at the edge of it, Shaw wrapped around her shoulders, Eyes lifted to the moon's slow arc. The air was still and full of listening. Just for a little while, She said softly to the stars. Moonlight will come. Chapter 2 Deerwood awaited. The morning after the letter arrived, The wind shifted. It no longer whispered through the pines, It rattled them. A restless tapping like knuckles against a closed door. Even the lake looked different, Less like silk, More like a mirror, Dropped and broken, Scattered with light. Balancy packed, Slowly. Not because she was reluctant, At least not entirely. Mastawis had taught her that leaving and loving were not enemies. Still, It was hard to fold away the quiet happiness she had built here, Even for a little while, Having only just returned so recently. And yet, The pull, She felt, Was also undeniable. Barney, Whistling tunelessly, Helped without fuss, Bundling a few necessities into a battered satchel. An extra cardigan, The blue scarf Valancy had fallen in love with in Istanbul, And a small packet of maple sugar he tucked in a few sheets of crisp paper too. For moonlight musings, He said with a wink, And Valancy smiled despite herself. Good luck and banjo prowled the perimeter of the cabin, Suspicious of any new change. Banjo climbed into the canoe twice and had to be dislodged each time with coaxing and a bribe of smoked fish. Good luck circled the bundles with wide eyes, Clearly concerned that someone was about to be left behind. The lancy paused in front of the little window, Mug in hand, Watching the lake shift and tremble beneath the swirling wind. The sky held that raw blue of early spring. Not quite warm, But full of possibility. The kettle hissed behind her, And the scent of pine smoke curled around the room. I'd come all the way, Moonlight, " Barney said as he tightened the strap of her pack, But he jerked his head towards Bluebeard's chamber, Wherein a scatter of half-written pages lay curled on the table under a stone. Deadline, Valancy guessed. Mailboat leaves tomorrow morning, He nodded. If I miss it, My esteemed publisher will send search parties armed with pitchforks. Valancy laughed, But there was a knot of warmth tightening behind her ribs. Yes, You mustn't miss it, She said. Truly, Barney, It's all right. I can manage, Dearwood. He studied her. That steady, Thoughtful way he had. The morning light bringing out the strange, Violet blue of his dark eyes. Still, He said, I'm paddling you across. No arguments. No arguments, She agreed, Softly. They shared breakfast by the stove, Tea, Toasted bread and a jar of leftover strawberry jam. Valancy tried to keep her thoughts on breakfast, But they strayed. To Deerwood. To. . . Olive. To Georgiana's careful handwriting folded away in her coat pocket. What do you think? Olive. Really wants? " she asked at last. Barney considered this. I don't know. Neither do I. Balancy stirred her tea. Do you think? I can help her. If she wants helping. Balancy looked at him. You could invite her here, Barney said. That's something. To miss Star Wars. Why not? Valancy was silent for a moment. She may say no, Probably. You're very encouraging this morning. I haven't finished my toast. Valancy laughed softly and reached for the teapot. By mid-morning, They stood together at the dock. The old canoe nudged the worn posts, Its hull still damp from last night's dew. The mist, Rising off the lake, Blurred the edges of the world until Miss Darwis seemed to float like a dream on the slush-streaked water. Barney paddled with easy, Confident strokes, Pausing here and there to break through some particularly stubborn patch of ice with his paddle. Valancy sat with her pack, Tucked at her feet, Hands folded in her lap, Watching the starwisps slip away first the cabin, Then the lopsided spruce by the shore, Then the silver flash of the cats chasing a startled chickadee. She let the vessel's motion soothe her, Though something in her chest still felt taut. Are you nervous? Barney asked, Not looking at her. Yes. Do you want to turn back? No. He nodded, And they said nothing more for a while. The canoes slipped past the tree-lined shore into the inlet where loons sometimes nested. A pair of them startled into the air, Calling in long, Wavering notes that echoed across the lake. Valancy breathed in the scent of damp pine and thawing earth. A crow called somewhere in the distance. Maybe Nip. Maybe Tuck. She couldn't be sure which. When they reached the mainland dock, Barney held the canoe steady while she climbed out. He didn't say much. He didn't have to. Instead, He pressed her hands briefly in both of his, Calloused and warm. Come back soon, He said, His voice low and sure. I will, " she promised. He handed her the satchel, Brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with rough tenderness, Kissed her cheek, And stepped back. Valancy set off up the winding path. Without looking back. The mist curled around her ankles, Tugging playfully at her skirt. Above her unseen in the thinning clouds. The moon hung pale and patient in the morning sky. Deerwood. Awaited. The little town hadn't changed, Of course. Small towns seldom did. It still wore the same tidy face it always had. Prim white porches, Swept daily. Hedges trimmed just so. Curtains drawn halfway to allow glances without commitment. The pavements were patched where tree roots had lifted them, And every second shop window bore a hand-lettered sign for eggs, Knitting wool or mending services. The Tower of St Albans loomed over the rooftops, Its old weathervane creaking faintly in the breeze. Valancy hesitated as she passed the church. Remembering the damp chill of the pews. The hollow sermons and disapproving glances. The way her aunt had pinched her arm once for fidgeting. During the minister's warning against frivolity. It seemed like. There had been no warmth in that building. Only performance. Respectability masquerading as righteousness. She found that she felt no bitterness now. Only. Distance. A cool and grateful cat. Distance. A pair of children walked past with a skipping rope, Counting in unison. A dog barked from somewhere unseen. The ordinary rhythm of the town went on. Steady. Watchful. And, To Valancy's eyes, Untouched by time. She passed the old bakery with its faded striped awning. The familiar sweet smell of warm bread and cinnamon drifted through the cracks in the door. Balancy smiled. She recalled how she had once stood here outside, Coins sweating in her palm, Too shy to ask for the raisin bun that she really wanted. Just beyond, She spotted Miss Nettie Sloan, Sweeping her stoop with her usual brisk efficiency. For Lancey hadn't seen her in years. Doss! Sterling! Miss Sloan called. Eyebrows shooting up. Wow! We'd just about given you up for gone. Balancy stepped to the edge of the path, Smiling. Hello, Miss Sloan. I've just been. . . Living a little differently. Hmm, Said Miss Sloane, Eyeing her. You look it. There's something about your eyes. Not the same skittish look. Well, I hope for your sake you're not back for long. It's a miserable year for Maple Blight. And even worse for Smalltalk. Valancy laughed. I'll try not to make too much of either. Miss Sloan grunted approval and went back to her sweeping. Valanci continued on. She passed a patch of wild crocus, Brave purple goblets, Shyly poking up through damp leaves. And remembered the bouquet Olive had carried to church one Easter Sunday long ago. But Lancey had thought her. The most beautiful girl in the world. She turned down a side lane for a moment. Past the fence of a house where a maple tree leaned slightly, Its trunk twisted from storms past, But thriving all the same. There, Once, She and Olive had made crowns of yellow dandelions and pretended. They were queens. Olive had decreed royal laws with grave importance. Balancy had merely smirked and followed along. Childhood had seemed so simple until somehow it ceased to be. Olive. Somewhere in Deerwood. I'll live. Awaited. Not the dazzling, Proud olive of old. Someone. Quieter. Someone. Wounded. Everyone knew, Of course. Not in loud whispers or public scandals. Dearwood had a more insidious way of knowing. The broken engagement, The unopened hope chest, The narrowing of eyes that had once been wide with dreams. For Lancey thought of Georgiana's letter. The stiffness in the handwriting, The plea tucked awkwardly inside the formal words. She had re-read it last night by the fire, The cats curled beside her, The lake murmuring under a waxing moon. Georgiana hadn't meant to say much. Yet the silence around the words and spoken volumes whatever had happened with Cecil. There was plainly more to it than Dearwood knew. Valancy paused beside a low fence where pussywillow catkins had begun to silver the branches. Their soft grey tips trembled in the breeze. She reached out and touched one lightly. There had been a time when she, Too, Had been convinced that certain kinds of lives were not meant for her, That happiness was something delicate, Always belonging, To someone else. Balansi didn't pity. Olive. She didn't scorn her. She didn't even entirely understand her, But she remembered what it was to feel small and stifled. Without knowing where the door was, Let alone how to open it. She only wished. Fiercely. Fervently that Olive might find something more. Than what dear wood had left her. Ahead, Dearwood stretched out, Prim, Proper. Utterly unaware that anyone had ever dreamed beyond its picket fences. Melantzy hoisted her pack a little higher and smiled. Not with bitterness, But with a quiet kind of courage. The church bell rang eleven times. Its clear tones skipping across rooftops. She passed Olive's house then, Without slowing. The Wellington residence. Curtains drawn, Porch swept, Every shingle tidy. Nothing appeared broken. And yet. Olive would be inside or nearby. The thought made Valancy's pulse beat a little faster. She didn't turn up the walk. Not yet. Her feet knew another path. The quieter one, Edged with hopeful budding violets and moss, Leading past the mill lane and towards the edge of town. Towards cousin Georgiana's house. A small roof nestled beneath overgrown lilacs just beginning to leaf out. A gate that's stuck. A porch with two rocking chairs. Valancy had seldom been there, But she remembered the quiet sturdiness of the place. The sense that things could be spoken there. Truths that might not fit within the stuffy parlours of Deerwood proper. And Valancy wanted truth now. She wanted to hear what Georgiana hadn't quite said in her letter. To understand. To help, If she could. She reached the garden path just as the wind stirred the lilacs into motion. The gate gave its usual protest, But yielded. A bird startled from the eaves. Valancy raised her hand to knock, Heart steady now. Above, The thin silver coin of the moon slipped higher, Lighting the way. Chapter 3 The Cup of Tea The brass lion's head glinted in the morning sun as Valancy raised her hand to knock, But the door opened before she could touch it. Valancy! Breathed cousin Georgiana, As if surprised to find her alive and standing upright. Georgiana looked much the same, Pale lavender dress over her slight frame, Grey curls pinned precisely, And that familiar expression of worried delight, Her smile quivered on the edge of too much feeling. Come in, Dear. Let me look at you. Oh, How well you look, And so brown. For Lancey stepped inside the call hallway. That's what comes of living with a man who forgets hats exist. Oh. . . My, Said Georgiana, Half laughing, Half alarmed. She led the way to the parlour, Where the air smelled faintly of violets and dust. The same piano, The same china dogs on the mantel, The same pink glass dish of barley sugars. It was all exactly as Valancy recalled. And yet. Smaller somehow, As if the house had folded in on itself slightly. Sit here, Dear, " said Georgiana. I'll bring tea. You must be tired. For Lancey sank into the faded floral chair. Still carrying the quiet, Novel thrill of the journey. The canoe ride, The streets, The decision made. She glanced around the room while Georgiana rattled gently in the kitchen. There were new photographs on the sideboard. Children in white pinafores and sailor suits. Solemn feast. Cousins or Grandchildren of distant sterling branches. Valancy recognised none of them. Georgiana returned with the tea tree. Two cups, A teapot in a knitted cozy, A plate of lemon biscuits. And Valancy rose to help, But was waved back down. I was terribly afraid my letter might go unanswered, Said Georgiana as she poured, Her hands only just shaking. I wasn't sure it would reach you up back out there. It reached me, Valancy said calmly, And I came. Georgiana looked at her for a long moment. With something like gratitude, Or was it relief? Yes she said softly you did They sat in silence for a few moments. The lemon biscuits were dry and sweet, And Valancy found she liked them more than she used to. Or perhaps she just liked eating them without someone judging the crumbs? Well i don't quite know where to begin georgiana said at last folding her hands in her lap I don't want to put too much upon you, Dear. Oh me. You always had a kind way about you. Even if you were quiet. I believe the accepted family opinion was that I was odd, Said Valancy. Oh. Yes georgiana agreed gently but never unkind Valancy waited. Cousin Georgiana glanced towards the window where lace curtains swayed in the draft. Her hands, Clasped loosely now in her lab, Looked thinner than Valancy remembered, Though they had always been a bit bird-like. Wow. It's olive, Georgiana said at last. Valancy set her cup down. There's no great scandal, " Georgiana added quickly. At least, Not the sort anyone would talk about openly. But You can feel it. In the way. People, Look away. And There's something else. Something more. Lingering. Valancy nodded slowly, Letting the pause expand. Cousin Georgiana was not one for drama, Nor was she careless with her words. If she had written, It meant that. . . She had tried everything else first. She's been very quiet these past months, Georgiana continued, Withdrawn. Not quite ill, But. . . Not herself. There are long afternoons when she simply doesn't answer the bell. Her mother says it's nerves. Her father says it's pride. And the town, Well. . . Town says nothing, But you can hear the nothing humming behind every closed door. Valancy tilted her head just slightly. And Cecil, She asked. Georgiana hesitated. Gone. Left for Montreal. Shortly after the engagement was called off. Took a post with a. . . Railway company, I believe. There was no fuss. Explanation. Simply. The end. The lancy picked up a biscuit and broke it in two. And olive. She. . . Didn't cry, Said Georgiana, Not that anyone saw, But She hasn't been the same. She still goes to church, Of course, And to bridge parties when her mother insists, But. . . She speaks less, Eats little, And sits by the window like Someone. Watching a ship that. . . Isn't coming in. Valancy Pictured. Olive. Glossy hair pinned just so, Eyes sharp, Spine straight, Mouth unsmiling. The image was familiar, Yet dulled now. Like a silver frame with the shine rubbed off. Do you know why it ended? She asked. Cousin Georgiana aside. No one does. Not really. Olive won't say. Cecil told his mother something vague about differences of temperament. But you know how the prices are. Oh. Roses and riddles. And Olive simply told her father that the engagement was no longer suitable. Her mother tried to blame it on. One of Olive's migraines. Valancy snorted before she could stop herself. Yes, That sounds like deer wood. I thought perhaps you might. . . Georgiana paused. Took a breath and began again. I. . . I thought you. . . Might have a better chance of winning. Reaching her. She. . . Always resented you, I think, But later she also admired you. Envied you, Or something, Between the two. That's a heady invitation, Said Valancy, Raising an eyebrow. I don't mean to put it all upon you, " Georgiana said quickly. She might listen to you. Oh. . . At least she might talk. And what would I say, Exactly? Valancy asked. Cousin Georgiana's voice was very quiet. Perhaps? You wouldn't say. Anything in particular. Perhaps just being yourself. Be enough. For a moment. Balanci. Said nothing. The clock ticked in the hall, And a cart rattled past outside. Georgiana poured the last of the tea with practiced grace and reached for a biscuit at last. I suppose she must have loved him for lance he said Georgiana looked up. Perhaps. Or perhaps she only loved the idea of. . . Being loved. Valancy smiled slowly. We've all done that. Georgiana smiled too. Blinked as though she'd surprised herself. She might not want to see me, Balancy said. Olive and I were never exactly close. No, Said Georgiana gently. I think. Things are different now. She thinks you. Got away. And perhaps. . . She wants to ask. How? Balansi didn't answer. But in her mind's eye, The island shimmered into view. The pines, The wildflowers, The beloved little house, Just visible through the trees. When Valancy stepped outside again, The sky had softened with that particular late morning light that made everything look newly washed. As if the town had just blinked off the last frost. The air smelled faintly of chimney soot. Somewhere nearby, A bird was trying out its spring voice. Hesitant, Then bold, She paused on the porch. Cousin Georgiana's farewell lingering behind her like the closing of a hymn. The door had shut without a latch click. Soft, Final, And unshowy. That was Georgiana through and through. Valancy walked slowly down the path, Past the trim rose bushes still bare and twiggy from winter. The buds were tight and greenish at the tips. A few blades of crocus leaves pushed up shyly through the earth. She wasn't in a rush. Deerwood didn't exactly invite rushing. The houses still stood sentry, Prim and proper, But something beneath it all had shifted. Or maybe she had. Across the street, Mrs Robert Carruthers stood half-hidden behind her parlour window curtains, Pretending to adjust them. Her sharp nose twitched as she caught sight of Valancy, And then vanished with military efficiency. For Lancey's smile to herself. Yes. Dearwood was still running exactly as she remembered. On tea, Lace and vigilance. She continued walking. And passed the bookshop. Where she had never quite dared go in as a girl. Not without purpose, Not without permission. Her mother had called novels nonsense, And Aunt Wellington thought poetry encouraged discontent. Now the shop had a green facade and a sign in the window offering discounts on hymnals. Her reflection in the glass pleasantly startled her. Not because it was unfamiliar, But because it looked. Unafraid. A few blocks further on, She passed the green where the Stirlings held their annual summer picnic. She wondered idly who had brought the best sponge cake last year, And whether olives had collapsed in the middle, As it sometimes did when her pride got the better of her caution. But Lancey had once wished she could sneak a book into those gatherings. Just a little something to read under a tree. But even that small freedom had been unthinkable then. Now, The idea of returning to such an event felt Not painful, But. . . Agreeably. Impossible. There was no summer picnicking now, Only muddy spring patches underfoot. And a child dragging a stick along a picket fence. The sound was irregular. Offbeat. Somehow comforting. Valancy turned down a narrower street, Less polished, More lived-in. A tabby cat watched her from a stoop, With suspicion and dignity. A laundry line snapped overhead. Somewhere, Nearby, A kettle was boiling. She realised that she hadn't yet really decided. Where to go next? Georgiana had not made a specific request. There had been no, Please talk to her, Or do see what you can do. Only a gentle offering. That Valancy might, Simply by being herself, Make some kind of difference. It was an odd kind of hope to place in someone. Odder still that Valancy didn't feel burdened by it. A few streets over, Valancy decided impulsively to step into McGuinness's cafe. A small, Smoky little place she'd never once dared enter in her dearwood days. It had always been unsuitable for a sterling girl too loud, Too casual, Too full of unfamiliar men with ink-stained hands, And women who wore colour in their cheeks. She chose a seat by the window and ordered a strong coffee and a cinnamon tart. Somewhere between Rome and Cairo, She had learned to like her coffee strong. Years ago, She'd have panicked. At the thought of being seen here. Let alone eating pastry with her gloves off. Now she simply smiled and ate slowly, Letting the bitterness of the coffee cut the sweetness on her tongue. It felt bold. And ordinary. All at once. When a greying man at the next table offered a courteous nod, She returned it. Without shrinking. When she stepped back outside, The town felt smaller than it had before. Familiar, Yes, But Not in charge. After a while, Valancy found herself back near the Wellington House. Though she hadn't necessarily meant to be, The clipped hedge still wore its early spring severity. And the green trim caught the light like it always had. She stayed just far enough down the pavement to avoid the gate, Just near enough to see the edge of the veranda through the branches. No movement, No figure at the window, No flick of curtain or shadow passing by. Balancy. Did not go to the door. That would be too much too soon. She hadn't been summoned, After all. Olive Sterling would not take kindly to being surprised on her own doorstep. Not now. Instead. Balancy stood still for a moment, Letting the wind lift a strand of hair across her cheeks. The silence of the house. Didn't feel completely cold. Just Waiting. She turned and walked away. This time with the direction in mind. She would ask cousin Georgiana if she might stay another night. Let things settle. Let Deerwood settle around her. There was no need to force anything. Olive could wait. Valancy turned the corner and went in search of cousin Georgiana. If she was lucky. Another cup. Of tea. Chapter four, Silence with starch. The morning in Cousin Georgiana's house began with the gentle ticking of the parlour clock. And the scent of toast warming on the stove. Valancy stirred in the guest bed, Narrow, Tidy, And piled high with lilac-scented quilts, Reflecting on the curious weight of returning It wasn't discomfort, Exactly. But rather a sense of being fitted back into an old shape. That no longer quite held her. In the kitchen below, Cousin Georgiana went about her tasks with the noiseless grace of habit. The table was already set by the time Valancy descended. Brown bread toast, Apple butter, And the pot of black tea steaming comfortably in its cozy. Good morning. You slept well, I hope? Georgiana asked warmly. Looking up as she poured. I did, The lancy said, Though it was only half true. Thank you. That's lovely. I can't say the same for poor Mrs Bellamy. She died at half past four this morning. Valancy paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth. There'll be a funeral on Friday. Continued cousin Georgiana. Sighing with gentle satisfaction. It's been quite some time since we've had one. Valancy pressed her lips together firmly to hide her smile and looked down, Busying herself with her napkin. They ate quietly, The silence companionable but not casual. Balancy was again aware of how little had changed in the house. The worn doilies still pinned in place by tiny shell-shaped weights. The same watercolour of Prince Edward Island on the wall, Its blues faded to mist. I think I might take a walk this morning, Balancy said at last, Wiping crumbs from her skirt. Stretch my legs, See how many old ghosts still live in these streets. Georgiana gave a slight nod. Deerwood keeps its ghosts tidy. She said. I'm sure you'll find them exactly where you left them. The April morning was bright and dry. Though still holding the cool edge of early spring. Balancy stepped out in her walking boots and sensible coat, Her gloved hands tucked beneath her shawl, And set off through streets crisp with the faint sense of wood smoke and turned soil. Deerwood was stirring. Two women emerged from the greengrocers and fell abruptly silent when they saw her. Valancy nodded pleasantly and kept walking. A boy on a bicycle wobbled past, Glancing over his shoulder at her. He did not fall off and Valanci took that as a small victory. Before long, She found herself outside Uncle Benjamin's shop. She had run errands here more times than she could count. Always dutiful. Often silent. Today, She went in. From Curiosity. The bell above the shop door gave a little indignant jangle as Valancy stepped inside. The place smelled exactly as she remembered. Notes of camphor, Licorice root, Boot polish and lemon cough drops, With a faint overlay of pipe smoke and smugness. Shelves lined the walls like sentries, Packed tight with tins, Folded linens, Pen nibs, Embroidery kits, And dusty novels no one had read in twenty years. Uncle! Benjamin. Was seated behind the counter. As upright as if he'd been carved from oak. His moustache twitched. Well now, He said, Drawing out the words as if they cost him a penny each, Mrs Redfern graces us with her presence. Uncle Benjamin, Valancy said with polite brightness. I see some things in Dearwood are reassuringly permanent. He squinted at her over the rims of his spectacles. And I see some have come back with opinions. Yes, Valancy said, Cheerfully, And I've learned to speak them. Uncle Benjamin gave a grunt of amusement, Or perhaps Approval? It was difficult to tell. Behind him, A pair of younger clerks emerged from behind a stack of feed sacks. Valancy recognised them instantly. Joe Hammond looked almost unchanged. The same narrow eyes, The same quick glance that never quite met yours. Claude Bertram's grin still had that oily shine. Though it faltered for half a second when he recognised her. Valancy remembered with perfect clarity. The day he'd once snickered. Curable or incurable in reference to Valancy's standing as a dearwood old maid. That particular humiliation had stayed with her longer than it had any right to. But not today. Today, She met their eyes squarely and didn't blink. Mrs. Redfern, Claude said, Putting a little too much emphasis on the Mrs. Valancy, Inclined her head. Claude, Still. Guarding the kingdom of tinned beans, I see. Joe flushed slightly, But Claude rallied with a half laugh. Well, Someone's got to keep Dearwood properly fed. And someone's got to keep Deerwood properly labeled. Valancy replied. You were always so fond of labels, Weren't you? Claude gave another tight chuckle, But Jo muttered something inaudible and disappeared behind a tall pyramid of flower sacks. Uncle Benjamin didn't intervene. Anything you're needing? " he asked. Or is this a social call, Disguised as commerce? I'd like a tin of sugared almonds, She said calmly. And a small bottle of that cinnamon oil you used to keep under the counter, If it's not considered too frivolous. " Uncle Benjamin grunted and reached under the till without comment. Valancy added, I'd also like two of those pencils, The ones with the green ribbon on top. And a blank ledger. That caught Claude off guard. Starting your own accounts then? No, Said Valancy lightly. I've decided to keep a diary of Dearwood's more flavourful expressions. Uncle Benjamin barked a single, Sharp laugh. Haven't lost your tongue abroad, I see, DOS. Valancy met his eyes. It's Valency now. He nodded after a beat. So it is. She paid in full. No asking for the family discount and took her small parcel of items. As she turned to leave, She caught Claude watching her, With something that might have been. . . Envy? Or confusion, Or both. The bell jangled again as the door shut behind her, And the spring air felt even fresher after the closeness of the shop. She walked slowly, The tin of sugared almonds rattling gently inside her bag. A tiny, Victorious sound. A wagon clattered past. Two boys chased one another across the road and were narrowly missed by a milk cart. Somewhere a dog barked furiously at nothing. People noticed her, Of course. Deerwood noticed everything. Valancy kept walking. She found herself near the Wellington home again. The house seemed to. . . Have a way of pulling her into its orbit. It was all clean lines, Clipped hedge, Immaculate windows. A place that didn't allow ivy or dust or dirt. Sentiment. Onii! Appearances. A figure moved behind the lace curtain of the upstairs parlour. Then, A few moments later, The front door creaked open. Olive. Stepped onto the veranda. For Lancey's heart skipped a beat. Olive wore a pale grey dress and gloves to match, The colour making her look as if she She'd been. . . Washed in moonlight. Her hair was gathered into a low twist, Not a hair out of place. She was, Every inch, The Wellington heir. Poised. Polished. Creeper. A picture of perfection. Yet. There was something missing. In the posture. A slackness at the corners of her mouth. Aye. Hollowness beneath the smoothness of her brow. Even from across the street, Valancy could feel it. Something brittle behind the brightness. She didn't wave. Neither did Olive. They looked at each other. For the space of a breath. One long second. In which the years between them and the mountain of things unsaid, Stirred quietly, Then Olive turned and disappeared back inside. Balancy let out a slow breath. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding it. The town moved on. A dog barked, A door slammed. Somewhere in the distance, A church bell rang the quarter hour. Valancy walked on. A strange lightness from the encounter following her. Near the corner by the butchers, She heard a familiar voice behind her. DOS. She turned. Aunt Alberta, In her buttoned coat and hat with the perpetual velvet ribbon, Stood on the pavement with a wicker basket on one chubby arm. Her face was a mixture of recognition and confusion. As though she were trying to read a new book with an old pair of spectacles. Oh, Mrs. Snaith? No, Redfern, I mean. She corrected herself with a little fluster. Valancy smiled. Good morning, Aunt Alberta. Alberta tilted her head. Well. . . I must say, You're looking. . . Very well. Very different. It suits you. Valancy inclined her head. Thank you. There was a small awkward pause. The kind that occurs when someone wants to ask questions but has not yet decided which can decently be asked. Alberta's mouth pursed slightly. You've been gone so long. Travelling with your. . . Husband. She gave the word a slight emphasis, As if it had a flavour she wasn't used to. Europe, Wasn't it? And somewhere tropical after that. I do hope the cats got on fine at Georgiana's. Valancy smiled. Oh yes, They grew very fond of her. Alberta nodded briskly as if that closed the subject, Though her eyes still searched Valancy's face. I saw Olive the other day, " Aunt Alberta said lightly. She's very pretty. Busy, Of course. So many things to manage. The Wellington House is. . . Such a responsibility, You know? Valancy gave a soft, Neutral sound. Yes, I imagine it is. Alberta glanced down at her basket. Well, I mustn't keep you. I've still half my errands to do. Balenci lifted one eyebrow. Of course. Another pause. Then, To Valanci's great surprise, Alberta gave a quick, Uncertain smile. As though She'd glimpsed something. Bold in her niece, And wasn't quite sure whether to fear it or. . . Envied. Well, She said, It's good to see you, Doss. Oh, Sorry, Valancy. But Lance's smile deepened. She walked on. Thinking of Olive. What did one say to a person who had once been everything. And then, Somehow. . . Nothing at all. Should she speak to Olive? Or leave matters alone for now. For Lancey wasn't sure. At the next corner, She remembered quite suddenly how she had dropped her gloves there years ago and cried quietly. After Olive's engagement had been announced at a church social. She had forgotten all about it until now. The memory rose and fell inside her like a wave. Gentle and harmless now. Valancy stopped and plucked a sugared almond from the little tin in her bag. Then she popped it in her mouth and headed back to Cousin Georgiana's. Cousin Georgiana met her at the gate, In her gardening apron, Hands slightly damp from tending to her roses. Back already, " she said gently. Valancy held up the tin of sugared almonds. I've been shopping. Georgiana eyed the tin. Recklessly, I see. White. Uncle Benjamin may never recover. Georgiana smiled. What did anyone say? Anything. Dreadful. No, Said Valancy, But I felt their silence. It's still here, You know? All the old whispers and judgments. Georgiana nodded. Dear woods, Always been fond of Silence with starch. They moved into the parlour. Valancy sank into the same chair she'd occupied the night before. I saw Olive, She said, Finally. Cousin Georgiana's eyes widened. She saw you? Yes, We looked at each other. Neither of us flinched, But we didn't speak. Georgiana. Didn't press. She merely poured for Lancey another cup of tea. Valancy sipped her tea and smiled slowly. As several. Increasingly mischievous possibilities occurred to her. Maybe she'd invite Olive to Cousin Georgiana's for a seance. Or take her to Uncle Benjamin's shop and ask for a book on palmistry. Georgiana looked at her over the rim of her teacup. What are you thinking, Balancy? Nothing Aunt Wellington would approve of. Chapter 5 still houses. The Lancey had thought herself prepared for anything. Yet, As she walked towards the small, Neat house, Where she had spent 29 joyless years, A thin tightness settled in her chest. The house looked just the same. Prim, Pale, Pressed flat against the edge of Elm Street, As if trying not to take up space. Its windows blinked in the morning sun like disapproving eyes. She was carrying a small bottle of the season's first maple syrup from Misdawis, Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. A small peace offering. She had not written ahead to say she was coming. Dearwood Gossip would have long since delivered that news. Balancy reached the front step and hesitated. The door was just as she remembered, Painted a scrubbed, Soulless white. She took a deep breath through her nose and knocked lightly. Cousin Stickles answered in her pinched apron, Her eyebrows flaring up like startled squirrels. Valancy! " she exclaimed. Why? We weren't expecting. . . Mrs Frederick's voice rang from the parlour. Who is it, Christine? Cousin Stickles leaned back and called, It's Doss! Valancy stepped over the threshold, Just as her mother appeared in the hallway. The sight of her, Hair as neat and grey as ever, Mouth a narrow line of mild outrage, Gave Valancy an odd twist in her stomach. I was nearby, Valancy said, Holding out the wrapped jar. Thought I might stop in and say hello. Mrs Frederick took the maple syrup, With the same expression she might reserve for an unscheduled tax notice. How? Considerate. They stood awkwardly. The hall smelled the same. Dust and lemon oil. The grandfather clock ticked disapprovingly. Would you like some tea? Cousin Stickles intervened. Thank you. That would be nice. Balancy followed them into the parlour. Of course. Nothing had changed. The doilies on the armrests were precisely aligned. The portrait of Grandfather Stirling still loomed in its heavy frame above the mantle. The same thin ferns drooped in their pots. As Cousin Stickles disappeared to the kitchen, Mrs Frederick sat down in her usual chair and motioned Valancy to the sofa. She did not ask how Miss Starwes was, Or how Barney was, Or where Valancy had been travelling. Instead, She simply said, You've been staying at Georgiana's. Of course, That would be her mother's opening remark. Yes, Just for a little while, Balancy replied. It's been a lovely visit. A pause. I must say, It seemed Odd that you didn't come here first. I thought it might be simpler for everyone, " Valancy said evenly. Mrs Frederick's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. We are your family. Valancy resisted the urge to smile again. Yes, That's why I came today. Cousin Stickles returned with the tea tray. Three cups, A small plate of oatmeal biscuits, Dry as ever. Valancy took a sip and found the tea Wink. And too hot. A flavourless mouthful of a miserable childhood. Conversation limped along. The weather. A recent bazaar at the church. The price of eggs. Nobody mentioned Barney or Miss Starwes. Tight civility. And awkward, Flickering glances passed between them. As though the two older women were unsuccessfully trying to refile Valancy into an old cabinet drawer. The two older women were murmuring to each other now. Something about Mrs Abel Hawthorne's second cousin who had taken a bad turn. Possibly whether the new minister's wife had worn gloves on Sunday. But Lancey wasn't listening. Excuse me a moment, Valancy said lightly. I just want to peek in at my old room. Mrs Frederick and Cousin Stickles exchanged glances. I suppose you may, Mrs. Frederick aloud, Icily. She rose, And Cousin Stickles followed suit. Balancy climbed the stairs ahead of them, Feeling their presence behind her like a pair of phantoms. The air grew stuffier with every step. At the top landing, Her hand hesitated on the door. But only for a second. She opened it. The room was precisely as she had left it, Just as it had always been. The yellow painted floor still creaked in the same spots. The one stiff chair stood guard beside the narrow iron bed and the grim little hooked rug still leered up at her with its grotesque dog forever grinning. The cracked mirror was still propped awkwardly on the dressing table, Refusing to flatter. The old photographs of long-dead relatives surrounded her once again. Stiff figures with stiff collars peering out from tarnished frames. All those stern, Unsmiling faces looming from every side, As if convened in ghostly judgment. Valancy gave an involuntary little shudder. Followed by a laugh, More thoughtful than bitter. Behind her, Mrs Frederick startled. There's dust on the sill, " Cousin Stickles remarked sharply. Balancy pressed her eyes shut for a moment, Smiled and stepped back into the hall. Some things never change, She quietly remarked. More to herself than anyone else. Valancy followed the older women down the stairs at a leisurely pace, The stiff hems of their skirts rustling ahead of her like dry leaves. Back in the parlour, Mrs Frederick sat bolt upright in her chair once more, Her face as unreadable as ever. She folded her hands in her lap. Do you find yourself settled now, Belancy? In some ways, Yes. In others, Not quite, But I like that. This earned a brief silence. Then Mrs. Frederick cleared her throat. And what is. . . Your husband calling himself now? Still Barney, Said Valancy serenely. And he's Mr. Redfern, Again. Snaith was just the name he was living under when I met him. Redfern is his family name, As you know. Cousin Stickles pursed her lips. It's hard to keep track. First, You were Valancy, Then Doss, Then Snaith. Then Valancy again. Then Mrs Snaith. And now, Valancy smiled, Now I'm Valancy Redfern. Mrs Frederick didn't respond. She disliked all of the names equally. Valancy let the silence stretch a little longer than was polite. I imagine, She said at last, That the ladies at the Anglican church have had a good deal to say about me. Cousin Stickles coughed lightly into her handkerchief. Well. . . Some wondered, But. . . Of course, We always said it. Wasn't our place. They always seemed to think it was, Said Valancy, Her eyes dancing. Mrs. Frederick stiffened. We do not gossip. For Lancy. Exhaled. And let her gaze drift to the window. I remember sitting through sermons in that church as a girl, She said. All about the wrath of God and the sin of vanity and how good little girls went straight from obedience to heaven. Her voice was soft. I used to pray to die quickly. So I wouldn't do it. Do it all wrong. Cousin Stickles made a noise of protest. Duh horse! It's alright. I don't feel that way now. Valancy turned back to them, Kind but unflinching. But you must admit. There wasn't much. Joy to be had there in those pews. Mrs Frederick's thin lips were quivering. Reverend Stalling is a very respectable man. Perhaps. But I was frightened of him. From the time I was a little girl. I had quite enough of being afraid of Dr Stalling. There was another silence. Cousin Stickles reached for the tea tray as if to busy her hands. Mrs Frederick glanced at the clock. Balansi rose. I really should be off, She said. I'm meeting Barney this afternoon and I still want to walk a little while. Cousin Stickle stood quickly. Well, I hope. . . I mean. . . It was nice to see you, Doss. Valancy, She corrected gently. And thank you. Mrs. Frederick did not rise, Nor did she offer a parting word. She merely gave a small, Regal nod. As if dismissing a committee. Alansi stepped out into the bright morning light. The door clicked shut behind her. She exhaled deeply. A breeze stirred the rosebush cousin Georgiana had once given her. The stubborn old thing Valancy had once attacked with a garden knife, After years of it refusing to bloom, New green shoots had now appeared along the stems. Valancy paused and touched one lightly. Then went on. She turned not towards Miss Starwyce just yet, But back through town. She had an idea. She walked deliberately back towards the centre of Dearwood. Shopkeepers were sweeping their doorways, A milk wagon rattled by, And here and there people nodded in quiet greeting. Turning a corner. Balancy came upon a familiar figure. Roaring Abel His booming voice carried over the street as he debated some triviality with a farmer, His weathered face breaking into a very wide grin when he saw her. For Lancey! Well I'll be! How's the world treating you, My dear? She smiled warmly. Oh, Better than I deserve, Abel. They clasped hands and Abel's eyes twinkled. Come now, Don't be modest. Old Barney must be treating you right. Valancy laughed softly. He's a good man. I'm very grateful. And you, Abel, How are you keeping? Fit as a fiddle and twice as noisy, Abel declared. Balancy smiled. We were just remembering your dear Sissy the other day. At the mention of his daughter, Abel's face grew serious. Than tender. Bless you, Dear Art. Almost three years, Eh? Hard to believe. She's missed. Every day. They talked for another few minutes before Abel went on his way and Valancy continued through town. She walked on through the quiet streets, Past the familiar hedges and tidy porches, Until. . . The Wellington House came into view, Its white trim pristine, Its steps scrubbed, Its curtains drawn just so. Valancy paused at the gate. Her pulse quickening. She adjusted her hat. Then reached out and pushed the latch before she could change her mind. She half expected to find Aunt Wellington's stern silhouette behind the lace-curtained window, Or to hear a haughty voice demand What are you doing here, Doss? But the house seemed unusually still. A closed parasol, Leaned, Forgotten by the swing seat. No scent of burnt toast or over-boiled cabbage hung in the air. For once. Might Olive. Actually be? Alone. Valancy swallowed hard. And knocked. The door opened almost at once, As though Olive had been standing just inside. Oh. A blink. A smile smoothed on like powder. Valanci Valancy returned the smile with one of her own. Olive. I hope I'm not intruding. Not at all, " said Olive, Though her voice did a strange little hop. Do come in. Inside, The parlour was as neat as ever. Quite as joyless as Valancy's mothers. There were peonies in a glass vase. Extravagantly early. Probably forced in a hothouse, And a piano with a neat row of sheet music arranged precisely by genre. Olive's embroidery sat on the armchair, A small spray of violets blooming in thread. You're alone? " Valancy asked lightly. Olive raised an eyebrow. Mothers at a church committee meeting. She takes those very seriously, As you know. Valancy nodded quietly, Recognising the familiar weight of Aunt Wellington's presence here, Even when she wasn't in the room. I hadn't expected to see you here again, " Olive added, Tilting her head. Not after, Well, Everything. I didn't. Exactly plan it, Berlanti admitted, But I was in town and. . . I had an idea. Olive said nothing, But her eyes narrowed slightly in wary expectation. Valancy became suddenly aware of the ticking clock on the mantle. It's strange being back after so long away. Yes, A year and a half is quite the absence. Mother said you'd probably settled in some ruin on the continent and forgotten all about us. I never forgot, Said Valancy simply. We started in Europe, France, Italy, Spain, Down to Egypt, Barney was fascinated by the old cities. I loved the hush of the desert. It felt like time stopped altogether. That doesn't sound restful, " Olive said, Though her voice had softened almost imperceptibly. It was in its way, But nothing compares to Miss Starwys. Balancy glanced towards the window. Even with all the palaces and paintings and. . . Beautiful chaos. I found myself longing. For the island. Sometimes I'd lie awake and almost imagine I could hear the luteins. A pause. Olive's gaze followed hers, Then flicked back to her hands in her lab. That's unusual, Olive said. Lancey smiled slightly. But it's true. A silence stretched between them, Thick as velvet. Olive. I was thinking. Balansi began. Then stopped. Olive looked at her, Uneasily expectant. Well, I know it might seem odd, But I wondered if you'd maybe like to come out to the island sometime? Just for a visit. It's. . . Peaceful. And beautiful in a way that no photograph I've seen could ever quite capture. Olive blinked. Miss Star Wars? Back. Me! Valancy nodded. You might hate it, She allowed. But then again. . . You might not. There was a flicker in Olive's expression. Too fast to name. That's. . . Generous. You needn't decide right now, Said Valancy lightly, But if you feel like it, Barney and I will be starting out from near the post office just after five today. I see. Valancy stood. Brushing her gloves against each other. I should get back to Cousin Georgiana's and gather my things. It was good to see you, Olive. Olive didn't rise. But gave a small nod. Yooo! At the door, Valancy paused and looked back. Truly, Olive Young. The invitation stands. Anytime you like. And with that, She was gone. Chapter 6 A door opens. Just before five, Valancy paused outside the Dearwood post office. A notice board was pinned with the usual collection of faded announcements and curling sail flyers. And one called her eye. A short, Plainly typed note, Tacked up with a rusted pin. Clothing, Supplies or employment needed for Mrs Eliza Gray. A widow with six children presently living in the old fish packing house on South Shore Road. Kindly leave donations with Reverend Morrison or the grocer at Burns & Co. Valancy stood there for a moment. Something catching in her chest. She didn't know Mrs Grey. Not yet. But she remembered that building. Cold, Even in summer, With a roofline like a hunched back. She had walked past it often enough as a child. The wind tugged at the edge of the paper. Valancy smoothed it flat again, Then stepped back. Then came the sound of a familiar motor, And her heart quickened. Barney was pulling up beside the curb. He leaned across the seat to grin at her. Need a lift, Lady? But Lancey stepped forward, Her eyes bright despite the long day. Only if it's heading home. Barney was already out of the car, Rounding it in a few easy strides. He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. A simple, Wordless welcome. I missed Miss Darwis more than I thought I would, She said as he opened the door for her with a little flourish. Then let's not dawdle, He replied. She gathered her skirts and settled into the dark green motor car, Glancing once more at the post office notice board behind her as Barney climbed in and pulled away. The town slipped past them in a quiet hush of evening. Brick shopfronts shuttered for the day, A boy on a bicycle weaving slowly along the pavement, The faint smell of coal smoke curling in the air. The drive was mostly quiet. Not awkward, Just. . . Comfortably. Companiable. Balancy leaned her head against the seat. Watching the trees. Blur past, Feeling the tension of deerwood, Give way to the slow unwinding of space and sky. The lake was still when they returned. A hush had settled over Miss Darwis, Broken only by the occasional plop of a fish or the soft creak of the dock as Valancy stepped into the boat. The golden evening light slanted through the trees, Filtering through the canopy in soft, Shifting ribbons that danced across the forest. Floor. The boat crossing was smooth and quiet, The lake barely shifting beneath them. As Valancy stepped ashore beneath the low boughs, Pine needles brushed against her skirt, Home. Now, Inside the cabin, Everything was just as she had left it. Which was both a relief and a peculiar sort of surprise. A shawl still hung crookedly over the back of her favorite chair. The book she'd been halfway through, Something with Greek ruins and sunburned philosophers, Lay face down by the window seat. Good luck was asleep in a coil on the kitchen step, While Nip and Tuck muttered their crow conspiracies to each other from the woods. She took off her hat and coat and stood for a moment in the centre of the room. Not quite ready to sit, Not quite able to move. Her conversation with Olive buzzed faintly in her ears, Like the memory of a bell still vibrating long after it's been struck. I suppose you're wondering how it went, " Valancy said lightly as Barney lit the lamp. He adjusted the wick, His face calm in the rising glow. Only if you care to tell me, She smiled faintly and sat at the table. It was not what I expected. She wasn't. Awful. Just. . . Olive. Barney nodded gently as he poured water into the kettle. That still covers a lot of ground. Balanci traced a knot in the tabletop with one finger. She didn't mention Cecil. I didn't mention Cecil. The air between us was still full of ghosts. Barney didn't answer immediately. The flames crackled. Somewhere outside, An owl called across the lake. She looked tired, Valancy said, Not in the way that comes from lack of sleep, Though perhaps that too, But tired in her bones. Tired in the places no powder or smile can reach. Barney crossed the room and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. It rested there a moment, Warm, Wordless. Reassuring. I. . . Invited her. Balanci added. Her voice almost inaudible. To visit. Barney lifted his crooked eyebrow. You did? I did. I hadn't planned to. I almost stopped myself. I thought, Barney should be consulted first. But then. . . I thought, If she did say yes, You wouldn't mind. I don't. It's not that I expect her to come. But I wanted to offer it. For my own reasons. Barney nodded. Then I'm glad you did. The kettle began to hum. Valancy stood and fetched the teapot, Added the leaves, Let the scent of bergamot and mint swirl up. Like a memory from some old summer. She might come, You know? She said after a moment. And if she does. . . It won't be easy. For either of us. Barney smiled and reached for the cups. We'll manage. They ate by lamplight, Soup and fresh bread and apple slices arranged between them on the table like a quiet celebration. Outside the frogs had started their twilight chorus and the lake caught the faintest gleam of moonlight. Barney spoke little, But he watched her with a softness that needed no translation. Balanci. Didn't mind the silence. Not here. Not with him. They had their own rhythm now. After the dishes were washed and set to dry, She perched on the wide windowsill and looked out at the darkening woods. Barney came to lean beside her, Shoulder brushing hers. For a while, They just watched, Side by side, The shadows gathering under the trees. I used to be frightened of this hour, Valancy said softly, As a child, When the world tipped into night and all the corners seemed to shift shape. I thought. The trees whispered about me. They probably did. Said Barney. But only the good bits. She smiled. There was always something about the dark that made me feel alive. Watched. As though somebody might discover I'd done something wrong without my even knowing what it was. Barney took her hand. It isn't like that here, She said. Miss Starwiss has never seemed interested in whether I'm behaving properly. I've always considered that one of its better qualities. " Balancy laughed softly and rested her head against his shoulder. The funny thing is. . . I still hear them sometimes. The trees? The Stirlings. The whole Stirling choir. She counted them off on her fingers. Mother and Cousin Stickles. Aunt and Uncle Wellington. Uncle James, Uncle Benjamin, All of them. They're quieter now, But. . . Every so often, One of them still speaks up in my head. To object to my hair, Or my laugh, Or the shocking angle of my hat. What do you do? Shock them further when possible. Barney gave a soft huff of appreciation. Valancy was quiet for a moment. I wonder if Olive hears them too. Barney glanced down at her. I always thought of her. As one of them. The lands you went on. And perhaps she still is. But today? I wondered. Whether she's been plagued by that same wretched choir all along. Probably. Only she learned to sing the proper, Respectable part. The thought seemed to settle between them. Outside, Something rustled among the pines and was still, But Lancey watched the darkness for another moment, Then straightened. Barney. You know the old fish packing house down on South Shore Road? Barney raised an eyebrow. That miserable old shed? I thought it collapsed two winters ago. It's still standing and someone's living there now. A Mrs. Eliza Gray and her six children. She's a widow. There was a notice at the post office asking for supplies or employment. Barney frowned slightly. That's grim. Balanci nodded. I want to help. Quietly. Not just a basket of bread and jam left on the doorstep. Though that's a start. I want to find a way to make things easier for them. Without drawing attention. Barney considered this. Been nodded. All right. Discreet and determined. I like it. She looked out at the lake again. The moon now rising in earnest, A sliver of silver caught between the pines. I feel. As though a door has opened again, She said quietly. Just a crack. Perhaps there's. . . Something to be done now. Instead of only thinking about what's past. Barney squeezed her hand. Well, You've certainly found enough to keep us busy. Valancy leaned into him again and let out a long breath. The night air was cool and smelled of cedar and wood smoke. I think I'm tired, She murmured. Barney pressed a kiss to her forehead. Come on then, Let's get to bed. Chapter 7 The Tin of Milk Valancy woke late the next morning and blinked at the familiar ceiling with its sloping rafters and fir knots she'd come to know like constellations. For a long, Warm moment, She simply lay still, Listening. The cabin breathed around her. The gentle creak of beams in the morning chill. The soft rustle of Barney shifting beside her. A blue jay screeched outside, Sharp and merry. It was such a relief to feel glad again, First thing, To feel home again. Valancy set about rearranging the kitchen cupboards. It wasn't out of any sense of duty, More the pleasure of making everything ready now for summer. She sorted tins and jars, Scrubbed the shelves and swept stray pine needles from the corners of the floor. She kept thinking about that notice at the post office. Mrs. Eliza Gray. A widow with six children. No ages listed, No details. Just that they were living in the old fish packing house on South Shore Road. That image stayed with Valancy more than the words. The sagging grey boards, The smell of brine in the wood, Scruffy children's shoes lined up in the cold. Later that morning, Barney pushed open the door of Burns & Co and was met by the familiar mingling of coffee, Lamp oil, Soap and something pickled in a barrel near the back. He had come for tea, Flour, And a few other necessities, But the notice Valanci had seen was still on his mind, Too. Before he left, He meant to ask discreetly what the grocer knew about Mrs. Eliza Gray. The grocer, However, Was occupied at the counter with the town constable discussing somebody's missing hens with an importance quite out of proportion to the number of hens involved. Barney collected some provisions and waited. That was when he noticed the boy. He was perhaps 11 or 12, Thin enough that his coat seemed to have been made for somebody else. He had been drifting along the shelves without touching anything, Hands jammed into his pockets, Eyes everywhere except upon the goods. Barney looked away. A moment later, He looked back. The boy had stopped beside a stack of tins. He glanced towards the counter. The grocer was still talking. The constable had his back half turned. The boy picked up a small tin of condensed milk. For a second, He only held it, Then. . . His hand moved towards the inside of his coat. The grosser turned. Here, There you are, Barney said suddenly and sharply. The boy froze. Barney held out his hand. That's the one I wanted. Bring it over then. For one terrible instant, The child merely stared at him. Then he crossed the shop silently and put the tin into Bani's hand. Barney set it down calmly amongst his other purchases. Add that too, Please. The grocer frowned. Didn't know the lad was with you. Saves me reaching for the bottom shelf, Barney said. The constable glanced at the boy. Then turned back to the absorbing matter of the missing hens. Barney paid, Gathered his parcels, And nodded towards the door. The boy followed him. Outside, The spring air struck cool after the closeness of the shop. Barney carried the parcels to his motor car before setting them down. The boy stopped several feet away. I wasn't stealing! Barney looked at him. You were doing a remarkably good imitation of it then. The colour flooded the boy's face. I was gonna put it back. Perhaps. You don't know! No, The boy looked furious now, Which Bunny thought preferable to frightened. Why'd you do that? The boy sputtered out. Because there was a constable six feet away. And you didn't appear to have thought much beyond the next five seconds. The boy kicked at a stone. Barney glanced at the parcels. What did you want the milk for? The boy's face reddened at once. Nothing. You were willing to risk the constable for nothing. No answer. Barney waited. At last, The boy muttered, The baby, She's angry. Something in the bluntness of it wiped the last trace of amusement from Barney's face. And there's nothing at home. The boy scuffed his boot against the curb. Not much. Barney looked at him for a moment. Then reached into one of the parcels and drew out the tin of condensed milk. The boy's eyes went straight to it. I don't want charity, He said quickly. Excellent, Said Barney. Neither do I. The boy frowned at him. Barney glanced down the street. You know George at the boatyard? Everyone knows George. Then, You can earn this and something besides. Suspicion sharpened the boy's face. Doing what? Barney pulled an old envelope from his pocket, Scribbled a few lines across the back and folded it. Take this down to him, Wait for an answer, And bring it back. You could go yourself, Said the boy, Nodding towards the shining vehicle. I could do most things myself. It would make for a very dull world. Besides, I have more errands to run here, " replied Barney. How much for running the message? Barney named a modest sum. All right. He took the note. And don't lose it. I won't. The boy ran off. 20 minutes later, The boy returned, Breathless but triumphant, A folded paper clutched in one hand. He said, To give you this. Barney took it. Good work. He handed him the promised coins and the tin of condensed milk. The boy took the money first, Then. . . After the smallest hesitation. The tin. He counted the coins carefully. Right? Barney asked. Right. He shoved them into his pocket, Then tucked the milk securely away. Barney tucked George's reply into his coat without opening it. What's your name anyway, Boy? Tom. Tom what? A pause. Grey. Barney looked at him. Grey? The boy's expression closed a little. My Ma's Mrs. Eliza Gray. For perhaps two seconds, Arnie said nothing. Then Heoni nodded. I see. Tom shifted uneasily. You aren't gonna tell Ma? About the tin? Tom looked at the ground. The boy's head came up. Provided, Barney added, You don't make a liar of me. Tom nodded quickly. Barney opened the car door and started to climb in. Off you go then. Tom took several steps then turned. Thank you, Mr. Red fern The boy stared. Yes, That one. Tom gave a short laugh and ran off down the street. Barney shook his head. Only then did he unfold George's note. Mrs Eliza Gray, Husband drowned in February. Six children, Staying at old packing house. Eldest, Tom, Is 11. Youngest is a baby. Barney's eyes stopped on the name Tom. 11. He looked down the empty street where the boy had just vanished. Then he read the rest. A golden hush had settled over Mestawis by late morning. Valancy peeled the last of the winter onions on the porch steps, Ready to tuck them into a savoury pie. Her fingers worked quickly Instinctively. A rhythm half-remembered from years of quiet service at sterling dinners. But her mind was elsewhere. She didn't want to rush in to help Eliza Gray with noisy charity. Especially not from a sterling. And certainly not in Deerwood, Where gossip moved quicker than a kingfisher skimming the lake. Butts. There must be some way to offer help that felt like. . . Neighbouring, Not meddling? She remembered how her mother and aunts used to perform their piety, The dramatics, The knowing glances. The little head tilts as if to say, See how good we are. It had never felt. Real. Never felt actually generous. For Lance, He wanted none of it. Whatever she did now, She would do quietly and with care. Thought of the Stirlings brought Olive's face back to her. The tired eyes, The guarded smile, The fleeting look that had crossed her face when Valancy invited her to Mestawis, Would she come? Balansi! Hoped so. But there was nothing more she could do about Olive just now. The invitation had been made, The rest belonged to her. Eliza Gray was different. Widowed. Six children. Living in that dreadful old packing house. Those were troubles one could at least begin to do something about. The sound of the motorboat reached her across the water. Valancy looked up. A few minutes later, Barney came up from the landing, Carrying the morning's provisions. He set the parcels down on the porch and drew George's folded note from his pocket. From George, He said, Handing it to her. Valancy wiped her hands on her apron and opened it. Mrs Eliza Gray, Husband drowned in February. Six children staying at Old Packing House. Eldest Tom is 11, Youngest is a baby. Burns & Co or Reverend Morrison can pass things along. She read it through, Sighed deeply. And looked up. What do you think we can actually do for Eliza Gray? Well, I think we may need to do more than we were planning. Something in his voice made Valancy look at him squarely. What happened? Barney pulled out one of the porch chairs and sat down, Fishing his pipe from his pocket. He struck a match, Got it going, And drew on it deeply before speaking. I met the eldest at Burns's. Tom. Well, I didn't know it was Tom then. I didn't know who he was at all. But Lancey slowly lowered the note. He'd just slipped a tin of condensed milk. Inside his coat, Barney said, With the constable only a few feet away. Barney? I covered for him, Told Burns I'd sent him for it, But Lancey was silent for a moment. Gorge. What did he want condensed milk for? The baby. Said she was hungry. Valancy went very still. Barney rubbed a hand over his jaw. Who said he wouldn't take charity, So. . . I found him an errand instead, Sent him down to George with a note and paid him when he came back. The milk went with the wages. And that's when he found out who he was. Barney nodded afterwards. I asked his name just before he left. Tom Gray. Tom Gray. Valancy looked down at George's note again. For a little while, Neither of them spoke. Eleven, Barney said at last. She looked up. I was 11 when Dad sent me away to school. But Lance's expression changed. She knew that story. Barney stared out through the trees. Dad was a millionaire by the time I was 10. At Tom's age, I had more things than I knew what to do with. A room full of toys, Clothes, Everything money could buy. And I thought. . . I was the most miserable boy alive. You were miserable. Yes. He rubbed his thumb slowly along the stem of his pipe. And Tom hasn't a decent coat to his name. And he's stealing milk because the baby's hungry. But Lancey was quiet. I don't mean he's better off, " Barney added. Good lord, No. Only. . . He frowned, Searching for it. Eleven's too young. To feel as though the whole world rests on your shoulders. Yes balancy said softly and that poor boy must feel exactly that oldest of six his father gone he must think it's his job now to look after all of them. Barney's face tightened slightly. That's what bothers me. He ought to be killed. Getting into mischief and. . . Tearing holes in his trousers, Not wondering whether there's enough milk for the baby. He's trying to take his father's place at 11. They were both silent for a moment. He wouldn't take charity, Barney said at last. But he'd work. Valancy looked at him. So. . . Give him work. Barney glanced back at her. That, He said, Was what I was thinking. The lancy nodded slowly. That's one thing settled, But we ought to think about the rest of them too. Barney nodded. Rubbing the back of his neck. I'll make another run into Port Lawrence this week. Pick up some clothes for the children, Soap, Maybe a good pair of shoes if I can guess the sizes. And something for the baby, " Valancy added, Not just necessities, Something kind, A little dress or a toy. She trailed off, Staring out across the lake. Mist still hovered low over the water. Somewhere, A gull cried. It's not enough though, She said quietly. She needs a roof that doesn't leak. A way to feed them next month, Not just this one. A way to manage without having to depend on charity. Bonnie was quiet. Maybe, Alansi said slowly. We could think of something more lasting. A way for her to make her own way. I don't know how yet. Barney nodded. Well. . . Figure it out. And I could write to cousin Georgiana, Balansi added. She'd know which older ladies knit all winter. If anyone has extra blankets or shawls. She hesitated, Then added, And maybe Mrs. Hawthorne. She has her ear to the ground in town. She might know if there's a decent place to rent. Or someone looking for help with housekeeping. A wind had begun to rise through the evergreens, Rattling the dry needles like a whisper. Balancy looked once more at George's note, Then folded it carefully. The onion still waited beside her, Half peeled, And the pie had yet to be made. But, For the moment, Neither of them moved. That night, Belancy wrote Eliza Gray's name on the back of an envelope and began a list. She'd do it properly. Not just food, But suitable clothes, Soap, Books for the boys, Maybe, If she could find some in town. The parcel could say it was from a friend. A neighbour or a friend. It didn't matter. The only important thing was that it arrived. The lake outside was already silvering in the twilight, And the trees along the far shore stood like centuries. There was soup on the stove and bread rising on the hearth. Banjo stretched luxuriously across the braided rug and yawned, Blinking up at her with slitted golden eyes. Valancy picked up her pen again, Drew a slow breath. And kept writing. Six children to manage all alone. Six. And here she was. A woman with a snug home. Kind husband, A warm stove, And not even one child. Sometimes it struck her. As simply unfair. Not in a jealous way, Exactly. Not bitter. Just. . . Baffled. She had no idea why it hadn't happened yet. Three years of marriage come July. And not so much as a whisper of a delicate condition. She hadn't spoken to a doctor. Hadn't even spoken to Barney about it in so many words. Part of her. Didn't want to know. What if something was wrong with her? And what if? It wasn't. She had thought once that she might feel ashamed. If this happened. But now? She wasn't sure. Oddly enough, There was some comfort in not knowing. She could leave the question unanswered a little longer. She dipped her pen again and returned to her list. A black lace collar maybe? Or a fine shawl. Something soft. Something that doesn't feel like me. Punishment. After a few more lines, She set the pen down and reached absently for the writing box on the bookshelf behind her. The old cedar one with the brass latch and the faint scent of lemon oil. It had travelled with her from Dearwood to the island, Holding old letters and half-finished drafts, Odds and ends she couldn't quite let go of. She hadn't opened it in years, But now a half-formed thought tugged at her. Something about an address scribbled in the corner of an envelope or tucked into a letter from long ago. One of those kind older women from the Order of the Sisters of Mercy, Perhaps, Who sent knitted socks to poorhouse children and parcels to remote mission towns. Someone who might know how to get useful things to a widow in desperate need. Inside the box, Bundled by faded ribbon, Were letters Valancy had received, And others she'd written and never sent, Little relics of thought from days when everything had felt mundane. Some were meant for relatives. Some she wasn't sure who they were for. Some perhaps had only been for herself. She picked through them slowly. Until her fingers landed on the neatest bundle, The letters from Olive. Dozens of them, All folded precisely, Tied with a ribbon striped in pale blue. Olive always did love a finishing touch. Lancy hesitated, Then untied the ribbon. The first letter began, As so many of Olive's did, With praise that felt like hollow performance. A compliment on Valancy's sewing, Quickly followed by a remark about how Olive had adjusted the hem for someone with a better figure. Another had a clipped note about Valancy's appearance at a cousin's wedding, Saying how refreshing it was that Valancy didn't seem to mind how dowdy that dress was, Considering Further down the pile was one that Valancy had forgotten, Or perhaps chosen not to remember. The postmark dated it just a week or so after she'd married Barney, Back before anyone had guessed at the truth of his background. Olive had written, Well, If nothing else, I suppose you've secured a place in local legend. No one quite knows what to make of it. Running off with a stranger to live in the woods. It all sounds very. . . Bohemian. But of course, You've always been different. Is it true that he built the place himself? I can't imagine it's exactly comfortable. But I suppose there are worse things than having one's own island. I do hope you're safe and not regretting anything too terribly. Mother says it's likely a phase. Valancy snorted and put the letter down, Muttering to herself. Likely a phase. Her shoulders had tensed without her noticing. She sat still for a moment. Pressing her palms flat against the table. The old fear fluttered faintly in her chest. The one that used to make her shrink. Apologise. Retreat. She could feel it there, Like a phantom limb. She gathered the letters back into their ribbon, Slower this time. She set them back in the bottom of the box. Then she took up her pen once more, Dipped it in the ink. The wind had picked up outside. It sang gently along the eaves. She didn't need to look through more old letters tonight. Still, She let herself sit there a moment longer, Letting the hush settle around her. Then she folded the list for Eliza Gray and laid it on the table, Ready for tomorrow. Banjo had curled into a comma of comfort by the stove, And the soup's soft bubbling filled the cottage with its own kind of promise. Chapter Eight The Invitation Stands It had been three days since Valancy had visited Olive's residence. Olive hadn't told. Anyone. Not her mother, Not her father. Olive had kept the whole peculiar visit to herself. Valancy. Had sat in her parlour. As calmly as if all the years between them had amounted to nothing. Very little at all. That. Perhaps had been the strangest part. And then. . . She had invited Olive. To miss Starwiz. Mr Whiz That island. That's mad! She had imagined the place a dozen ways. Wild and improper. And overgrown with pine. In her mind, It was all logs and clutter. Possibly damp. With uncurtained windows and a fire that smoked. A place where women wore no corsets. And men took off their boots indoors. She had never dared or wished to imagine herself. Stepping foot there. And yet. . . Now! She found that she could not stop thinking about it. From her bedroom window seat, Olive stared down at the front walk. Where Valancy had stood just a few days before. Her mother's hydrangeas, Sickly looking this year, Quivered in the breeze. There was no one outside now but the post boy on his bicycle and he did not look up. She reached for her embroidery, Something useless and floral, But her needle had gone missing again, Probably rolled into the floorboards. She let her hands fall into her lap. There was a knock at the door. Olive! Came her mother's voice. Your uncle Benjamin has dropped by. We're in the parlor. Olive didn't answer straight away. She closed her eyes for a moment, Let the breeze from the window brush her cheek, Then stood, Composed herself, And descended the stairs with every step perfectly measured. The drawing room smelled faintly of furniture polish. Uncle Benjamin was seated near the fireless hearth, His coat already off and his braces visible, Sipping noisily at tea. Aunt Wellington sat like a carved idol in her wing chair, An imposing woman with beautifully arranged iron gray hair, Spine stiff and lips pursed, Watching him as though he were a stray dog she was trying to determine the breed of. There she is! Uncle Benjamin Crowed. Thought you'd vanished into thin air, My girl. Still hiding away upstairs with your embroidery. Olive inclined her head. Good morning, Uncle. Aunt Wellington barely glanced at her. You might have come sooner. Tea has already gone lukewarm. I'll warm it in a moment, " Olive said, Sitting beside the tray. Uncle Benjamin waved a hand. No need. I've drunk worse. He leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. Well now. Guess who dropped by my shop the other day? Your cousin, Valancy! Walked in like she owned the place. Calm as a clock. I almost swallowed my pencil. Aunt Wellington arched an eyebrow. What on earth for? Said she was just having a look around. Bought a little bottle of my best cinnamon oil of all things. Said it. Reminded her of somewhere? Looked like she had all the time in the world. He gave a chuckle, Shaking his head. I'll say this. She carries herself different now. Confident. Crowd, Exactly, But steady. The kind of steady that money brings, If you ask me. Neat little hat, Sensible gloves, Not a thread out of place. Olive kept her eyes on the teapot, Though her ears burned. She's done very well for herself, Aunt Wellington said coolly, As if correcting him. Though how she managed it. Heaven only knows. Quite the success story, Benjamin chuckled. Married that old fellow? Dropped off the mat? Then reappears two years later with her house on a private island and looking as if she She doesn't care a button what Dearwood thinks of her. Olive busied herself with the cups. Visited me a few days ago too, " she said after a moment. Aunt Wellington looked up sharply. She did? Olive nodded without looking up. She was. . . Calm. Polite. She said, I was welcome to visit them at Ms. Star Wars. Her mother drew a sharp breath. And you didn't think to mention this? I didn't see that it required a report. Really? Olive! Aunt Wellington took a prim sip of her tea. If you'd had any sense, You'd have sent her packing. That sort of woman doesn't come calling without some purpose. I didn't get that sentence, " Olive said. She seemed sincere. Oh. They always do when they want something. Aunt Wellington muttered, Don't forget. She disgraced us all once. Ran off to live up back. Embarrassed the entire family. And now we're meant to clap and throw roses because she's come back with lace on her sleeves. She didn't ask for applause, Olive said. Uncle Benjamin laughed. Wow. I think it's a fine thing. Bit of spice in the family. And that fellow Redfern. He's no idiot. Owns that whole island outright, Doesn't he? And books shipped in from England by the day. Maybe Valancy always knew what she was doing. She didn't, Aunt Wellington snapped. She got lucky. Olive curled her fingers tightly into her palm. Did she say anything else? Her mother asked, Watching Olive keenly. No, Just that I was welcome. Uncle Benjamin gave her a speculative look. And are you going? Olive looked out the window. I. . . Haven't decided. Aunt Wellington scoffed and looked uncertain. Aren't thinking of going, Are you? No, Of course not, Olive said quickly, But her cheeks had coloured. It was just… Strange, That's all. I think she meant it kindly. Aunt Wellington made a snorting sound. Kindly. She meant to flaunt herself. Parade about like some gypsy queen and make you feel small. Honestly, Olive! You must be more guarded. She's always had a streak of drama in her. And I don't care what anyone says. No woman turns her back on her family, Then comes prancing back. Without some purpose of her own. There it was again, That thick, Cloying feeling, Like a parlour with all the windows closed and the fire too high. Was hardly a parade, She said, Aunt Wellington. Poured more tea. With a slightly trembling hand. She must be lonely. Uncle Benjamin said thoughtfully. Living out on an island like that? Olive looked up. She doesn't seem it, She said quietly. She looked. Content. Aunt Wellington's teacup clicked against its saucer. I dare say a person can seem anything for a few minutes, Especially when they're trying to impress. I don't think she was Trying, Olive replied. Her mother. Gave her a long, Measuring look. You sound almost sympathetic. I'm not, Olive said, A little too quickly. I just. . . Noticed. I have a headache, She said. Please. Excuse me. Olive did not wait for permission. She walked to the door with careful posture, Left the room, And climbed the stairs at a pace just shy of fleeing. Her mother and Uncle Benjamin exchanged a glance, Both frowning slightly, As if they'd missed something but weren't sure what. In her bedroom, Olive shut the door and locked it. Then she stood very still, Listening to the house. The muffled voices downstairs resumed. The grandfather clock in the hall struck noon. Somewhere behind the walls, A pipe gave a low, Metallic groan. And Olive, Well, Olive walked to the window, Opened it wide, And breathed in the gusty April air like someone gulping water. She pulled the window to again, Then stood still, Her breath shallow and uneven. Beneath her feet the murmur of conversation rose faintly from the parlour. Her mother's clipped tones, Uncle Benjamin's rumble, A distant clink of china. The house, In its usual way, Carried on. She turned and drew the curtains against the harsh April light. It filtered in anyway, Soft and persistent, Outlining the shape of the old watercolour above her writing desk. The same tidy English countryside picture she'd chosen at sixteen, Convinced it marked her as tasteful. Fourteen years later, It hadn't shifted a single inch. Olive sat stiffly on the edge of her bed. What had possessed her? To say all that. She doesn't seem it. She looked content. As if that was some. . . Excuse. As if she were defending Valancy. Of all people. She looked around her room, Tidy and restrained. The glass tray of hairpins on the vanity. The pressed blouse lying across the chair for church. Her collection of poetry. Only the serious volumes visible. There were others tucked behind them out of sight. A slim volume of Christina Rossetti. A tattered French phrasebook she had once tried to study. Dreams are for those who sleep. She hadn't dreamed. In a long time. With the little noise of frustration. Olive got up and crossed to the wardrobe. She opened it and stared at the neat rows of skirts, Blouses and dresses. But she was thinking of Valancy's little house on the island. Not tidy in the way Aunt Wellington would approve of, But Warm. Lived in. The kind of place where you might read a novel without feeling that you had to apologize. She'd imagined, Stupidly, That Valancy's wild adventures would end in ruin or scandal. That she'd come crawling back. Instead. She'd disappeared and re-emerged with colour in her face and laughter in her voice. Now! Home that day. Seemed like. Something out of a storybook. Olive lifted a dress sleeve, Then let it fall. Too many of the dresses in her wardrobe seem to have Cecil caught in their folds. Memories of dinners, Calls and dutiful afternoons she had once assumed were leading somewhere permanent. She sighed. Deeply. Left the dresses as they were, Shut the wardrobe with a soft click. Crossed to her writing desk. And sat down. She pulled out a sheet of writing paper. One of the good ones, The ones with the embossed border, And stared at it. She wasn't sure what she meant to write. Or why? But Lancey's words, At the end of that brief visit, Had lingered. That quiet offer, Truly olive, The invitation stands. Anytime. Olive had nodded politely. Assuming it was one of those invitations not meant to actually be accepted. Valancy's eyes had met hers. Steady. Unflinching. And Olive had sensed that She meant it. She dipped her pen and paused. The scratch of the nib as it touched the page startled her. She wrote. Dear Valancy Thank you for your visit the other day. I admit, I was surprised to see you. But. . . It stayed with me. In a way I didn't quite anticipate. Your invitation to Mastawis was. . . Unexpected. Perhaps not entirely unwelcome. She stopped. That sounded absurd. She drew a line through the last sentence and began again. Your invitation What's? Kind. I have thought about it and If the offer still stands, I might. Not immediately. Things are so very busy just now. Perhaps. Soon. If the weather holds. And if it wouldn't be an inconvenience. . . It would be interesting to see that place of yours. There. That was measured. She wouldn't have written it at all if she hadn't meant it. But she also didn't want to seem eager. She signed it with a practiced flourish and read it over twice, Then she folded it neatly and placed it in an envelope. She set the letter aside. She wasn't going to post it right away. She'd wait a day or two. If she still felt the same by then, If it didn't feel ridiculous, She might slip it into the mail when no one was looking. She stood and went to the window. The church bell tolled. Somewhere in the distance someone was burning leaves, And the scent drifted up to her on the April air. She thought of Valancy, There, Just three days ago. Inviting her as casually as if It were the most ordinary thing. In the world. Perhaps. It was. Olive looked back at the envelope on her desk. She did not tear it up. Chapter 9 the ripples. Barney was out with the boat again. Valancy stood at the kitchen window, Drawing the last teacup and watching the speck of his figure disappear behind the screen of evergreens on the western shore. A gust of wind rippled the lake as the faint hum of the disappearing propeller boat faded into the distance. Balanci lowered the cup into the drying rack and wiped her hands on the towel. She had been up early making current scones and rearranging the spice tins for no better reason than that. She could not settle. It had been a week since she'd gone to Dearwood. And olive. Olive had not come. Not to Miss Darwis. Not even in a note or a whisper of reply. But Lancey told herself she hadn't expected anything. Had even half hoped Olive would take refuge in silence. But still. Each time Barney brought back the post, She found herself wondering if there might be a note from her tucked in among the letters. She fetched the broom and began sweeping the floor in long, Even strokes. Dust gathered in corners. Barney had tracked in his regular constellation of pine needles. She found a single button near the door. Unfamiliar. Not one of his, Not hers. Probably from some forgotten old coat they'd dragged out of the attic for rags. Just as she finished with the sweeping, The bell clanged, That sharp, Unmistakable note ringing out across the lake from the mainland dock. Balancy stepped onto the porch, Brushing a wisp of hair from her face. The sun had come out again, Lighting up the far shore. And there. . . Just barely visible against the backdrop of spruce and rock. Stood a slim figure in a pale coat. For Lancey blinked. Gasped. Olive? The figure didn't wave, But took a step forward, Coat fluttering faintly in the breeze. Valancy darted to the edge of the porch and cupped her hands around her mouth. Olive! Hold on, I'll come fetch you. She didn't wait to see whether Olive had heard. The broom clattered where she dropped it, And she all but ran down the pine-shadowed path to the shore, Where the canoe lay upturned beside a drift of last year's leaves. Her fingers fumbled with the rope as she tugged it free and dragged the canoe down to the water's edge. When she glanced back across the lake. She could see Olive still standing there. Rigid and motionless. Of all the moments for Barney to be away. She tugged harder at the canoe. Canoe slipped easily. Into the water. Valancy took up the paddle and struck out with even strokes, The familiar rhythm steadying her. As she approached, She could see Olive's face more clearly. Guarded. Grim and unmistakably flushed. Valanci let the paddle drift for a moment. Olive! You came! I said I might, Said Olive. Her voice was calm, Almost cool. But there was a tremor just behind it. The weather held. She looked sharply at the canoe. Then around the shoreline. Where? Is your husband. Barney's in town, Said Valanci evenly. You're not afraid of my paddling, Are you? " Olive frowned faintly. But she didn't argue. Well, Hop in, Said Valancy, Steadying the canoe. You can lecture me about scandal and safety once we're afloat. Olive made a face. But a faint one. And climbed in very awkwardly. Clutching her handbags, Though it might shield her. Balancy waited until she was settled before pushing them off. They glided out into the lake. The silence between them hovered, Stretched, And then snapped softly. I didn't expect to be met by canoe. Said Olive, Staring straight ahead. It wasn't in the. . . Instructions There weren't any, Said Valancy. I wasn't sure you'd really come. Olive sniffed. Neither was I. Balancy glanced at her side long, Letting the paddle rest on the still water. So, Why did you? Olive didn't answer at first. She stared at the ripples ahead. Brow furrowed, Lips pressed tight. Then, After a pause, She said, Almost briskly, I just wanted to see where you live. Valancy gave a little nod as if that made perfect sense. It's not much, But it's all ours. The canoe skimmed forward again, Quiet except for the dip of the paddle and the faint hush of water slipping past. When they reached the island, Valancy stepped out first and steadied the canoe, While Olive gathered her skirts and made as dignified a landing as possible. Olive looked slowly around the clearing. Her gaze travelled from the cottage to the pines, Then down to the mud on the hem of her skirt. Come in, Said Valancy, Gesturing towards the house. There's tea and probably something I've burned slightly. And I've brought nothing suitable to wear, Olive muttered, Following her up the steps. Perfect, You'll fit right in, Said Valancy over her shoulder. Inside, The cool hush of the cabin was a soft shock after the morning sun. The air held the scent of cedar and a trace of mint from the herbal bunches hanging to dry in the corner. Barney's old chair sat empty by the hearth. And a half-mended curtain lay in a loose pile beside Valancy's sewing basket. It's clean, Said Olive, Sounding surprised. I do my best, " Valancy smiled. Olive stepped further in, Glancing about with an appraising eye. Her gaze lingered on the little kitchen shelves, The woven rag rug, The jar of purple wildflowers on the windowsill. Here and there were things that plainly had not come from Dearwood. A painted tile propped against the shelf. A little brass coffee pot. A strip of bright woven cloth thrown over the back of a chair. Then, More pointedly, Her gaze fell on the three books on the side table. Won by Darwin. One, A collection of poetry. And one, A rather worn volume of practical herbal remedies. Is this what you read all day? I read when I want to, Said Valancy. And do other things when i don't. Olive. Didn't respond. She moved to the window instead and stood there with her back to the room, Arms folded, Chin raised. Valazi, Not bothering to fill the silence, Went to put the kettle on. The stove flared softly to life. Outside, A jay screeched from the trees. At last, Olive turned. Does he leave you here alone? Valancy lifted an eyebrow. Barney? Of course! I'm not made of glass. I meant Olive trailed off. Frowned. Then start it again. What if something happened? Balancy shrugged. Then I suppose I'd manage. Olive remained standing for a moment, Her eyes flicking wildly around the room. She waited until Valancy gestured to a chair near the hearth before lowering herself onto it carefully, As though the furniture might resent the intrusion or pass her some unutterable disease. She sat upright, Knees together, Gloved hands neatly folded in her lap. Good luck appeared, Soundlessly, And subjected Olive's skirt to a grave inspection, Before settling against her ankle. Olive at first stiffened. Then slowly relaxed her foot. This isn't how I pictured it. She said finally. The lancy poured two cups of tea and brought them over. How did you picture it? Olive didn't take the cup at first. More. Chaotic. Dust. Mold. Disrepair. Valancy's laugh escaped before she could help it. You thought I'd come to ruin, Did you? I thought you'd. . . Regret it. Olive finally accepted the cup, Holding it delicately with both hands. Valancy sat across from her. The silence between them thickened again, Filled only by the soft ticking of the wall clock and the creak of the roof beams in the sunlight. I have my moments, Said Valancy after a thoughtful pause. This place isn't always easy. But I've learned to find immense comfort in it. Even the mosquitoes and I have reached an understanding. "'Valancy, ' said Olive sharply, "'you make light of everything. '" Well, I used to make nothing of everything. Seems like an improvement. That silenced Olive again. She stared down into her cup. Balancy stood and fetched a plate of currant buns. She set them on the table between them. Olive hesitated, Then took one, Ate it slowly. It's good, She said. Valancy dipped her head in acknowledgement. I don't use much sugar. That's why it's good. At her feet, Good luck had begun to purr with surprising force. His warm side pressed firmly against Olive's ankle. She glanced down at him, But did not move her foot away. They sat there, Drinking tea, Neither quite looking at the other. Olive looked around slowly, As if trying to take it all in. The sunlight on the floorboards, The greenish gleam of the lake through the windows, The quiet hum of a place well lived in. So, This is it, She said at last. The island. I used to try to picture it, She said. Never imagined. Anything like this. I never really imagined it either, Said Valancy softly, Not until I got here. Olive-stirred her tea. I suppose we all thought you'd come back after a while. Or that you'd write more. Valancy rested her hands on the arms of the chair. I didn't mean to seem distant. I just. . . Needed time to settle into this new life. Without having to account for it to everyone. Olive nodded slowly. I think I understand that now. For a moment, There was only the quiet clink of Olive's spoon against her cup. Valancy stood and stretched. Would you like to see a little of the island? There's a nice little path through the pines not far from here. Olive glanced down at her shoes and hesitated. I'm not sure I have the right footwear. You'll manage fine, " Valancy reassured. Without waiting for a response, She went to fetch her hat. They set off down the little path that wound through the trees behind the cabin. The undergrowth was sparse this early in the season, And the soft brown carpet of pine needles muffled their steps. Olive followed carefully, Brushing away a low-hanging branch with a frown. It's very. . . Rustic, She said, Not quite critically. Quiet, I suppose. Peaceful, Said Valancy. Most days it feels like the rest of the world is A dream I once had. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Birdsong the only accompaniment. The lake shimmered through the trees, And a breeze carried the scents of cedar and damp earth. Olive spoke again. Is it always this quiet? Don't you get lonely? Sometimes. But i don't mind it. It gives me room to think. I can imagine it, Said Olive softly. They emerged at a small rise overlooking the lake, Where a little bench of timber and stone stood among the pines. Valancy gestured to it. Sit for a moment. Olive sat with great care, Brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. Valancy remained standing, Idly twining pine needles through her fingers and enjoying the play of light on the water. Olive broke the silence. Do you really mean to stay here forever? Balancy shrugged. Not forever necessarily, But for now it's certainly home. Olive shook her head with a kind of reluctant amusement. You're really not the same girl who used to sit silent at family dinners. No. Valancy agreed, Softly. She is buried somewhere under the pine needles. Half under her breath, Olive said, I'll need to be getting back to Deerwood before long. For Lancy glanced at her. You won't stay then? Olive scoffed, Apparently startled by the question. Goodness, No! Where would I sleep? You haven't exactly got a guest room, Doss. Oh. The lancet. Balancy's eyes twinkled. No. We haven't exactly planned for houseguests. Olive flushed. Well, Yes, But. . . She folded her arms more tightly. I mean, I didn't even bring a nightdress or a toothbrush. Unthinkable. Valanci didn't argue. She only nodded and looked back towards the glinting water. Well, I'll paddle you back after lunch. Yes, I ought to return while mother still thinks I'm just off duty. Visiting cousin Georgiana. Olive hesitated. Besides, She added more briskly, I have appointments. And I didn't exactly pack sensibly. Agreed for Lancey. You didn't. Another pause. Olive stood. But I suppose I could come again, Perhaps next week, If the weather holds. Valancy looked at her properly now. You'd be welcome. Olive flushed and looked away, Remarking, I'd need to bring proper things. Valanci nodded. Hiding her amusement. At least let's have a spot of lunch before paddling back, Said Valancy. I shan't let you walk all the way back to Dearwood on an empty stomach. Olive gave a short nod. She glanced towards the trees. It is so quiet here. She said. Unnervingly so. Her voice trailed off. Valancy didn't press her. She just led the way back down the path towards the cabin. Dappled sunlight falling on the spongy moss underfoot, A squirrel chattered from a branch overhead, And a warbler flicked through the leaves in a blur of yellow. Lunch was served on the porch, Where two chairs were drawn up to the little table under the overhang. Cold salmon, Fresh bread and pickled beets in a blue glass dish were laid out with plain crockery and a jug of cold spring water. Olive gave the meal a considering glance, Then sat and unfolded her napkin with the air of someone bracing for indecency. They ate in a companionable hush, The trill of a distant thrush rising now and then above the lapping of the lake. Olive didn't compliment the food, But she finished every bite. When the meal was done, Valancy reached into the cupboard and pulled out a few small oatcakes, Wrapping them in waxed paper with quick, Efficient hands. She offered the bundle to Olive casually. For the journey back, She said. Fuel. Olive hesitated. Then accepted it with a brief nod. She gathered her belongings and they walked down to the shore. Valancy steadied the canoe again and Olive stepped in, A touch more sure-footed now. Don't let it tip, She warned. I haven't yet, Valancy said serenely. They glided out across the silver water, Silence settling between them again. The dip and pull of the paddle made soft eddies behind them. From the shore, A red squirrel chattered indignantly in the hemlocks, And far overhead, A pair of flickers wheeled and flashed through the pale sky. The island behind them faded into a blur of spruces. And shadow. Valancy kept her strokes even and unhurried, Letting the rhythm carry them on towards Deerwood. Olive sat still, Her gloved hands resting in her lap. Once or twice, She glanced over her shoulder at the island receding behind them. They reached the far shore, And Valancy grounded the canoe gently. Olive stepped out without complaint, Brushing a pine needle from her skirt. Well, She said at last, Thank you. You're welcome. Olive paused. Then gave a small almost imperceptible nod. I'll See you! And with that, She turned and walked off up the trail. Valancy watched until Olive disappeared into the trees. Smiling. She pushed the canoe back into the water and paddled home through the quiet afternoon. Chapter 10 Genies with a Canoe The disappearing propeller boat chugged into the bay with a cargo that made it sit lower in the water than usual. Balancy, Shading her eyes, Stood on the rocky curve of the shoreline and watched Barney's return. The sun was a high, Pale disk in a sky still unsure of spring, And the island looked half-waked. Sea dissented, Birdsong stirred, Its mosses beginning to glow again after the long sleep of snow. And greeting as he drew nearer, She waved back, Already moving to the water's edge to catch the rope he tossed. He leapt out, Boots splashing, And kissed her quickly before pulling the boat in tight. Well, He said, Wiping his brow with exaggerated drama. Your humble pack mule has returned. What have you brought? Lancy asked delightedly. Peering at the crates and sacks, You're nearly underwater. Supplies for us, But mostly for Mrs Grey. Flour, Beans, Potatoes, Salt pork, Tinware. A proper kettle. And some heavy canvas for that doorway. The doorway? She's using a sheet tacked over the doorway with nails. Scarcely keeps anything out. The canvas should at least keep more of the weather and critters at bay. Valancy winced. That poor woman. She's trying to keep things going and the kids were sharing one scruffy old bed. I found a man in Port Lawrence who's getting rid of bunks from the old lumber camp. Says he'll cart them out better next week. For Lancey stared at him. You found them bunks too? Barney. That's wonderful! All right, Let's leave Eliza's boxes where they are, Barney said, Nodding towards the boat. No use lugging them up just to bring them back down again. Practical as ever, He gave a mock bow. I do try. Valanci began lifting out the supplies meant for them, Starting with a large tin of lard, While Barney fetched a wooden box labelled SOAP HARD BAR. Back already, Though, " Valancy straightened up, Brushing a hair from her cheek with the back of her wrist. That was quicker than I expected. Barney swung a flower sack to the ground with a grunt. Wind was with me both ways. And I didn't linger. I had a hunch you might need me. You heard? " Valancy asked, Running to Elmer Gregg at the wharf. He said he saw your cousin heading towards the lake looking very determined. She was. Turned up before lunch, Unannounced, Acting like she'd just discovered Canada. I made tea. Barney glanced at her, Half smiling. And She gawped at everything, Made several remarks about the housekeeping, And grudgingly approved the current buns. Then I paddled her back. Barney smiled wryly. How did that go? She didn't trust the canoe, Or the lake, Or me for that matter. She just sat very straight and said thank you at the end as if I'd just given her an hour in the stocks. Barney gave a short laugh. Was it so awful? Actually, Balancy said, Reaching for the next sack. No. It was sort of. Interesting. Quieter than I expected. Almost as if. With both. Left the worst of the old days. Back in Deerwood. They fell into silence again, Hoisting boxes from the boat's belly, Their movements practised. A gull shrieked out over the water, And a pair of loons answered from the far side of the bay. She'll be back, " Valancy said at last. Barney looked at her side long. Then we'd best be ready. The last load took both of them to shift. A lumpy, Canvas-wrapped bundle wedged tight against the boat's ribs. They wrestled it onto the grass, Both of them puffing a little by the time it landed with a thud. Valanci gave a low whistle. We're living like kings. Kings with cold feet, Barney said, Tugging the oilcloth back into place. But at least not hungry ones. Valancy glanced again at all the bundled supplies. And now. . . We can really help Eliza and her children live more comfortably too. Looks like you bought up half of Port Lawrence for them. I figured if I was making the trip, Might as well load them up. Beans, Oats, Candles, Boots. I'll take it all over at first light. It'll feel like Christmas morning, " said Valancy. There's blue ribbon in there for one of the girls, A packet of needles, A few shirts that might pass for new if you don't look too close. Valancy glanced with wonder at the loaded boat, Picturing Eliza prying open a tin of molasses or holding out boots to whichever child needed them most. A gust stirred the birches behind them, And a crow let out a low, Croaky call. They didn't say much after that. Together, They carried the last crate up to the shed. When they'd finished, The sun had dipped lower, Laying golden light across the island, Like a blessing. Later, After dinner on the porch, Valancy curled her fingers around a chipped enamel mug, Fragrant steam rising from the cedar tea. Barney had kicked off his boots and leaned back on the railing, One ankle crossed over the other. A hush settled. Not silent, But full of birdsong, Leaf rustle, And the soft creak of wood calling in the dusk. Barney ran a thumb along the rim of his mug, Not quite looking at her. Do you want Olive to come again? I'm not sure. Barney nodded, Understanding without pressing. If she does, We'll want some sort of place she could stay. We don't exactly have a parlour suite waiting, Said Valancy. Nope. But we've got the old tool shed. A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. I'll live. In the tool shed. With the bent spanners and peeling walls? Think about it. It's got a roof, It's dry. And it's halfway cleared out already thanks to your war on spiders. Valancy gave a theatrical shiver. Don't remind me. I could put in a cot, Hang a curtain, Patch the cracks, Maybe throw a bit of paint on it. It wouldn't be grand, But. . . It'd be. . . An option. She gave him a long look. You too! Do that. For Olive Sterling. No. I'd do it for you. So you wouldn't feel guilty if she got stranded here. For Lancey Laugh. Then paused. We'd have to keep it simple. I really don't know if she even wants to come again. She didn't exactly seem enchanted. Barney shrugged. Hard to tell with someone like Olive. And she certainly wouldn't admit it if she did. Twilight crept in. The sky turning a moody grey lavender. The kind of spring sky that could tip either way towards a peaceful dusk or a sharp burst of rain. She had this look, Valancy said thoughtfully, Like she was trying to be angry but kept forgetting why. Barney chuckled. That sounds about right. They stayed out long after the mugs were drained, Watching the sky change, As if it still hadn't made up its mind. Twilight clung on, Though the last blush of rose had faded. The lake lapped gently, And a few bats zigzagged over the porch rail. Barney leaned back comfortably in his chair, His old black pipe between his teeth. So, Eliza Gray and Olive Sterling. What exactly have we become, Moonlight? Wandering genies now granting wishes to troubled women? Balancy laughed. Genies with a canoe. And a shed full of potatoes, Maybe. Barney glanced sideways at her. Here I am, Just finished a three-week slog on that serial installment, And now suddenly I'm hauling tins and boots around Muskoka like it's part of the job. Well. . . Began for Lancey, Thoughtfully. I was starting to feel a little Aimless, I suppose. I so loved our travels, Barney. So much adventure. Newness. Broadening my horizons, All that. Things I had never dreamed of for myself, You know? And then. . . I got home and. . . Found myself poking around the cabin a bit. Wondering what exactly to do with myself now. He turned his head playfully. And this is what we've decided to do? She grinned. Apparently. Bye for now! Barney gave a soft chuckle and looked up at the sky, Which had deepened now to indigo. Well, If I had to get drawn into local affairs. . . I'd rather it be this way than stuck at some town council meeting debating road repairs. Or judging a flower show, Balancy added. God forbid. They sat quietly a while longer, Letting the breeze tangle their hair. Then Barney said, Want to come with me tomorrow? I'll run all that into town for Eliza, Then head for the post. The Lancey hesitated. Then nodded. Yes. I'll go I'll bring some of the salve Cousin Georgiana sent too. The one with comfrey and arnica. Barney stretched his legs out, Watching a drift of cloud move across the darkening, Unsettled sky. We'll leave the parcels with Reverend Morrison, He said after a moment. He won't ask questions. He'll just say it's from someone who cares. Valancy nodded. Relieved. Keep it simple, Barney continued. He can drop it all by on his rounds, Or say, Someone left it on the church steps, If anyone asks. Valancy pictured the bundles in Eliza Gray's kitchen by the following evening. The boots, The oats, The little twist of blue ribbon. Far across the lake, Something splashed. A fish, Maybe? Or a paddling duck? Mist was rising at the edges of the water, And the birches along the shore had turned to silhouettes. Barney stood and held out his hand. Come on, Let's light the lamp. For Lancey, Let him pull her up. And followed him. Inside. Chapter 11 A list of accomplishments. By mid-May, The island had a habit of greening overnight. One day the birches looked tentative, And the next they were fluttering new leaves like handkerchiefs. In those weeks, Balancy and Barney had slipped into a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial. There were early mornings out on the water, Shepherding packages for South Shore Road. Parcels were left with Reverend Morrison. Who asked no questions and shared no names. Potatoes, Oats and candles vanished into Eliza Gray's kitchen anonymously. The story spread, Anyway. It always did. Deerwood liked a mystery almost as much as it liked to tut. Well, Nancy's heart lifted every time she pictured the moment of discovery. Eliza's quiet surprise, The children's glee over some unexpected little treasure. One morning, Barney handed Valancy an envelope he'd brought back from the mainland. Her name. Looping and precise, Stood out. In her mother's careful, Fussy script. Valancy caught her breath. As if the past had reached through paper and ink to tap her on the shoulder. She opened it while Barney was bringing in firewood, Shaking off the last of the morning rain. Inside was a stiff birthday card, Thick with gilt edging and embossed forget-me-nots. The front featured. An angelic child cradling a lamb. Inside, A printed verse spoke of duty, Meekness, And the blessings of obedience. Her mother had signed it, Your affectionate mother. And Cousin Stickles had added a cramped note below. We hope you are well. A woman must make the best of things, Whatever her lot. Do right soon. Balancy Reddit allowed. By the time she got to whatever her lot. Barney was snorting into his sleeve. She must have had that line engraved on her soul, He said. Barney stepped closer then, And rapped for Lancey in a firm, Bracing hug. He kissed the top of her head. Happy birthday, Moonlight. I love you so much. And I'm still so tired. Damn glad. That old fool, Dr. Trent. Was wrong. Valancy closed her eyes and leaned into him. Thank you. So am I. He released her. And fished in his coat pocket. Also. . . I didn't forget. He handed her a small, Brown-wrapped parcel. With a mischievous glint in his eye. Even husbands with paint in their hair. Remember birthdays? " he said. She laughed and peeled it open. It was a cloth-bound novel. Something new. Something she hadn't read. He'd scribbled on the flyleaf in pencil. For Moonlight. Who turned borrowed time into a whole new world. Her throat caught. May the 26th. Barney said softly. Three years ago. You were still over there, In Deerwood. Turning 29 and Everyone looking at you like you'd missed your last train. And now look at you. Married. Wild. Glorious globetrotter! Alive. Valancy looked down at the book in her hands, With tears welling in her eyes. Ugh. That birthday. I thought I'd die of boredom. Loneliness. And if not loneliness, Then of disgrace. Or boredom. Or sciatica. I wake up. And hear the wind in the pines and think I get another day. Of this. She paused. Tears spilling down her cheeks now. Doesn't feel. Like the same line. That's because it isn't, " said Barney, Simply. Pulling her back into a loving embrace. Belancy slid her mother's card into the kindling box and the book under her arm then followed Barney out to the porch, Where the sky was already clearing and the scent of balsam hung fresh in the air. On a Thursday that smelled of rain and resin. Barney was maneuvering an old camp cot through the shed doorway. While Valancy sorted dried herbs into little corked bottles on the porch. The lake lay flat as tin. A lazy breeze stirred the towels, Pegged to dry. The sudden clanging of the bell at the mainland dock. Made them both look up. Barney shaded his eyes and called. Company. Wearing something beige and carrying a parcel Balancy blinked. Then said to herself, Sounds like Olive. Barney grunted, Straightening up and setting his tools aside. Shall I go fetch her? Or let her admire the island from afar. Go! Fetch her! " said Valancy, Tucking another jar of mint into the basket. By the time Olive stepped carefully out of the canoe, Accepting Barney's extended hand, Valancy was waiting on the little path up from the dock. An absurd little thrill of mischief stirring in her. Olive wore a travelling hat that had lost the will to sit straight. And a beige linen dress that appeared to be issuing a formal protest against the Lake Eyre. She had a small parcel tucked under one arm and the expression of Someone who had prepared six speeches. And then discarded them all during the short crossing. For all her fluster and the errant tilt of her hat, Though, Olive Sterling was still the kind of beautiful that seemed to hum beneath the skin. Cheekbones unbothered by humidity. Eyes cool and blue as glacier melt. Skin untouched by the sun despite the crossing. Even now, Stepping out of a canoe with obvious trepidation and trailing an air of mild dismay, She managed somehow to look like an advertisement for travel corsetry. Belancy felt the old flicker of awe. Some part of her, Apparently, Had still not quite outgrown the myth of the moon. Perfect. Olive. The girl who had turned every head at Sunday school picnics. And danced-in-dresses Valancy had only seen in catalogues. Barney helped her out with exaggerated gallantry, Then gave a crooked bow. Welcome back, Miss Stirling. We've improved the place since last time, Painted the front step and installed a full symphony of frogs. I see, " said Olive, Which was not quite what she meant. Olive. Welcome back. Come on up to the porch. I'll put the kettle on. " Valancy offered. Olive held out the parcel. I've brought preserves. Dangerous, Barney muttered, Eyeing the parcel as they walked. Explosive. Rhubarb, " said Olive crisply, Not looking at Barney. With orange peel. Mother's Recipe. Barney gave a theatrical wince. Citrus. We'll keep it for enemy diplomats. But Valancy took the package with a murmur of thanks and set it neatly beside the tea tray she'd already laid out with boiled eggs, Buttered biscuits and wild strawberry jam. They settled on the veranda. Valancy poured, Barney brought out a plate of oatcakes, And Olive sat straight-backed on one of the chairs, Like a guest at a dentist's. She was cataloguing again. The neat shelf of jars, The bowl of pinecones. The fresh-mended rug that did not match anything. The view was outrageous in its beauty. The lake sunstruck and stippled with gold. Soft wind rustling the birch leaves. But Olive barely glanced at it. She sipped her tea, And the conversation, Such as it was, Limped along with polite formalities. Deerwood News, Wedding announcements, A neighbour's new litter of kittens. A minor scandal over someone's garden fence. Olive did most of the talking. Barney, After a few muttered responses, Leaned back in his chair and let his eyes drift towards the trees, Sipping slowly. Olive glanced at him once or twice with the sort of expression one might give a resting bear. He was still an odd-looking man to her. Too thin. Tawny head. With those eyebrows that appeared not quite to agree with one another? And a face that became unexpectedly boyish when he smiled. I didn't know you'd be here too, She said to Barney at one point. I do live here, He replied. Olive gave a small, Uncertain sniff. And busied herself with a crease in her skirt that hadn't needed fixing. Balancy stifled a smirk as she poured more tea. Barney's been busy fixing up the shed, She offered. Olive glanced at Barney's hands, Still bearing traces of paint and grease. I see. You've certainly got your work cut out for you, I suppose. I knew you were a man of words. I didn't know you were also a man of wood and nails and so on. Barney shrugged. Keeps the blood moving. Balanci smiled over the teapot. Barney is a man of a rather alarming number of talents, " Valancey said. I've quite given up trying to count. Ugh. Don't exaggerate, Moonlight! I make an excellent mess of plenty of things too, " retorted Barney blithely. There was a silence then, Filled by the creak of the porch. A flick of wings as a blackbird darted through the trees. And the faint clatter of a spoon against a teacup. Olive cleared her throat. Looks like you've quite a little patch of vegetables back there now. We try. For Lance, " he said. It's mostly turnips and stubborn lettuce. Mother says lettuce won't grow on limestone, Said Olive. Then don't tell the letters, Said Barney. Valancy stifled a snort and passed the biscuit. You're so. . . Secluded here, " Olive added, Ignoring Barney's commentary. Doesn't it ever feel good? I don't know. Remote? Balancy smiled. It does. That's rather the charm. Olive gave a little sniff. I should think I'd go mad without a single neighbour. Barney stirred. Oh. We've got quite a few. Ducks, Squirrels, Loons, A fox or two, Leander, Olive looked at him. Leander. An owl. I raised him from a nestling. He still drops by when he feels sociable. I meant human neighbours, Olive said pointedly. Well. . . We don't miss the gossip, " Valancy said lightly, Reaching for another oat cake. Though we do still hear a bit of it second hand. Oh, I'm sure, Said Olive. There's always plenty to go around. For instance, She leaned in, Her voice dropping half an octave, There's been a fair amount of talk about the grey widow. The one on the South Shore Road with half a dozen young children. It seems like someone. . . Has been very generously helping them. Anonymously. No one knows who! Everyone is guessing! It is the main entertainment at Mrs Paterson's. Now that the crocuses are over. Balancy's heart gave a brief, Traitorous flutter. Barney's eyes stayed on his mug. Olive continued, Her tone almost confiding now. It's really become quite a mystery. No one sees anything. Yet every so often something new has appeared. Firewood or potatoes or even oranges. Some say it's the lady's aid, But they've denied it flatly. Others think it might be Uncle Benjamin. He has been seen driving through the woods. Valancy snorted. Uncle Benjamin. Wouldn't give up a good potato without a receipt and five witnesses. Olive blinked. Well. . . Be that as it may, Someone's doing it. And whoever it is seems to want no credit, Which is. . . Odd. Balancy merely nodded. And? Aww Maybe admirable? That seemed to leave Olive at a loss. She looked towards the lake instead. Her lips pressed thin. And for a long moment they all sat with only the sound of the breeze brushing the leaves. Barney caught Valancy's glance. Valancy looked down at her tea quickly because she did not trust her face. When the rhubarb jam came out and they tasted it, Olive pretended not to care about the verdict. Barney said it would make a bishop swear from happiness. Valancy said it would go very well with porridge in the morning. Olive looked as if she might offer to take it back so they would not waste it on porridge. Then thought better of it. They lingered over their tea. Breeze combing softly through the trees. Somewhere down the shore, A loon called once, Then again. Eerie and beautiful. I can't quite believe you actually live here. Olive said suddenly. Really live here. It's like a storybook. Or a cautionary tale. There's something charming about it, I suppose, But. . . No road, No neighbours. Do you just. . . Trust that nothing will come slinking out of the woods. If it does, We offer it jam, " said Barney, Pushing the jar towards her. Olive laughed before she could stop herself. Then looked faintly startled by the sound. Whores. Then, More quietly, She asked him. Don't you ever miss school? Society? Valancy leaned back. Not the kind that measures everything by calling cards and dinner invitations. We have something different here. Yes. I suppose you do. She hesitated, Then added, You seem. . . Content. Balancy's eyes twinkled. Dangerously so. Olive opened her mouth. Then shut it again. She glanced towards the lake. It must be strange, Though, " she said, Eventually, Almost to herself. To spend so much time alone with someone. Just one person, Always. Barney stood to stretch. Well, I'll leave you two to it. I've got some pages waiting. He disappeared off to Bluebird's chamber, Whistling under his breath. Olive turned back towards Valancy. What I meant was. . . Most of us spend half our time trying to avoid our families and yet you two live here in such close quarters day in day out with no one else to break the Strain! That's just it We're not trying to avoid each other. That makes a difference. Offered for Lancey. Olive looked down at her cup. And stirred the last inch of her tea. I. . . Wouldn't know. She said it so simply that it hung in the air. Longer than either of them expected. I used to think. I had everything. Mapped out. Balancy didn't say anything. The lake shifted faintly against the rocks below. Olive went on, Still looking down. A wedding, At St. Albans. In June. A house. On Inkerman Street. Little things like that. Stupid, Probably. Not stupid, " Balancy said quietly, Just specific. Olive gave a breath that might have been a laugh if it had any air in it. The specifics were the first to go. The rest. . . Followed. Pause. For a while. I thought it was just bad luck. A misstep. Then I thought, It must have been someone's fault. His. Mothers. Mine! Her voice caught. And steadied. Her eyes remained low. Eventually I ran out of. People to blame. Valancy watched her. A long moment. Do you? Still think it was your fault. Olive didn't answer right away. Sometimes. She said at last. But Lancey didn't speak. She merely passed Oliver. Another biscuit. I keep thinking. Said Olive after a moment. That I did. Everything. I was supposed to. I kept my gloves clean. Learned the piano and didn't ask impertinent questions. I was careful not to get feckles. I learned how to make the very best sponge cake in town. But in the end, I suppose no one wants to marry. List of accomplishments. That might be the wisest thing you've said all afternoon. Said Valante Olive's smile was faint. Almost a shadow. What good is. Being wise. If no one. . . Wants you. Valanci. Was silent for a moment. Then she pushed the biscuits a little nearer Olive. Olive looked down and adjusted the pin at her collar. Do you always keep the biscuits in that tin? Surprisingly charming. As Valancy was responding, Olive reached into her bag to retrieve a handkerchief. Something else slipped partly into view. A small sketchbook. Its corners softened from use, And a roll of pencils bound with ribbon. She moved quickly to tuck them back out of sight. But not before Valancy caught a glimpse. Those drawings? " Valancy asked, Leaning forward with genuine curiosity. I didn't know you sketched! Just scribbles, Really. I've had a bit more time on my hands these past couple of years, That's all. I'd love to see them, " said Valancy. Olive hesitated. There. But not very good. It's just. . . Something I do now and then. Landscapes. Old buildings. The river sometimes. Silly, Really. Not silly at all, " said Valancy. I'd still like to see them. Olive looked away. The faintest trace of colour rising in her cheeks. She. . . Didn't respond. But she didn't change the subject either. Then her gaze lifted again. Settling somewhere beyond the port railing, As if weighing her next words carefully. Then, With a slight shift in tone, She began. Anyway. Surely it won't always be just the two of you here on this island, " she said. You've been married almost three years already, Haven't you? Don't you think it's time to start a family? But Lance's eyes flickered briefly. With something unspoken. She set her cup down carefully. Well, She said, Voice steady but soft. We're taking things as they come. These things can't always be planned. Olive gave a small, Tight smile. Just then, Barney reappeared from Bluebeard's chamber and nodded towards the lake. Looks like the clouds might hold off. But it's getting late. Best we get you back across before it's too dark. Olive rose with a small sigh. Gathering her hat and bag with practiced care. Thank you for having me, She said, Glancing between the two of them. It's. . . Been a pleasant surprise. Valancy smiled and gave Olive's arm a fond squeeze. Thank you for coming, She said. It's been lovely having you. For once, She felt that was actually. . . At least partly true. Barney moved down the worn path to the dock with steady, Deliberate steps. Olive followed, Picking her way along the uneven ground with a composed sort of caution. As if determined not to betray any slip or stumble. He reached out a hand to steady Olive as she approached and settled carefully into the seat. He then hopped in behind her with the easy confidence of long practice. Balancy stayed on the porch, Watching the water ripple around the canoe as Barney pushed off. The paddle dipped in smooth, Even strokes, Sending tiny waves out to lap at the shoreline. The lake caught the light in long, Glinting ribbons as the canoe slipped away from the shore. Not dusk yet, But the brightness, Mellowing, Shadows beginning to stretch. Balancy watched them go. One hand resting lightly on the portrail. A breeze stirred the leaves. Lifting the scent of pine and something faintly sweet from the underbrush. She felt the quiet shift. That always came when the island returned to stillness. Life here had grown around them like moss around stone. Slow and sure. She also felt the sting of Olive's question. Lingering. Like a note left hanging in the air, Unresolved. Valancy gathered the cups and plates, Stacking them absentmindedly and carrying them to the sink. She found herself thinking. Against her better judgment of. . . Olives, Beautiful face. Framed beneath her little hat. And the effortless grace with which she still seemed to move through the world. Some childish corner of Valanci. One she had thought long since outgrown. Gave an uncomfortable little twinge. At the thought of Barney alone with her now. Paddling across the lake. She wondered. What they might be talking about. Olive. With her lovely face and elegant hands. And all the advantages Valanci had once believed were necessary for happiness. Thoughts pricked at her unexpectedly. There had been years when she had measured herself against Olive so relentlessly. That it had become as natural as breathing. Apparently, Some habits took longer than others to die. Valancy frowned at the plate in her hands. And dried it rather more vigorously than necessary. The screen door creaked softly behind her. Barney came in, Hung his hat on its peg. And watched her for a moment as she hung her head. And dried the same plate for what was evidently the third time. That plate insults you. Valancy glanced down at it. Possibly. Barney came over and took the towel from her. What's wrong? Nothing. He wagered. Valancy made a face at herself. Olive. Very beautiful. She looked at him. What? " said Barney. She is. Valancy gave an unwilling little laugh. You're not very good at this. What? Reassuring jealous wives? Bonnie's eyebrows went up. Are you jealous? Don't sound so astonished. He put down the towel. Moonlight. Something in the way he said it. Made her look up at him. There's only. . . One. I love you. Valancy smiled. Exhaled and leaned in against him. Outside. The pines stood dark. Against the sky, Fading from blue to purl. And delay. Lay calm. Beneath them. Chapter 12 just for tonight. By the last week of May, The days had shifted. Mornings opened early, With birdsong in every key, And warm breezes rustled through new leaves that gleamed like wet paint. Miss Darwis smelled of sun-warmed moss and wind-stirred cedar, With something faintly floral drifting in from the meadows. Wild columbine, Maybe? Or the first of the wild roses. The lake was no longer a glassy mirror, But a dappled sheet of blue-green, Alive with midges hovering just above the surface and the faint, Rapid flicker of mayflies in the sun. Balancy had taken to going barefoot in the afternoons, Though she still carried shoes with her when they wandered into the woods in case of brambles. She'd never known a spring to feel so thoroughly like summer. It was nearly noon when the bell rang again at the dock. Not one single tentative clang like the first time, But three small chimes in quick succession, As if someone had struck them with intentional flair. And then lost her nerve. Valancy, Threading twine through a bundle of early rhubarb, Looked up from the garden and blinked towards the lake. A small figure stood there at the far dock, Hat in hand, Blouse tucked in neatly above her walking skirt. She's back, Said Barney from the doorway of the old toolshed, Where he was wrestling with a crooked curtain rod. The place was beginning to look almost civilised now. The camp cot made up with a clean blanket, A pitcher and basin on the little shelf, And a couple of books stacked by the window. Only the curtain rod remained determinately uncooperative. Olive stood straighter when she saw Valancy looking, As though stealing herself against the ridiculousness of the whole situation. She did not wave. But she did not ring the bell again either. I'll get her, " Barney said. Balancy exhaled and rubbed one hand over her forehead. Well, Olive had come again. By the time Olive reached the porch, Valancy had washed her hands and poured two glasses of cold raspberry cordial. The sun was high and bright, And Olive's cheeks glowed with a flush that had nothing to do with social grace. Just passing through, She said, With posed casualness. Valancy and Barney exchanged a quiet smile at the patent absurdity of this comment. Olive, Unaware, Was already peeling off her gloves, Each finger freed with a little tug. Then the gloves were folded carefully and tucked into her bag, With a sigh that bordered on theatrical. You timed it well, Said Valancy. Best day we've had this week. Warmer than I expected, Olive sat down on the edge of the porch swing and took a sip of cordial. It's almost hot. It is hot, Said Valancy, Smiling. We've had the windows open since breakfast. Barney strolled by, Casually slipping a biscuit from the tin with a cheeky grin. Almost ready, He said with a wink, Then disappeared again towards the old shed. Olive looked puzzled. Almost ready! For what? For Lance he gave a light laugh. And change the subject. Oh, Nothing you need to worry about. Just one of Barney's many mysterious projects. How are your parents? Olive launched into the latest goings-on at home. Her mother's church bake sale, Her father's involvement with the sailing club committee, And Various bits of small town news, All relayed with dutiful cheer. The conversation ambled on, Easy enough, As their glasses caught the sun, And a little blue butterfly stitched unhurried loops through the warm air. Suddenly, Olive commented, Mother asked me where I'd been last time I was here, You know. I told her I'd gone to visit cousin Eleanor in Port MacAdam. She gave a small, Dry smile. She said Eleanor always talks too much and she hoped I hadn't stayed long. Valancy suppressed a grin. You were there just long enough, I'm sure. I told her I wouldn't be long this time either, Olive said seriously, Tilting her glass and watching the light slant through it. She'll likely be timing me. They lapsed into a momentary hush. The kind that wasn't quite companionable, Yet no longer quite so strained, Either. It's still a mystery, You know. Who's been helping that grey widow? " Olive said after a moment. She's still managing somehow. In that dreadful old fish packing place on South Shore Road. And with six children. Imagine! Mrs. Patterson is quite beside herself over it. Valancy made a non-committal sound, Neither inviting nor discouraging the subject. Apparently, Parcels keep on turning up. Baskets, Sacks of flour, Even fresh fish. All left at. . . Odd hours. No one's seen a thing. Olive lowered her voice, Half disbelieving. She's convinced it's some lonely bachelor trying to atone for past sins. That startled a laugh from Valancy. Too sudden, Perhaps? Olive gave her a long, Unreadable look. There was a pause. Then, Olive said, I was wondering if. . . Valancy felt herself stiffened. Was this it? Had Olive come to fish for clues? Accused? It would be alright if. . . I. . . Sketched a little. Olive finished hesitatingly. Almost shyly. Just from here, I mean, I wouldn't get in the way. It's just so pretty here, You know? The trees, The water, The shoreline. Balancy let out a soft breath of relief. So quiet it might have passed for a sigh. Oh, Of course. Olive didn't move at once. She opened her handbag with a small, Almost furtive motion. Then quietly drew out a slim sketchbook and a pencil wrapped in a bit of tissue. There was something rather self-conscious in the way she unwrapped them. Not theatrical, Just Careful. As if half expecting someone to scold her for indulging in such nonsense. Valancy felt an odd little rush of tenderness. Last time, Olive had tucked the sketchbook away as though caught committing some kind of misdemeanour. This time, At least, It had made it out of the bag? She held the pencil with her usual delicacy. The way she might lift a teacup at a formal luncheon. Then, After a pause, She opened the sketchbook and slowly flipped past a few untouched pages. I know it's silly, Of course, " Olive said lightly, Not quite looking at Valancy. My little doodles. Who would ever want to see them? Mother says it's terribly frivolous of me to waste money on notebooks like this but the view down to the water from here. Really caught my eye last time. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I do hope you don't mind. I'll stay out of the way. Valancy smiled. I think it's lovely. You won't be at all in the way. Whatever Olive meant by these visits. Balancy was content to wait and see. Well, I'll leave you to it for now, She said, Rising. I must tend to the lettuces before they bolt in this heat. I'll be looking forward to seeing your sketch over lunch, Olive. Olive reddened a little. As Valancy returned to her garden. Checking on pea shoots, Coaxing lettuces and pulling a few weeds with satisfying pops of root and soil. She could hear the faint scratch of Olive's pencil across the page, Back on the porch. Every so often, A gull cried in the distance, Or a fish jumped and landed with a slap on the lake's glassy surface. Lunch was a simple, Satisfying affair. Warm bread, Garden lettuces dressed with a splash of vinegar, A chunk of cold-smoked trout from the storage shed, And preserved peaches. They all ate together at the porch table, Sunlight flickering through the leaves above. After some coaxing, Olive allowed them a glance at her sketch. It's only a rough beginning, She insisted, Half shielding the page with her hand. Just silly lines, Really. But the view of the lake. Soft and spare in pencil. Was unmistakable. And lovely. Barney gave an appreciative grunt, And Valancy leaned in closer. You've really caught the. . . Hush, She said simply. Olive flushed and turned the page. By mid-afternoon, The air turned sluggish and damp. The sky lost some of its dazzle and took on a milky sheen. Valancy caught Barney glancing upward from the edge of the trees, His brow slightly furrowed. She stepped back onto the porch where Olive was still seated, Sketching the curve of the shoreline and the stand of birches with admirable focus. Storm coming, Valancy said gently. Olive didn't look up. Doesn't feel like it. Give it ten minutes, " said Valancy. The first drops spattered the porch roof now, Like tossed pebbles. Then came the wind, Not wild, But assertive, Nudging the leaves, Lifting the corners of Olive's sketchbook pages, And sending a stack of Barney's folded maps fluttering from a windowsill. Barney, Hurrying over from the shed, Retrieved his papers with a grunt and glanced once more towards the lake. Where the sky had gone from milky to pewter. You're not going to make it back before it breaks. Olive. Looked up then. Oh, I thought it would pass, She said faintly, Though her eyes were wide now. Maybe by midnight, Said Barney, But I can't stay, " Olive flustered. I wasn't planning- I haven't brought a single thing for overnight and. . . Mother! " You'll be fine, Said Valancy, Calm but firm. You're with us. We've got everything you need. Just let's get inside before we get pelted. Inside Valancy reached for the kettle and moved to stoke the stove as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to shelter Olive Stirling from a sudden thunderstorm. The rain thickened. Rattling through the birches and streaming in silvery threads from the porch roof. A distant rumble sounded. Not sharp, Not close, But enough to make Olive flinch. She glanced out at the shifting curtain of weather, With a look halfway between helpless and affronted. Valancy caught her expression and said gently, Don't worry. You won't have to sleep in here, We've actually something set up. A little cabin at the edge of the trees for you. It's dry, Warm. Quite snug. Barney's been working on it bit by bit. Olive blinked. Cabin? Only small, Said Barney, Folding his arms. We thought it might be nice. For guests. If they happen to stay over. Olive gave a short laugh. Too bright. Well, How very nice. Rustic. But the thing is, I really should get back tonight. Mother wasn't expecting. . . She doesn't like it when I. . . She may not like it, Said Valancy, Not unkindly. But there's no sense risking the lake tonight. We'll get you home as soon as it settles. Olive didn't answer. A little wild-eyed, She stepped out just far enough onto the porch to see the full sweep of sky and trees. Rain misted her skirt and darkened one sleeve. She stared across the lake towards the ocean. Invisible mainland. They left her to herself for a moment. Valancy returned to her mending, Though she kept one eye on the kettle. Barney settled back with his book, Saying nothing. After a minute or two, Olive came back inside and shut the door firmly behind her. The cabin creaked again. A low, Shifting groan as the wind shouldered past it, And Olive flinched. Another burst of rain pelted the windows, And found Olive gripping the edge of her chair, Her foot jiggling restlessly beneath the table. She tried to make light remarks, Something about the quaintness of the island in this sort of weather, But her voice was tight, Too high. Her fingers trembled slightly when she reached for her glass. Valanci caught Barney's eye. Without speaking, She rose and fetched the tin of dried chamomile, Measuring a spoonful into a pot and letting the steam rise. I always find this helps in a storm, She said gently as she poured. It won't stop the wind, But it might make the thunder seem a little farther away. Olive accepted the cup with a murmured thanks, Though she didn't meet Valancy's eyes. She wrapped both hands around it and sipped. The thunder rolled again, Long and low. Barney turned a page without comment, Then began to whistle softly under his breath an old folk tune, Half-recognisable and oddly soothing. The lamp on the sideboard flickered slightly, Then steadied. By the time Olive set the cup down, Her foot had stopped jiggling beneath the table. Supper was a quiet affair. Hot soup from the stove, Slices of barley bread, And the last of the pickled beans from a cloudy old jar. Olive picked at hers, Glancing now and then towards the rain-streaked windows. Barney broke the silence with a story about a fox he'd seen circling near the far end of the island. Valanci followed it with a remark about the pea shoots which were growing faster than expected. Barney buttered another slice of bread and nodded towards the windows, Where the rain still streamed in silver ribbons down the glass. This isn't much of a storm yet, He observed. We saw one in the Mediterranean that had waves taller than a house. Poor little fishing boat beside us vanished completely every few seconds. I spent half the night wondering whether we'd wake up in Italy or Africa. Or at the bottom of the sea, Said Valancy, Grimacing. Barney grinned. That, Too. Oh, Barney, Said Valancy, Laughing. Must you tell stories like that, While poor Olive's already wondering if Miss Darwis is about to float away? Olive looked up in surprise. I'm not wondering any such thing. Wow. You're wondering something? " said Barney, Mildly. Perhaps, Said Olive. Barney reached for the teapot. May I ask you something? Of course. Would you mind terribly if I stopped calling you Miss Stirling and simply called you Olive? Olive hesitated for only a moment. No, I don't think I'd mind, " Barney nodded. Very good, Olive, He seemed to try the name out, Like a craftsman testing a newly sharpened tool. In that case, Would you care to hear about the worst storm Miss Starwist has ever thrown at me? " Olive raised an eyebrow. I'm suddenly rather uncertain. Sensibly so, Said Barney. It began with three days of rain and ended with half a pine tree trying to come through my roof. Balancy laughed, Barney! That's quite enough. I've scarcely begun. Exactly why I'm stopping you. Poor Olive's probably already wondering whether she'll leave this island alive. I confess the thought has crossed my mind. There, Said Valancy, Shaking her head at Barney in mock vexation, See what you've done. After the dishes were stacked and the lamplight mellowed, The storm had finally eased into a steady rhythm. Not gone, But at least quieter. The wind had dropped. Only the rain lingered, Gentler now, Whispering through the trees and pattering on the porch roof. Barney stood. I'll show you where you can sleep. Olive stiffened. Now he raised an eyebrow. Unless you prefer the porch swing? She hesitated. Then gathered herself with a little huff. Very well. But only for tonight. And I'm not promising that I'll sleep at all. Valancy handed her a lantern and a folded shawl. It's only a short walk. I'll come with you. They all stepped into the softened, Damp, Dark together. Olive clutching the lantern high and stepping carefully over the rain-slicked stones. A lingering breeze lifted her hair and stirred the low-hanging branches. The storm hadn't left a chill, Only a fragrant dampness. Pine needles, Soaked bark, Faint sweetness of wet earth. The path curved past the garden and into the edge of the trees. There, Tucked into a little clearing, Stood the cabin. It was small, To be sure. Barely more than a box with a roof. But Barney had patched the boards, Replaced the hinges, And even set a small paned window into the front. A shelf inside held a pitcher and basin, A book or two, A little tin dish with wildflowers. The bed was narrow, Neatly made with a woolen blanket and a flat, Clean pillow. Olive paused at the doorway. Uncertain. I replaced the floorboards and insulated it a bit, Said Barney. Stays dry in the rain. You'll be comfortable enough. Valancy added, You'll have a little room to yourself this way, And we're just up the path if you need anything. Olive looked at them both, Then back into the little room. Rain dripped from the eaves and darkened the toes of her shoes. I'm not accustomed to sleeping alone in places like this, " she said. You're hardly alone, Said Valancy softly. We're right here, Up the path. Just as if we were in different rooms of a house. We'll check on you first thing. And you'll hear us not far off, The stove clanking, Barney's off-key whistling. Barney gave a non-committal grunt. Olive gave a wavering nod. All right, Just for tonight. She stepped inside and turned the lantern higher, Then looked back. First light? You'll come? Of course, Said Flancy. Sleep well. But Olive only sniffed, Muttering, I doubt I'll sleep at all, And shut the door a little too firmly. Dawn came, Slow and silver. A haze still clung to the lake, Though the storm had passed. Balancy slipped out along the damp path towards the little cabin, A shawl pulled around her shoulders. She tapped softly at the door. No answer. She waited. Than knocked once more. From somewhere inside. Came the faintest little snore. Balancy smiled. And went quietly back up the path. When Olive finally emerged, Just after eight, She looked rumpled and slightly mortified. I must have drifted off, She said, As if the idea shocked her. I wasn't going to. But it was. . . So quiet and. . . The rain, And, Well. . . Valancy handed her a cup of tea. There is certainly no shame in good rest. Olive took it and sipped. Then, In a lower voice, She said, It wasn't awful. Said Valancy. It wasn't. And you survived. Olive gave her a look. Chapter 13 Windward Miss Starwes, In mid-June, Was something out of a half-remembered dream. The lake stretched out like a sheet of rippling glass, And the trees had deepened into a green so rich it felt almost enchanted. Wild strawberries were beginning to dot the sun-warmed edges of the clearing, And the scent of pine sap and sweet clover hung thick on the air. Birdsong threaded through the stillness in bright, Darting bursts. The day before, And stayed the night. This time, Not out of necessity, But by choice. No storm had trapped her. No excuse had compelled her. She had brought her overnight things in a neat carpet bag and arrived with an air of brisk composure. As if this were no more remarkable than a weekend call on a friend in town. Still, Her cheeks had been faintly pink when she'd stepped ashore. And she'd looked over her shoulder once or twice as though half expecting to be pursued by her outraged mother. Now, In the light of morning, Olive moved about the clearing with a sort of cautious ease, As if the island might vanish if she looked too pleased with it. She had brought a few additions this time, A small striped rug for the guest cabin floor, A delicately embroidered pillow, And two framed prints of birds that she said she didn't particularly like. But which seemed to belong there all the same. Barney had raised his eyebrows when she unpacked these items. Getting comfortable, Are we? Olive sniffed. Just keeping things civilised. Then the cabin shall be governed accordingly, He replied, Retreating with mock solemnity. For Lancey, For her part, Was secretly delighted. With Olive's touches, The little guest cabin was taking on a personality of its own. They had still never told her that it used to be the old tool shed. They'd been calling it the guest cabin without thinking, But Olive had wrinkled her nose at that in the morning over tea. It sounds like a spare cot in a railway hotel, She said. Wow. What would you rather call it? Valancy had asked. Olive considered. Windward. She said. It sounds like something in a novel. Valancy tilted her head, Smiling. Windward it is, Barney grinned over his toast. A very sterling choice, Olive shrugged. You may call it what you like, But I shall call it that. And so it was christened. A small sign followed later, Cut from a scrap of cedar shingle and hung jauntily above the door, In Valancy's careful lettering. The morning passed unhurried. They breakfasted outdoors at the old cedar plank table. Porridge with cream and strawberry preserves. Slices of still warm barley bread. A pot of strong black tea that Olive insisted on preparing herself. She had learned, She said, To make it properly from an English governess in Toronto. Who had refused to tolerate weak brews or lukewarm water. Wellancy smiled across the table. We should invite her out next. She's dead, Said Olive calmly, But I do imagine her ghost would appreciate your kettle. After breakfast, Barney headed to the mainland with a long list of errands. He had made several trips lately. All connected with the little abandoned cottage near Bay Point. The one they hoped might soon be home to Eliza Grey and her children. It was a small, Weathered old house, Tucked back from the road and shaded by elder trees. The kind of place most folks wouldn't give a second glance. Nobody had lived there for at least 25 years. But the little place was sound enough to be made snug again. Best of all, It was dry, With a good chimney and a bit of garden going wild. She doesn't know it yet, He'd said the night before, But she's going to have a dry little house and a porch where she can sit out of the rain. Balanci had sent him off from the dock post-breakfast with a kiss and a tin lunch wrapped up in a clean tea towel, Sandwiches, Two hard-boiled eggs and a slab of blueberry cake still warm from the oven. When exactly did I become a contractor for damsels in distress? He'd asked as he climbed into the canoe, Tools clinking faintly behind him. About the time you bought a sack of nails and developed opinions about roofing? " said Valancy. Barney gave her a wounded look. A dark day. Then he pushed away from the dock. The air was soft with heat that afternoon. The lake stippled with sunlight. Olive sat at the little table on the porch, Her sketchbook open, Head bent in quiet focus. Melancy had brought out lemonade and a bowl of wild strawberries, And now returned to her own sewing, Content in the hush. For a long time, There was no sound but the scratch of pencil on paper and the hum of bees in the wild roses. Olive didn't speak, But she didn't seem to need to. She was drawing windward, Capturing the tilt of the roof, The way the eaves sagged just slightly, And the long afternoon shadows cast by the birch trees across its mossy shingles. Eventually, She paused, Gazing down the hill towards the lake. It's strange, She said. I used to draw every day when I was a girl. Somehow. It became something I did only in fits and starts. Valancy looked up. Why? Olive gave a half shrug. Wasn't Useful. And there was always something else I should have been doing. Like preparing to marry a civil engineer? Well, Precisely. She paused, Looking out at the lake, Then continued. Cecil didn't like messy things or unprofitable things. He liked tidiness, Efficiency, He wanted me to be decorative, I suppose, But not too noticeable. Soft-voiced Steady Admirable. I tried to be all of that. I thought I had to. Valancy reached for another strawberry. And did it work? It worked for a time. Olive shaded the corner of the cabin's roof. But. . . I wasn't happy. And I don't think he was either in the end. Do you? Miss him. Not him, Really. Just the life I thought we were going to have. Olive closed the sketchbook gently. He married a bank manager's daughter. In Uxbridge. I saw the notice in the paper. Her name is Anne. She plays the organ. I dare say she never raises her voice. They were quiet again for a while. A breeze lifted across the island, Stirring the trees and rustling the leaves like a held breath being let out. Some time later, Barney returned from the mainland, Calling a greeting from the dock before disappearing again with the canoe to gather a bundle of dead fall from farther along the shore. Valancy heard him moving about below from time to time, The knock of wood against the landing, The scrape of the canoe on stone. And thought nothing of it. Pen. All of a sudden, From the direction of the dock, Came a very loud splash. And a flurry of startled birds. Both women jumped to their feet in alarm. A moment later, Barney emerged from the water dripping wet, His hat floating behind him like a stubborn lily pad. He was laughing as he dragged himself up onto the rocks, Boots squelching, Hair slicked down like a bedraggled seal. Valancy called out, Alarmed. Barney! Are you hurt? Only my pride, He called. She slipped out from under me. The whole blasted plank came loose. Olive's hand flew to her mouth, But too late. The sound escaped. A startled, Utterly unguarded laugh, Round and bright. It broke free from her like a cork from a bottle, And seemed to surprise even her. The lancy turned wide-eyed. Olive! But Olive was laughing still. And now Valancy joined in, Gasping and helpless, Doubling over as Barney, Grinning, Tossed his soaked hat onto the sand. Well, Called Barney, Mock offended, I'm glad my humiliation brings such delight to my wife and guest. I'm sorry, Olive managed, Though her eyes were still wet. You just looked like some great sea creature being expelled from the depths. " Barney bowed low. The Lake Monster of Mystarwis, At your service. He squelched off to change, Leaving the two women still catching their breath at the porch rail. Olive wiped her eyes. I haven't laughed like that in. . . I don't even know how long. It suits you, Said Valancy. Supper had been a simple affair. Hot tea, Oat cakes and a pot of chowder, Fragrant with dill and lake perch. And now, The day was sliding into that gentle hush that always made Valancy's heart ache with a kind of joy. Olive stood a little apart from them on the bluff, One arm wrapped around her waist, The other shading her eyes, As she watched the sun melt towards the horizon. She didn't speak, But she didn't retreat either. Her skirts caught the evening breeze, And her hair, Slightly must from the day, Looked softer than usual, Less like armour, More like an ordinary woman's. She's not staying the night? Barney asked quietly. Olive lingered behind on the bluff while Barney and Valancy started slowly down towards the cabin. Valancy shook her head. No, She said she has things to attend to tomorrow. And besides, I think she wanted to leave before she got talked into staying again. Small women, Said Bonnie. She didn't say much, Valancy murmured, But Just before we watched you flail about in the lake, She told me something about Cecil. About how she spent years trying to be what he wanted. Barney tilted his head. Huh. She said it all very simply, Valancy added. And she didn't make a single comment about your wardrobe today. " Barney looked mock thoughtful. I did notice a twitch when I put my hat on backwards, But she let it pass. Well, That's practically glowing praise from Olive. They smiled at each other. There was a pause, And then he added, Well, The chimney's still intact on Eliza's place. I got the leak patched on the north side. And we reinforce the porch roof with salvaged boards from Old MacEwan's place. Should hold through the winter. Unless something wild comes through. Your Amazing. He shrugged. I'm possible. Oh Barney. You're so much more than that. You're building someone a home. He looked down at her. Well, I suppose I am. I didn't ever anticipate that. She'll never forget it. None of them will. As they walked on, Barney suddenly said, Guess who I passed on the road this morning? Lady Jane Grey. Valancy turned. You did? Down near the general store. She's still going strong. The fellow I gave her to was driving her into town and says she's running beautifully. Beautifully. Lady Jane. Well, Said Barney, She still makes enough noise to announce herself three roads away. He says it helps scare off anyone who might try to sell him something though. Balancy laugh Incredible that she's still going. I'm glad she found someone else who appreciates her. So am I. I couldn't have handed the old deer over to just anybody. Valancy slipped her hand into his. Lady Jane Grey. And Eliza Grey. Both finding new homes. You've done wonders Barney. Must be something with that name, Mused Barney. From the bluff, Olive suddenly turned towards them, Silhouetted now against the lake. Barney, She called, Not unkindly. I believe if we want to make it to Deerwood before my mother dispatches the militia, We should be leaving. Bonnie laughed. Coming! Olive's bag was already packed and leaning against the trunk of a birch, She'd folded a small woolen shawl over her arm. Valancy stepped forward and hugged her briefly. Thanks for coming back, Olive, She said. Olive gave a half smile. I brought a pillow and a nightgown. I suppose I may as well admit I meant to stay. Valancy gave them a final wave as the canoe pushed away from the starwhisk and Olive echoed the gesture, Her face unreadable in the twilight. Over at the mainland, Barney loaded the bag into the car while Olive slipped into the passenger seat. The sky was fading now, Lavender turning to indigo, And soon the first stars would be pricking through, Mirrored faintly on the still surface of the lake. Barney would leave her, Far enough outside Deerwood to avoid curious eyes, But near enough that she would only have a short walk home. The car trundled off up the track and disappeared among the trees. Valancy stood for a while, Listening to the first frogs begin their evening chorus. Chapter 14 The Clear Marble Mastawis had reached its lush crescendo. Wildflowers tossed their bright heads across the open spaces near the cabin. Bees hovered lazily in the sun-thick air. And the trees wore their green with confidence now, No longer tentative with spring's caution. It was the season of abundance. In the garden, Valancy crouched with a chipped enamel bowl resting against one hip, Sorting out the best cucumbers for pickling. The air smelled of dill, Warm earth and crushed raspberry leaves. Inside, The kitchen held the good chaos of a preserving day. Clean jars glinting on the table, Folded tea towels ready, And the back door open wide to let in the breeze. Barney was somewhere along the north trail, Having gone out to scout a place to string up a hammock. Nip and Tuck had chased after him with loud, Indignant commentary, While Banjo lay lazily stretched on the windowsill, Far too dignified to follow. Olive was coming back. She'd written to say she'd come for two nights this time. And had arranged a lift to the dock. When the bell rang, Shortly before eleven, Valancy rinsed the garden earth from her hands and went down to fetch her. Now Olive was stepping out of the canoe, Curls escaping under a wide straw hat, Skirts hitched up just enough to show sturdy brown boots, A small satchel swung from her shoulder, And a second bag bumped against her knees as she clambered ashore. I brought chutney, " Olive said cheerfully, Hoisting her bag as she stepped onto the rocks. And if anything furry scuttles across the floor in the night, I'm sleeping on your porch chair. Valancy laughed as she tied up the canoe. Barney swears the mice have been evicted, Though one of the cats might come and curl up at your feet. They walked together up the slope, Olive glancing around at the riot of summer bloom. It's even more beautiful than last time, She said softly. I hadn't realised how quickly the island shifts its colours. It does, Said Valancy. Almost overnight sometimes. I blink and something new is blooming. Valancy had helped Olive settle her bags into Windward, The tiny one-room cabin just off the main path. It had changed a little since her previous visit, Now with a narrow shelf above the bed for books or a sketchpad, And a small vase of dried wildflowers that Valancy had left there, Tucked beside the window, Where the breeze could still stir them faintly. There was a single upright chair beside the door, And Olive had brought a tin lantern to hang from the low beam. It wasn't luxurious, But it was hers for as long as she chose to visit. Back in the main house, The kitchen was warm with the scent of vinegar and sugar. Olive helped slice cucumbers for the pickling jars, While Valancy sterilised lids. They worked companionably, Hands moving in rhythm. A few jars in, Barney returned, Sun-hatted and sweat-dusted. And dropped a small bag on the table. A gift from your admirer, He said, Fishing something small out of the bag. Mine? Lancey blinked. With a flourish, He produced a small green marble. Worn smoother sea glass with a single black feather tucked beside it. The lancy laughed in delight. From nip or tuck. Hard to say, Barney shrugged. They don't sign their work. They've brought other gifts, Too, " Valancy told Olive. Mostly stones. Once, A piece of string. Olive took the marble and held it up to the light. I had one just like this when I was little. I lost it down a grate on Peel Street. Barney raised an eyebrow. Clearly they've been combing the municipal drainage system. Balancy and Olive both burst out laughing. That night, As the sun slipped down and fireflies winked at the treeline, They sat on the porch with a heel of bread. A half-finished jar of blackcurrant jam. And a little dish of olives. The olives were from one of the last tins Valancy and Barney had brought back from their travels, And still tasted to Valancy of hot Mediterranean afternoons. She nodded towards the dish. Pass me an olive, Barney. Barney looked gravely from the plate to olive. Which one? Olive gave him a cool look. The one less likely to throw something at you. Ah, Said Barney. That narrows it down. Valancy laughed. Barney selected one with exaggerated care and dropped it into her waiting hand. Olive reached for her glass with great dignity. Whatever became of Edward Beck, The widower with nine children, And that when on his forehead? Valancy asked, Tearing off a piece of bread. Olive raised an eyebrow. Edward Beck? Oh. He remarried in spring. To a woman from the Presbyterian church. She's surely got her hands full with those nine children now. Barney snorted. Well, Nine kids and a win. Who could resist? Olive grinned. Cheeks pink. You'll love this. Cousin Georgiana tried to make a match of us last winter. I was flattered, Mostly. Little Nancy shook her head, Laughing. Goodness! I thought I was the only victim of cousin Georgiana's Beck matchmaking service. But I was already married to Barney by then, So she was rather too late. Barney smirked, Lucky for me. They all laughed, The sound light and easy. Like the warm summer night around them. I got a letter from cousin Georgiana, Actually, Just the other day. Valancy added. She said she spotted you from a distance in Deerwood, Olive. Said you looked much jollier than usual, Though she couldn't imagine why. Olive laughed, Well, Heaven forbid I look happy without the family's permission. Her fingers had begun worrying at the edge of her napkin. There's something I've never told you. She said, After a moment. Valancy glanced at her. A few years ago. I won. A scholarship. To the Arts School in Toronto. Valancy stared. You did? Olive flushed. An art scholarship. Valancy stopped herself. Olive? I never knew. No. Did anyone? Mother and father. Cecil a few others perhaps. Valancy sat back. Astonished! All those years. Aunt Wellington had faithfully reported about Olive's dresses, Parties, Admirers and Cecil's latest devoted attentions. And yet, Never once had there been a word about this. Why on earth was that kept so quiet? Olive gave a small, Humorless smile. Mother didn't consider it quite the sort of accomplishment One advertised. Barney made a sound under his breath. Valancy was still trying to fit this astonishing new piece of information into the olive she had always known. And You didn't go? " she asked. Olive looked down at her hands. Cecil thought. It was foolish. Impractical. He said, I needed to be sensible. The lancy's eyebrows went up. Of course. Olive gave a startled little laugh, But it vanished quickly. I let him persuade me. I told myself he knew what was best for me. She swallowed. Sometimes I wonder whether we both tried to mould each other into something we weren't. If I'd been braver. Perhaps things would have been different. Barney, Who had been unusually quiet, Tipped his chair back a fraction. What happened to the scholarship? I gave it up. No, I mean. . . What about now? Could you use it now? Olive blinked. I. . . Don't know. Worth finding out, Barney said simply. Olive looked from him to Valancy. You really think so? "'I think, ' said Valancy. I'm still trying to get over the fact. That Aunt Wellington concealed an entire art scholarship while telling Dearwood all about your latest chiffon dresses. Olive stared at her. She laughed. A real laugh this time. Though there were tears in her eyes. They were very good chiffon dresses. I'm sure they were magnificent. Olive dabbed quickly at her eyes. I suppose I could inquire about the scholarship. " Valancy handed her a clean handkerchief. I suppose you could. A loon called from somewhere across the lake, Its plaintive cry trailing over the water. Barney stirred, Then glanced towards Valancy. I ran into Roaring Abel over in Port Lawrence this morning. But Lancey looked up. How was he? Talkative, Barney said, Wiry as ever, But softer, Somehow. He asked if we'd come up to the graveside in a couple of days. It's almost Sissy's anniversary. Valancy nodded, Her expression tender. Of course. End of June. I hadn't realised it was so close. He said, He doesn't want a crowd, Barney continued, Just us. Quiet. He's been tending the spot, Said the violets he planted have come in nicely. No one spoke for a moment. A moth drifted lazily near the lantern, Brushing its wings against the glass. Of course we'll go. He nodded. And they sat there together, The evening deepening around them. After a while, Olive tilted her head. I didn't realise you went over to the mainland so often, Barney. Barney gave a small shrug. When there's reason. Balancy's eyes held a flicker of amusement. And there often is. Yesterday it was roofing nails, A tub of molasses, And a three-legged stool. He insisted had character. It did emphasize Barney. Olive studied them a moment, Eyes lingering. Aunt Alberta said. She's almost sure. She saw you at the Presbyterian church last Thursday. Talking to Reverend Morrison. Barney didn't blink. She's got sharp eyes. I thought so too, Olive murmured, But there was a glint behind it. Not quite teasing, Not quite accusing, Just thoughtful. Barney rose first, Stretching his arms overhead. I'll go batten things down. Balancy stood too, And Olive followed suit, A little reluctantly. Barney gave Olive a nod. Fair sailing to Windward, Miss Stirling. Don't let the mosquito steal your hat, Said Valancy. I'll. . . Do my best, " Olive said with a smile as she stepped onto the dusky path. Good night! They watched her go. Her white shawl catching glimmers of lantern light as she walked between the trees. Somewhere near the shore. Elune called once more and then went quiet. Olive ducked inside the little cabin and lit the lamp with the stubby match Barney had left by the door. The place was tidy, Spare, Sweetly humble. She'd found homes for her sketchbook and washbag earlier, And Valancy had made up the bed with fresh linens that smelled faintly of lavender. She turned to place her shawl over the chair. And paused. Something was lying on the windowsill, Just inside the open window. She frowned and stepped closer. It was a marble! Like the other one Barney had produced earlier. But unlike that one, This one was clear. Perfectly transparent, Catching the lamplight and splitting it delicately into soft prisms. She picked it up and held it in her palm. Oddly, Move. There was no note. Of course not. Just this charming little token itself. Waiting quietly for her. Olive glanced towards the dark branches beyond the window. But nothing stood there. She sat on the edge of the bed. And turned the little treasure over in her fingers. It seemed lighter than the green one, Plainer. And yet, Somehow not. She couldn't explain the feeling it gave her. Not quite joy, Not quite ache. Just recognition. Outside, A breeze slipped through the branches. The night smelled of pine and wild mint. Olive stood and crossed to the doorway, Her hand still curled around the precious marble. She stepped out barefoot into the cool grass and walked slowly down to the water's edge. The full moon sat like a great silver coin on the lake. Not quite real. And yet so luminously present. That she caught her breath. She held the marble up to it, Turning it in her fingers. The moonlight passed cleanly through. Back at the cabin, Barney was drawing the last of the mugs while Valancy adjusted the curtains for evening. She's beginning to suspect us, You know, " Valancy said. Barney looked over. About Eliza Gray? She mentioned that Aunt Alberta thought she saw you at the church last Thursday. Barney made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a grunt. Well, I was. No shame in helping folks, He said simply. You're just cross she might find us out. Valancy laughed, Then sighed. I suppose I like imagining us as secret benefactors. Fairy godparents or something. Wow. I don't wear wings, He said. But you can call yourself whatever you like. She glanced towards the window again. Then touched his arm. Bonnie! Down by the shore. Pale figure stood near the water. Barefoot. In her nightgown. A shawl slipped over her shoulders. She held up something small in her fingers. Turning it gently towards the sky. Barney came to stand beside Valancy. After a moment, He reached for her hand. They watched as Olive turned the marble slowly. In the Moonlight. Chapter 15, What matters? The sun rose soft and gold over Mystawis, Catching in the gauzy webs between pine branches and the glimmering crests of the lake. Valancy stood at the edge of the dock with one hand on the rope, Watching as Barney stepped into the boat. A basket of wildflowers lay at her feet, Gathered in silence that morning. It had been three years. Three years since sweet, Delicate, Sissy gay had slipped away at sunrise. Her last breath barely stirring the still air of that quiet morning. Balancy remembered the way her face had softened. How her eyes had opened and looked up. Beyond. Past the room. Past Valancy. And how sheet. Smiled. That smile had stayed with Valancy ever since. She still thought often of her dear, Darling friend, Sissy. And wondered if, In eternity, She had indeed. Being joyfully reunited with her beautiful baby boy. Valancy certainly liked to think so. Barney started the boat engine and Balancy climbed in beside him. They didn't speak during the crossing. There was just the hum of the motor, The cries of gulls wheeling above, And the splashing of water against the hull. Roaring Abel was already there at the Deerwood Cemetery when they arrived, Standing squarely in the shade of a maple near the gate, A bunch of field daisies clutched in his great brown hand. He was big-shouldered, Sunburnt, And still as solid as an old oak tree, But his eyes softened when he saw them. Without much talk, They walked together to the grave, Where the stone was simple and neat, Edged with a fringe of wild violets. They stood in silence for a time. Abel set his daisies down and cleared his throat in that loud, Rasping way that could frighten strangers but never fooled Barney or Valancy. He began to sing. Some half-forgotten tune that rose and fell unevenly, Ragged but strangely beautiful in the clear air. Barney stood with his hands in his pockets, Watching the sky. Valancy linked her arm through Abel's when he faltered for breath. Oh, The summer days are long, Love And the roads are made for two but the path you took was skyward and I'm still missing you when the song ended. No one spoke. The air was warm and full of the scent of grass. Somewhere in the trees, A robin called. Valancy bent to brush a stray twig from the grass at the foot of the stone. She was the gentlest person I've ever known, She said quietly. Even when she was in pain. She thought more about other people's comfort than her own. I miss her. Barney's gaze stayed on the horizon. She had a lovely laugh, Like wind in the pines. I remember that. Abel gave a loud sniff, Half a laugh and half a sob. Aye, She always took to folk who were a bit out of step with the rest. That's why she thought so much of you two. Lancey smiled. We thought we might bring a few of Sissy's favorites. Would you like to sit for a bit? They walked a little way from the gravesite, Down to a sunny spot on a slope. Where the grass grew long and sweet-smelling. Barney spread an old plaid blanket, While Valancy unpacked the basket. Flaky butter tarts, Thick slices of fresh bread, Sharp cheddar, And a jar of raspberry jam that smelled like summer bottled. Abel produced a flask from his pocket, Grinning sheepishly. For medicinal purposes, He explained. They ate slowly, Talking in the unhurried way people do when they are remembering rather than passing the time. Abel told stories from when Sissy was little. How she had once insisted on keeping a baby squirrel in the house for a week. And how she had been able to whistle whole tunes. Before she could read. Valancy remembered the last afternoons she had spent reading Thistle Harvest aloud to Sissy. The book left open between them whenever Sissy grew too tired to listen. Barney remembered how Sissy always asked him what the leak looked like. When he came to see her. Even on the days she was too weak to go farther than the veranda. He would describe the water and the islands to her. And she would listen, As though he had brought a little piece of mastawis in, Just for her. The air was soft and the sun warmed their shoulders. When they had eaten their fill, They lingered still on the blanket, Letting the talk drift in and out like the breeze. The cemetery's hush was a different kind of quiet than the island's. Softer, Somehow, And steeped in the scent of mown grass. Now and then the chime of the church clock in the village floated up on the warm air. Abel lay back on one elbow, Chewing the end of a blade of grass. Sis would have liked to see us here, He said finally. Not because she cared about graves, Mind you. She'd just be glad folk remembered her. Without all the stiff trappings. She never was much for any of that, Barney agreed. She'd have hated a long formal eulogy. I believe she would have liked this. Aye. Abel agreed. His eyes were far away. Tracking some thought through the treetops. I reckon she's with the little fella now. Her baby boy. She missed him. Every day, She was still here. If there's any justice in the good place. They're together again now, And she's holding him again. Just the way she wanted. His voice thickened slightly, But he didn't look away from the sky. Valancy swallowed past the lump in her throat. It was as if she could almost hear Sissy's gentle, Melancholy voice again, Speaking of her longing for her sweet baby boy. The memory left Valancy aching. Yet also somehow. Grateful. Abel took a long pull from his flask and set it down with a clatter. He chewed the corner of a butter tart thoughtfully. Speaking of children, He began, His voice a little slurred. You two are taking your time, Ain't ya? Barney's eyes flicked towards Valancy, And he felt her hand stiffen slightly on his arm. Abel's gaze caught theirs and softened. Don't mind me. None of my business. Kids, They're the greatest blessing you can have in your life. That's all I'm saying. He leaned back, Closing his eyes for a moment, As if the summer sun alone could steady him. Barney and Valancy exchanged a glance, Both quiet. Then Abel muttered something about daisies and how Sissy loved seeing them bloom. They spoke then of. The lake in early summer. The berries that would be ready in a week or two. The weather turning in their favour now, After a long wet spring. Nothing pressing. Just the threads of ordinary life weaving themselves between moments of remembering. At last, Abel pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. Better be getting along then. Got a bit of business in Deerwood before the day's out. Barney packed away the blanket and leftover bread. Balanci tucked the jam into Abel's basket. You take this. We'll make more soon. " He didn't argue, Only nodded and slung the basket over his arm. They walked together down the shady lane that led away from the cemetery, The dappled light flickering over their faces. Barney's car was waiting at the side of the road, Its dark green paint glinting in the sun. Abel climbed into the front seat beside Barney, Valancy in the back. The drive towards Deerwood was unhurried, The fields on either side shimmering with early summer heat. Olive had gone home the previous day, Her promised two nights at Misdarwis over. But had arranged to meet them in Deerwood that afternoon. At the edge of the village, Barney eased the car to a stop where Olive was waiting, As they had arranged. She stood on the verge with her small bag, Trim and straight-backed, Her hat brim shading her eyes. "'Afternoon, Miss Stirling, ' Abel said gruffly as he swung open the door. Mr Gay, She returned with a polite inclination of her head. Her voice was even, But Valancy noticed the way her hand tightened on the strap of her bag. Lost my girl Sissy. Three years ago today, He said simply, Makes you think about what matters. Olive's eyes flickered and for a heartbeat the composure shifted. Yes, I'm so sorry, She murmured, The words sounding as if they had come from a well-worn shelf. He paused to collect his thoughts with great care. A process that seemed to require rather more concentration than usual after the afternoon's generous toasts to Sissy's memory. Then he gave a small nod, His voice roughened but steady, Life's short. Miss Olive. We don't get enough of it to waste on things that don't matter. He peered at Olive with sudden curiosity. How old are you now, Miss Olive? She blinked. 30. Abel scratched thoughtfully at his tremendous beard. Hi. He gave a low whistle. Wow. He looked sidelong at Barney. Prettiest old maid I reckon I've ever clapped eyes on. Barney coughed suspiciously into his fist. Valancy bit the inside of her cheek. Olive's eyes widened in mortification. Abel waved a huge hand. Nothing wrong. With being an old maid. If that's how it works out, Better than marrying the wrong fool. Seen plenty do that. Olive coloured from the collar of her coat to the brim of her hat. Thank you, I think. Her hand tightened on the folds of her skirt. She glanced towards the road as though to hasten the moment along. Abel hefted his basket and gave Barney a nod. Wow. You two take care of each other. Take care of her too. " He nodded towards Olive. Thanks for being with me today. To remember sis. Then he set off along the road, His stride long and unhurried. Olive exhaled hard. And slid awkwardly into the back seat beside Valanci. Barney eased the car into motion. And they turned onto the Lake Road. For a little while. No one spoke. I hope Mr Gay isn't always quite so forthright, " Olive said at last. Valancy smiled. He usually is. I rather gathered that. Olive paused. Did you notice what else he said? About making the most of the time we've got. Felt. As though he was aiming that just at me somehow. Valancy smiled slightly. That's just Abel. He says what's in his head. Olive looked out at the trees slipping past the window. I suppose. As they wound on along the lake road, Barney slowed a little near a bend where the trees thinned. Set back from the road, And half hidden in the shade of elder bushes, Stood a small, Weathered cottage. Its shingles were uneven, The garden gone to seed, But it still stood with a valiant air of endurance. Barney's gaze flicked towards the roof, Noting the patch he'd finished last week. Holding up, He murmured to himself before pressing the accelerator again. Olive followed his glance. Someone's been doing that place up, She remarked. Looks like it might almost be liveable. Looks that way barney said mildly keeping his eyes on the road ahead Valancy glanced from one to the other, But no one offered more. The car hummed on towards the dock, The cottage soon hidden behind the curve of the road and a stand of birches. The lake lay ahead, Glittering under the late afternoon sun, Waiting to take them home. They drove on in a companionable silence, The hum of the tyres on the gravel and the occasional call of a loon across the water, Filling the spaces between thoughts. Valancy broke the quiet first, Her voice soft. It felt right being there today, Just the three of us, Remembering Sissy the way she was. Olive nodded slowly, Glancing towards the lake's glimmering surface. Bye. I didn't know them well. Mr Gay and Ceci. But he He makes you think, Doesn't he? Her voice was quieter now, Reflective rather than uneasy. The lake opened wider now, A sheet of blue and gold unfurling alongside them. Sunlight poured between the tall pines, Flashing across the windshield. Far out, The cluster of tiny islets, Known as the Fortune Isles, Glimmered like scattered jewels. Beyond them, Faint music drifted from somewhere up the shore, An unseen boat or a summerhouse veranda. Valancy turns slightly in her seat to take it in. I love it best at this time of day she murmured when the water looks like it's holding the light just for you Barney glanced gently at her. I know. No one spoke again until the dock came into view. Weathered planks stretched out into the shining water, Their little boat tugging at the rope in the gentle swell. The car rolled to a stop, The engine ticking into silence. For a moment, They all simply sat, Breathing in the resinous scent of pine and the faint, Cool tang of the lake. Valancy was first to step out. Olive followed more slowly, Pausing to look around. The air was quieter here, The noise of the road already a distant thing, Making way for the faint chuckle of water under the dock. They climbed down into the little disappearing propeller boat, Its varnished wooden seats warm from the afternoon sun. Barney settled at the tiller and gave the crank a brisk turn. The motor caught with its low steady putter. He eased them away from the dock. The propeller safely tucked just below the hull, Ready to lift clear if they struck a hidden rock or log. The bow nosed into the open water, Leaving a clean, V-shaped wake behind. The lake caught the light in restless flashes. Silver here, Gold there, While the islands slid past in quiet procession, Each one crowned with dark green furs and rimmed in the warm evening glow. Miss Starwyce lay ahead, Its small dock a dark slash against the bright water. Behind them, The mainland grew smaller as the sun sank lower. Olive sat quietly in the stern, Watching the island draw nearer. Chapter 16 Moving Day The morning broke in soft gold. The lake stretched out like a sheet of hammered light. And Olive was still at Misdarwis. She had meant to go the day before, But somehow another night had intervened. Now she stood in the doorway of the main cottage with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, A broom in one hand and a sprig of mint in the other, While Valancy arranged labelled jars along the pantry shelf. Barney came in from the porch with a basket of wood, His hair damp from a dip in the lake. He dumped the basket beside the stove. If we keep her here much longer, Moonlight, She'll become one of us. Olive swiped at him with the broom, Half laughing. Don't be ridiculous, I'm just helping a bit. She went back to sweeping sand from the floorboards, Two tea towels she'd washed that morning flapped from the line outside, And neat bunches of mint hung drying along the porch rail. Her sketchbook, Too, Had grown satisfyingly fuller over the weekend. There were quick charcoal studies of banjo asleep on the dock. Barney bent over a notebook at the porch table, His pipe clamped between his teeth, Valancy laughing over the bread dough, And half a dozen little sketches of the crows in various attitudes of noisy indignation. Even Olive had to admit that They were among the best things she had ever drawn. Barney had glanced through the pages with obvious admiration. Well, He said. I suppose we really needn't worry about Alan Tierney after all. Olive looked up. Alan Tierney. The famous painter only paints great beauties. Wanted to paint Valancy once, Barney said. I selfishly declined on her behalf. Olive stared at her cousin. Wanted to paint. You! Valancy laughs. It did seem every bit as improbable to me. Tierney had better eyes than most of Deerwood, Apparently. Offered Barney. Valancy coloured. Barney smiled. He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to Olive. And now we've got our own artist anyway. Olive accepted the sketchbook without a word. Her mouth uncharacteristically slack-jawed. Quite without intending to, She found herself studying Valancy. Instead of the drawings. Her cousin stood beside Barney at the stove, Smiling as she passed him a bowl. She was small. And dark. Her short black hair framing that curious little three-cornered face. Her brown eyes slanting upward at the corners. Not beautiful by any rule Olive had ever been taught. And, Yeah. Suddenly. . . Only felt that she could understand what the painter might have seen. After the noon meal, Olive repacked her satchel, Rather reluctantly. She lingered by the dock. Eyes darting between the water and the green shore. As if trying to commit it all again to memory. Over on the mainland, The three of them set off along the winding road towards Deerwood. Roof folded back as usual, Warm air breezing past them. The scent of pine and new hay filled the air. And Olive's scarf tugged loose as the road unwound ahead. They were halfway to town when a black motor car came roaring towards them. Olive. Froze. That's father's car, She cried, Eyes widening. Too late to turn, Barney responded, Hands steady on the wheel. Olive ducked down. But the car was already upon them. It's a driver sitting bolt upright, Face stern under his tightly fitted straw hat. Valancy, In the passenger seat beside Barney, Lifted a hand in a polite wave. Uncle Wellington's head jerked slightly as his eyes flicked from her to the car's interior. His face tightening in a shocked look as they passed. Whether he had glimpsed Olive or not, None of them could tell. Olive's heart thudded against her ribs as the road unwound behind them. She sat up slowly, Still pale, Giddy with anxiety. Oh. Goodness. If he saw me. There's sure to be a scene when I get home. For Lance's expression softened. Maybe he didn't notice. Oh, He notices everything, Olive said with a shaky laugh. She wrung her hands in her lap. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. Barney eased the car to the side of the road on the edge of town, Set the brake and stepped out, Coming around to the back to swing the door open and offer a steadying hand. Right to us, Olive, He said, As she gathered her satchel. And remember. . . You can always come back to Mastawis. She gave them both a quick, Tight smile, Put her hand briefly in his to step down, Then set off along the shaded road towards town, The sunlight and shadows chasing over her as she went. Barney got back behind the wheel. She'll be all right, " he said as they pulled away. The car rattled away, Olive's slim figure already hidden behind the dip in the road. Valancy looked back only once before turning forward again, Hands clasped tightly in her lap. They were quiet, The motor's steady thrum filling the silence. I don't like leaving her like that, " Valancy said at last. Barney glanced sideways at her. Neither do I. They drove on along the pine-scented roads until the lake glimmered into view again between the trees. The little cottage at the point waited, Pale and small among the dark pines, Like a bird's nest tucked in the branches. All that afternoon they worked at the final touches, Shifting bedsteads and tables into place, Scrubbing away the last paint flecks and carrying in simple furniture scavenged from lofts and attics, The rooms grew slowly into a home, Airy and spare, Yet welcoming. Valancy joyfully unfolded some of the endless quilts she had stitched in the long colourless years back at her mother's house. And was surprised at how cheerfully they bloomed here when spread across the narrow beds or folded over a chair. She laid a soft cloth across the table, Set out a few mismatched but dear cups and plates rescued from forgotten cupboards, And tossed a pair of plump pillows into the corner by the hearth. With every small, Homely touch, The house seemed less like an empty house. Long-forgotten shell. And more light. And inviting. Quiet. Refuge. Mrs Grey and the children won't know what to think! Valancy said. Pausing to wipe her brow. After that. Dreadful packing house. Yes, Anything will seem like a palace after that packing house, Barney said grimly. He set the last chair beside the kitchen table and stood back. But this! This is for them now. A place that doesn't smell of fish guts. And a roof that keeps out the rain. By late afternoon, The work was done and they started back into Dearwood. The church bell was just striking five as they left the car in a discreet back lane and went around to the vestry door. Reverend Morrison met them with a grave smile, His clerical black coat flapping lightly in the warm breeze. I've spoken to Mrs Grey, He said quietly. She and the children are ready. Best we keep it simple. Tonight, If it suits, Barney nodded. We can manage it. A few trips will do the trick. They were standing in the narrow lane behind the church, Its cobbles dusty in the late afternoon heat, When footsteps came clattering round from the main street. A figure rushed around the corner, Skirts askew, Hair falling loose from its pins. Olive. She stopped dead at the sight of them. Plainly as astonished to see them as they were to see her. Her face was blotched with tears. Her satchel still in hand. I knew it, She gasped. I knew there was something. This is about that grey widow, Isn't it? I knew there was something going on. Valancy reached out for her at once. Never mind us. Olive. What happened? What's wrong? But Olive was already crumbling. Her lips trembled. Her breath hitched and the words poured out between sobs. They were waiting for me. Demanding to know where I'd been. What I'd been doing with you two. Calling you names. Saying I was disgracing myself. I couldn't bear it for Lancey. I couldn't! I'm 30 years old, For goodness sake. But they talk as if. . . I were a wayward little wretched child sneaking out the window. Her voice broke and she clutched Valancy's hands as if for dear life. I just. . . Took my bag and. . . Walked right out again. I couldn't stand another minute of it. Oh, Valancy! What am I to do? Now? She sniveled miserably. Valancy drew her gently aside, Away from Barney and the Reverend. Oh Olive, For Lancey murmured, Folding her against her shoulder. Come back with us. Windward is there. You can stay as long as you need. Olive gave a great. . . Shuddering sobs. And clung to her. Face buried against Valancy's shoulder. For a long moment. Neither moved. Only the church bell tolled faintly in the distance. Barney and Reverend Morrison exchanged a glance but continued their low discussion of the Grey family, Leaving the two women to themselves. At last, Olive lifted her head, Eyes swollen and lips trembling. Do you mean it? Truly. You'll let me stay? A few days so I can think. Of course, Valancy said firmly, As long as you need. You are more than welcome there with us. Olive gave a strangled laugh. That turned to tears again. And hugged her tightly. Over her shoulder, Balancy met Barney's gaze. His eyes softened, And he gave the smallest nod. Olive wiped at her cheeks and blew her nose, Her breath still catching slightly. As Barney clapped his hands together. Well. Seems like it's the day for all of us to be coming clean. Yes, Olive, We've been helping get a new place ready for Eliza Gray and her six children. And we're about to help move them over there tonight, If you must know. Olive's eyes went wide. She looked from Barney to Valancy. Then gave a watery little laugh and dabbed again at her eyes. Well now, It sounds like you're coming right back to the island with us again, Said Barney. First though, We've got to help the greys move. If you want to help, Hop in the car. Or if you prefer, I'm sure the good reverend wouldn't mind you staying in the office here for a bit while we sort everything. Olive hesitated. Glancing down at her muddied shoes. I should probably get cleaned up first, " she murmured. Then, After a breath, Put it down. I want to help. The lancy stepped closer, Resting her hands lightly on Olive's arms. All right then, She said gently. Come inside and. . . Will get you straightened out a bit. Inside, Balanci guided Olive to the washroom and found her a towel and a basin of water. Olive scrubbed at her hands and face. There, Valancy said after a while. Better? Much. Olive picked up her satchel. Thank you. A short while later, They were driving towards the harbour. Barney at the wheel, Valancy beside him, And Olive in the back. The old fish packing house, Where Eliza and the children had been living, Came into view at the edge of the harbour. It's grey boards weathered and the smell of brine and fish heavy in the air. Eliza stood outside with the children, Thin and tired looking, In a faded dress. Her hair pinned up, Anyhow. Around them was a small collection of crates, Baskets, And bundled possessions. Goodness, Olive said quietly. They climbed out and began to work. Barney bent to take one end of the first crate. One of the older boys stepped forward to take the other. Barney looked up. Tom. For a second, The boy looked furtive, Glancing at his mother. Afternoon time, Barney said breezily, As casually as though their previous meeting had involved nothing more remarkable than commentary on the weather. Tom hesitated. Afternoon, Mr Redfern. Barney nodded towards the crate. Think you can manage this one with me? Tom's shoulders straightened. I can. I thought so. Together, They lifted it. Balanci, Passing with Olive towards the younger children, Caught Barney's eye for the briefest moment and smiled. Olive. Knelt beside two of the smallest children and began folding loose clothes into a basket. One little girl watched her solemnly. Thank you. She murmured. I'll leave linked up. Oh, It's. . . Nothing, Dear. Shall we put this in too? The girl handed her a small rag doll. Throughout the evening, They made several trips back and forth. Barney carried the heaviest crates, While Valancy and Olive gathered bedding, Clothes, Cooking things, And the children's smaller treasures. Before long, Olive's sleeves were dusty and her fingers reddened from the rough ropes. A small boy came staggering towards the car with a blanketed bundle nearly as large as himself. Well done, Olive called. You're very strong to hold that so steady. The child's face lit up. Almost ready, Barney called from the car. Let's get the last of these things over. By the time the final crate was loaded, The sun was dipping lower, Painting the harbour in molten gold and crimson. The new cottage awaited. Its pale clapboards and open windows offering a quiet promise of home. Eliza stood on the small porch, Hands clasped in front of her, Watching as the car rolled up again. She was smiling, Her eyes glistening. As her children scramble to help carry their final possessions inside. Olive followed Valanci and Barney, Carrying a small bundle of linens. Inside, The cottage was fresh, Airy and bright. The rooms began to breathe with life and warmth. Each small touch softening the raw edges of the bare walls. Valancy found Olive straightening one of the pillows on a narrow bed. You look as though you've been unloading freight trains all afternoon, She said. Olive looked down at her dusty dress and reddened hands. I rather feel. . . Sorry. I rather feel as though I have. " Valancy smiled. You were splendid. Olive looked around the little room. I'm. . . Glad I came. So am I. Barney came through the door with the last bundle. And dropped it beside the table with a grunt. That's the lot. Tom appeared behind him with another empty crate tucked under one arm. Anything else, Mr Redfern? Barney turned and considered him. You looking for work? Tom's expression sharpened. Yes, Sir. I can usually use an extra pair of hands at the mainland landing on Saturday mornings. Carrying parcels, Loading the boat, That sort of thing. Tom glanced out the window towards his mother. If she says yes, Barney added, She will. All right, Then. I pay by the hour. Tom nodded gravely. Alright. Saturday then. Saturday. The children clambered up and down the porch steps, Chattering with delight. Eliza gave a deep sigh. Grateful. Sigh. Her hands pressed together. I don't know how to thank you all enough, " she said, Her voice thick with relief. Her eyes moved from Barney to Valancy. I understand now. It was you two. Helping. From the very beginning. Bring in those baskets. Carrying loads. Fixing things I could never manage. I never knew who it was. Helping me along the way. And now I see. It was you! May God bless you all as you've blessed me and my children. We are so very grateful. Barney gave a modest shrug, His eyes soft. Glad to help. You, And these little ones, Deserve it. Eliza's voice lifted gently. Come here, Children. Stand together. We must thank those who have helped us so kindly. The little ones shuffled together on the porch, Some holding hands, Some clutching toys, Faces wide-eyed. Now, All together children, Eliza encouraged, Her own smile tremulous. Thank you! They called, Voices ringing in unison, A little uneven but full of sincerity. Barney ducked his head. Suddenly very interested in fastening the last empty crate to the car. As they drove away, The children crowded along the porch rail, Waving and calling after them. Until the cottage disappeared behind the trees. For a little while. Nobody in the car said anything. Then Barney cleared his throat. Well. I think that went rather well. But Lancey smiled. So do I. Barney glanced at her and smiled back. Chapter 17 The Happiest Scandal Olive had been at Wynwood more often than not these last few weeks. Since leaving her parents' house, She had made the little cabin her temporary home. Though stiff letters from Aunt Wellington continued to arrive with depressing regularity. On Sundays, Olive still went back to Dearwood for church. A habit so deeply ingrained that she had not yet thought to question it. But when the first days of July came, Olive packed a small case and announced that she meant to spend a week with cousin Georgiana. You'll want the island to yourselves, She said, Airily. Balansi was touched. Olive had remembered. Three years. But Lancey could hardly believe it. She stood on the porch with her arms folded loosely about herself, Looking across the water. Three years since she had walked out of her mother's house, Married a man Dearwood considered a mystery and a scoundrel. And stepped into a life. She had never been. Dared to imagine. The evening had drawn itself in, Soft and golden tonight, The lake breathing a hush against the shore, As if it too were aware of the occasion. The porch of the main cabin was dressed like a theatre for their celebration. Barney had fussed with lanterns until the railings glowed with warm points of light. A cloth was spread on the little table, Plain white, Softened by a spray of meadow flowers that Balancy had gathered that afternoon. There were two candles in brass holders, Their flames dancing in the lake breeze, And a loaf of Barney's best bread, Still fragrant from the oven. Three years, " Barney said, Coming out with a jug of lemonade beaded with moisture. And you haven't run screaming back to Deerwood yet. That's a record. Valancy laughed, Tilting her head. Well, I might have, If you hadn't improved so much. He pulled a face of mock offence, Then leaned against the portrayal, Watching her. With that glint of boyish amusement that always made her heart give a little leap. The meal was simple, But abundant. Trout caught that morning. New potatoes with a dill from Valancy's garden boxes. And gooseberry chutney in a jar that bore Olive's unmistakably careful label. It had arrived via the hands of young Tom Gray at the mainland dock, Along with a note scrawled in Olive's precise script. If you're determined to persist in scandalous happiness, You might as well have something sharp to put on your table. Try not to quarrel over it. Happy anniversary. Barney had laughed so heartily when he read it. That Balancy was certain half the lake had heard. Now he set the jar in the middle of the table with a flourish. From the princess herself. Though if it's as tart as she is, I might regret this. They both laughed. And for a while there was only the sound of cutlery and the lake's rhythmic whispering. Later, Barney leaned back in his chair and sighed with contentment. Do you remember that day? Valancy did not need to ask which. She saw it vividly, As if it had happened yesterday. The clandestine drive out to the minister's house, The stunned faces of Dearwood when the news spread, The way her family had sat in frozen, Choking silence, As if the world itself had cracked asunder. Aunt Wellington had declared she would never forgive such disgrace. Olive had looked as if she might faint from sheer mortification. Her mother. Had not spoken a word to her. For months. Valancy had borne it all. With an odd twist. Secret sort of glee. Underneath all the fury and scandal. She had found her true, Blue castle. At last. They thought you'd ruined your life, Barney said, Eyes twinkling as if he were sharing some inside joke with the stars. I think some of them still think it, " Valancy replied softly. But they don't know. They can't. The conversation meandered as easily as the waves lapping the dock. They spoke of Olive and of the grey children. Of Abel, Who had dropped by the other week and left his tobacco pouch behind. Of Georgiana's last letter, Which had been filled with gossip, Funeral notices and underlinings. Yet, Nestled between accounts of Mrs Fletcher's remarkably well-attended funeral, Dorothea's new baby, And Uncle Benjamin's sciatica, Georgiana had written almost breathlessly of olive. She's looking better than I've ever seen her, Valancy. Positively. Looming. She laughs more easily. And doesn't seem to bristle so much at trifles. It's the oddest. Happiest thing to witness. Georgiana's delight had warmed Valancy more than all the rest of the news combined. Soon, The couple drifted, As they often did on anniversaries, Back into fond memories. Barney leaned forward, Resting his elbows on the table, Eyes alight with reminiscence. Might have been a queen. " Valancy's smile deepened. I was only trying not to cry. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I'd. . . Just be brave. Begging you. Not to change your mind. He shook his head. Slowly. Tenderly. Change my mind? Not then. Not ever. A pause. Although you must admit the wedding itself was a scandal of shambles. No flowers, No fuss, No proper cake. No fuss was perfect. The fuss came after, Didn't it? We've been living in the scandal ever since. But I'd say it's the happiest scandal in Muskoka. Her eyes shone in the candlelight. I wouldn't have changed one thing. Barney gave a mock solemn nod. Except perhaps the old minister's cough that nearly carried him off, Mid-vowel. I thought for a moment we'd be dead. Legally unfinished. They both laughed, The memory sweet with absurdity now. The night folded round them, Soft with cedar scent and lake air. Valancy tipped her head. Eyes glinting. You know. . . I never did thank you. For being such a good sport about. The whole business of my proposing to you. He gave a low chuckle. Good sport. I've dined out on that tale in my imagination for years. The boldest woman in Muskoka, Down on one knee, In spirit, To me. Don't exaggerate. I was far too stiff-kneed for that. Still, Barney said, That took courage. And it rather made me look like the prize, Didn't it? Valancy laughed. You mean you've been secretly gloating ever since? Absolutely. But don't worry, I never let on just how smug I am about it. He paused, Then his voice softened. Truth is. I thank my lucky stars every day. You did ask me. I'd never have had the sense to ask you myself. I'd still be rattling around in this old house. A lonely crank of a bachelor. Best offer of my life. Best I'll ever have. For a moment. But Lancey couldn't answer. She pressed her lips together. And the gentle lapping of the waves filled the silence. She lifted her face. And the look she gave him was wordless gratitude, Wordless wonder. He saw it, Smiled. And brushed his fingers lightly across her cheek. I love you, He said simply. I'm the luckiest man. In Muskoka. After a while, The talk turned to travels. Valancy had fetched the leather-bound journal they had kept, Worn from being thumbed through so often. She laid it on the table, Opening at random. Oh, Here, Do you remember the little pension in Florence with the courtyard full of lemon trees? The landlady thought we were brother and sister because we laughed so much. Yes, She nearly fainted when she discovered we were married. And do you remember the night the rain came down like a Roman tragedy and we had to move the bed twice to dodge the leaks? And you said we were simply following the stars across the ceiling. But Lancey's laughter rippled like the water below. Barney's grin softened. We were absurdly happy, Weren't we? In all those half-wrecked rooms. It somehow always felt like home. More home than deer would ever did, I imagine. Valancy traced a fingertip down the margin of the page, Where she had once scribbled a note about a street violinist they had heard in Paris. Everywhere was home, Because you were there. He reached across the table and clasped her hand. And because you were. The journal lay open between them, But neither read further. Instead, They watched the stars blink over the lake in the darkening sky. A candle flame gutted and revived, Somewhere across the water. Leander called his evening song. For Lance, He looked out across the lake. Seems strange, Doesn't it? Three years. It feels like forever. And also, No time at all. Barney leaned back, Drawing in the night air. I never thought I'd live three years so richly. Valancy smiled. I didn't think I'd live three more years at all. For Lancey Rose then. Came round behind him and slipped her arms about his shoulders. She laid her cheek against his hair, Breathing in the faint scent of wood smoke that always clung to him. I think. These have been the best three years any two people ever lived together, " she said softly. Careful, He teased back. That sounds dangerously close to sentimentality. I don't care, She said. I mean it. Bees were. Easily the best three years of my life. No comparison. And I can only hope for more with you, Barney. She hesitated, Straightening up, Then adding with a faint, Almost incredulous laugh. And to think. Dr Trent said, I ought to have been dead. Two years ago or more. Thank goodness for him, All the same. I'd never have had the courage to do what I did and ask you to marry me without his miserable diagnosis. Strange, Isn't it? How the worst thing I ever heard. Turned out to be the best gift I was ever given. Barney tilted his head back enough to glance up at her, His eyes glimmering. I'll never be one of Dr. Trent's admirers. He got it wrong. So wrong. Somehow. In doing so, He handed me I am grateful too. Valanci gave a soft laugh and kissed the top of his head. The evening had deepened into that peculiar hush of summer twilight, The lake now seeming to hold its breath. Across the water, The first whippoorwills were calling. A broad, Waning moon had risen, Casting a silver sheen along the ripples near the shore. Barney rose and stretched, His joints cracking companionably. Well! We've eaten, We've made our solemn declarations, And we've scandalised the loons with our displays of affection. I'd say it's been a very fitting anniversary. Not quite finished, Balancy countered with a spark in her eye. There's still cake. Cake? Barney groaned in mock despair. I thought you were trying to make me a temperate man. Hopeless case, She said serenely. Besides, This bit is ours. I saved the slice with the thickest frosting. She brought out the plate she had hidden away in the kitchen and set it triumphantly on the little table between them. Bani accepted it with exaggerated reverence, As though receiving an imperial decree. They ate the cake together, Laughing at the smears of icing Valancy dabbed onto his nose. Which he refused to wipe off until she leaned across and kissed it away. By the time the last crumbs had vanished, The stars were burning in their thousands, Clear and close above the dark lake. For a while, They sat in contented silence. Valancy curled against his side, His arm warm and easy about her. What do you ever think? She said softly. What it might have been like if. . . We hadn't found each other. No. Barney said flatly, Why would I waste time on such a dreary hypothesis? She gave a low laugh. It isn't dreary to me. It's a reminder. That my old life could have gone on and on and on. Grey, Narrow, Shrinking, Confined, And instead. . . Here we are. It makes me so grateful. Then I'll allow it, He said, With mock gravity. So long as you don't dwell too much on those torturous old relatives of yours. Who didn't know what treasure they had walking among them. Melancy smiled, Looked down, Said nothing. Presently, Barney stirred. Come. Let's take the canoe out. The lake's like glass tonight. Will paddle to the middle and float a while. Best way I know to crown an anniversary. Valancy needed no urging. Within minutes they were in the canoe, Barney's paddle dipping quietly into the water. The cool night air was threaded with the scent of pine and the faint sweetness of clover. They let the canoe drift after Barney had rested the paddle across his knees, Leaning back to gaze upward. The stars Poured down, Unbroken. Mirrored in the dark water until it seemed they floated in an endless sea of light. A shooting star streaked across the sky. And Balancy gasped, Clutching his hand. Wish Moonlight. Barney Merman. I already have. Everything I could wish for. She whispered. Then, With a shy smile, She added, Accept. Perhaps more years together. Many more. Barney reached over and drew her against him. That is one wish I'll spend my life trying to grant. They floated in silence after that, Rocked by the faintest swell of the water, Listening to the distant cry of a loon. When, At last, They paddled back and tied up at the dock, They lingered a few minutes longer on the porch, Reluctant to let the night end. Inside, The cabin glowed with lamplight, Welcoming and familiar. Banjo stretched luxuriously on his cushion by the stove. Valancy paused to stroke him. Happy anniversary, Moonlight, " Barney said, Kissing her hair. Happy Anniversary. She whispered back. And in the quiet of that glorious July night, With laughter still on their lips and the tang of pine-scented wood smoke in the air, They closed the door behind them. Chapter 18 The Stars Deserve Young Seekers A Saturday or two later, When Barney drove up to the mainland landing, Tom was there waiting. With a smaller girl beside him. She had two brown plaits, A faded cotton dress and a solemn expression that made her look older than her nine years. This is Ruth, Tom said. My sister. Ruth looked directly at Barney. Ma said I could come too if there was anything I could do. Barney glanced at Tom, Then back at her. I expect we can find something. Her face brightened at once. There were parcels to carry down from the car, Jars to pack carefully into a wooden crate, And two large sacks of flour, Which Barney reserved for himself and Tom to manoeuvre together. Ruth took charge of the smaller things, Without needing much instruction. Carrying them one by one to the boat and fitting them neatly wherever she found room. By the time everything was loaded, Barney looked over the supplies. Well now. . . You two may as well come over with me and help unload it all. Ruth stared at him. To the island. If you like, Tom gave her a warning look, Though he himself was plainly interested. They climbed aboard. Valancy was in the garden when the boat came in. She straightened at the sound of the motor and shaded her eyes, Then headed down to the waterfront. Wow! Look who you've brought! Tom climbed out first and reached back for one of the parcels. Ruth followed, Looking everywhere at once. At the trees, The little house above the shore, And especially at the two cats watching from the sun-warmed steps. We came to help, Tom explained. So I see, Said Valancy. I'm glad. The morning passed pleasantly. Tom helped Barney carry supplies up from the dock and stack kindling beneath the shed roof. Ruth brought jars into the pantry for Valancy and gathered beans from the garden into a basket. She was intensely serious about every task, And twice went back to straighten things she had already put away. Then Banjo appeared. He came strolling round the corner of the house, Stopped at the sight of Ruth and regarded her with grave suspicion. Ruth stopped too. That's Banjo, Valancy said. Ruth crouched cautiously and held out her hand. Banjo sniffed her fingers. Considered the matter. And then rubbed his whole length against her shins. Her solemnity vanished. Oh. Tom, Feel how soft he is. Tom was carrying an armful of small branches towards the shed. We're supposed to be working! I am working. You're stroking a cat. Ruth looked down at Banjo, Who had now flopped shamelessly across her shoes. Barney passed them, Carrying another bundle of wood. You won't get much done if Banjo decides otherwise. A moment later, One of the crows swept low across the clearing and landed near the garden, Ruth sprang upright. Is that Nip? Possibly, Said Valancy. Autark, Barney added. The crow seized something from beside the garden path and flapped away with it. Tom shouted and ran after it. Ruth followed instantly. For a little while, Their voices carried through the trees, Indignant and laughing, Until they came back, Flushed and breathless. "'Lost it, ' Tom said. Barney nodded gravely. You did your best. At noon, Valancy called them to eat. She had set out bread, Cheese, Cold potatoes, Cucumbers and lemonade beneath the trees. Tom hesitated beside the table. We can eat. "'Course you can, ' Valancy said. He still looked uncertain. Barney sat down and reached for the bread. You've been here all morning working. Sit. That settled it. Ruth ate with wholehearted concentration. Tom tried at first to be more restrained, But hunger soon overcame him. Olive wandered over from Windward halfway through the meal, Sketchbook under one arm. Oh, She said, Surprised, We have company. Ruth's eyes went immediately to the book. Do you? Draw animals. Sometimes. Could you draw Banjo? Olive looked towards Banjo. Who had settled nearby with his tail curled neatly around his paws. I could try. Ruth edged closer. Soon, Tom was peering over Olive's shoulder too, While she made a quick little sketch. A few minutes later, Olive tore the page carefully from the sketchbook and handed it to Ruth. Ruth studied it with shining eyes. It looks just like him Tom leaned in for another look. It really does. Ruth thanked Olive and carried the drawing over to the veranda to tuck it carefully where nothing could blow it away. Then the two children went back to help with the last of the morning's work. By early afternoon, There was nothing more that needed doing. Down at the dock, Barney reached into his pocket and counted out Tom's pay. Then he counted Ruth's separately into her hand. She stared at the coins for a moment before closing her fingers around them. Tom tucked his own carefully into his pocket. Next Saturday, He asked, If your mother says so. She will, Ruth looked up hopefully. Me too. Barney glanced at her. If there's enough to keep you both busy. " Ruth nodded, Perfectly satisfied with that. On the way back across the water, Ruth sat clutching her coins in one hand and Olive's little sketch of banjo in the other. Tom sat beside her, His own wages tucked carefully into his pocket. Halfway across, Ruth said something about the crow, And Tom burst out laughing. Barney glanced over at him. The laugh had already gone, But the grin remained. Barney, Smile too. And turned his eyes back to the water. By late July, Olive had grown gratefully accustomed to the gentle rhythms of the island. The mornings were entirely hers, A sacred time, When she could slip quietly into the canoe, Paddle across the shimmer of Mistawis, And settle in some sun-dappled corner to sketch and paint. A canvas propped on her lap. She would lose herself in the play of light on the lake. Capturing the tilt of the trees, The drift of the clouds, And the soft shadows that pooled beneath the pines. This particular morning, She had been working at Wynwood on a rendering of the Grey family's cottage. Imagining it framed on the wall someday above their hearth. She had taken to leaving small sketches for them as little gifts, Tucked into parcels. Or presented in person when she could. A little gesture of fondness for the young family. She had just reached for a new pot of water to rinse her brushes when a clanging rang out across the water from the mainland dock. The sound was unexpected. Echoing loud against the trees and breaking the morning's quiet. Olive froze, Her hand poised mid-air. Frowning. Across at the mainland dock, An old man stood, Larger than life. A huge box planted at his feet. He stood clanging the bell repeatedly, Waving with flamboyant enthusiasm and booming out a greeting that carried easily across the water. BUNNY! Bernard Redfern! Where are you hiding, Boy? I've come bearing gifts and tidings and Barney's brow rose as he stepped out onto the porch. Well, That's not a regular delivery, He murmured. The figure stood waving irrepressibly, Hat held high, Laughter booming over the lake, Barney shook his head. He never does anything quietly, He muttered. From the garden, Valancy came round, Curiosity lifting her brow too, As she took in the spectacle. Olive then emerged from her cottage, Frowning slightly at the clanging bell and the flurry of motion across the water. Though she looked faintly amused. The man on the dock was short and stout, With the unmistakable rubiconed glow of someone accustomed to theatrics rather than subtlety. His overcoat, A light fawn shade, Billowed around him, And his tie, No ordinary tie, Flashed an almost comical brilliance of green. Even at this distance, She could sense the larger-than-life personality in every exaggerated gesture. Barney, Predictably unflappable despite the spectacle, Gestured for his father to wait at the dock I'll bring him over, He said, Turning to Valancy, His eyes twinkled faintly. Brace yourself, My father never arrives quietly. Then he tossed a quick glance towards Olive. As he pulled on his boots, Calling over, Don't be alarmed, Olive. It's only my father. Dr. Redfern was landed with theatrical flair. Bowing deeply as though the dock were a stage rather than a mere platform. Olive covered her mouth, Trying not to laugh as he sniffed dramatically at the air. Ugh. Miss Star Wars. The perfect wilderness. So good to see you all. So very good. Barney helped steady his father as he stepped onto the island. Dad, He said, This is Miss Olive Stirling, Balancy's cousin. She's been keeping us company on the island. Dr. Redfern's eyes swept over Olive with exaggerated appraisal. So you must be the clever young lady who has taken Miss Starwiss by storm. A pleasure, My dear, Truly. A pleasure, He boomed, Inclining his head in a flourish. Olive curtsied slightly, Struggling valiantly to preserve her composure. Dr Redfern, She murmured. What an honour it is to meet you. Barney quickly moved to the edge of the boat, Hauling up the enormous box that had come over with his father. And now you two prepare yourselves. Dad has brought some gift worthy of the occasion. Dr Redfern clapped his hands together, Eyes twinkling. A belated anniversary present! He boomed excitedly. Purple. Who's? My own invention. As you well know, Guaranteed to invigorate, Inspire and improve life immeasurably. A token of my undying affection. And scientific foresight. Valancy bit her lip. Uncertain whether to laugh or groan. Purple. Pills, She echoed. Casting Barney a sidelong glance. Barney set the box down with a thump and dusted off his hands. Yes! Behold! My father's favourite legacy to the world. They cure everything. From ennui to ingrown toenails. Or so he claims. Dr Redfern wagged a finger at his son. Not claims, Young man. Prooves! Science is built on proof. Why, Only last week I took three myself and felt a decade younger within the hour. He puffed out his chest. Looking around for admiration. Olive, Startled into laughter, Tried to hide it behind her hand. Decades younger, " she teased. At that rate, You'll vanish back into childhood before the summer's out. Dr Redfern bellowed. A sharp witch! We'll get along splendidly. He leaned towards Olive, Lowering his voice as if confiding in her. You've no idea. How tiresome it is being surrounded by people who refuse to see genius. When it's staring them in the face! Barney rolled his eyes. But there was fondness in the gesture. Careful, Olive. He'll have you advertising purple pills before you know it. Dr Redfern looked suddenly serious. But tell me. My dear. What is life? Without a little daring. Without trying what the timid call impossible. Why, I'd wager Miss Darwis itself was once thought a fool's dream. And yet, Here you all are. Thriving. His gaze swept from Olive to Valancy, Then back again, His grand manner softening just a touch. Balanci. Moved despite herself, Felt the warmth of his words ripple through her. She remembered the bleak little house in Dearwood, The years of being told to shrink, To obey, To fade, And now. . . Here was Barney's father. Strange and splendid. Booming his approval. Of the very life she had somehow dared to choose. She caught Barney's eye. A sudden lump rose in her throat. Dr. Redfern, Oblivious to the tender current between them, Clapped his hands again. Now then! Enough standing about. Let us open this box. The future awaits. " Barney sighed dramatically. Oh gosh, Brace yourselves. This could be anything from bottles of pills to a troupe of dancing monkeys. Monkeys! Olive blurted, Eyes widening despite herself. With my father, Barney said dryly, Prying open the package, One never rules anything out. Barney wrestled the lid off the enormous box. Inside, Neat rows of small corked bottles gleamed in the afternoon light, Each filled with Suspiciously bright violet pellets. The sheer quantity of them. Was absurd. Hundreds, Perhaps thousands. Thousands stacked like soldiers awaiting orders. Olive. Gave a strangled laugh. Unable to help herself. Good heavens! She exclaimed. If the island ever falls ill, We needn't fear. We could dose the entire county! Not! Ew, My dear. Dr Redfern corrected grandly, Seizing one of the bottles and holding it aloft, To be invigorated. Enlivened! More radiant with purpose. Purple pills for all. Valancy caught Barney's eye, Both of them fighting not to laugh outright. That. Beneath the mountain of violet bottles lay something else. Barney dug deeper. Frowning. Then pulled free a smaller parcel wrapped in oilskin and tied with string. It was heavy. Oddly shaped. When the wrapping fell away. For Lancey gasped. It was an old brass telescope. Polished but scarred with use, Its fittings still faintly gleaming. Dr Redfern, Suddenly gentler, Spread his arms as if unveiling a treasure. Ah, This, My dears, Is no pill. Though it has given me more cures of the spirit. Than all the drafts I ever devised. Bye. Telescope. Companion of my youth. Witness to countless skies. I thought you might like to see your moonlit kingdom with the eyes that once showed me mine. Valancy touched the brass reverently with curiosity. Barney's usual grin softened into something quiet. Almost boyish. Even Olive, Who. . . Had been bracing for further absurdities. Found her heart twisting unexpectedly. Well, Dr. Redfern declared, Instantly swelling again with pride, It's wasted on me these days, Too many clouds in my eyes, But to you, I entrust it. The stars deserve young seekers. Valancy blinked, Unable to speak for a moment. Thank you. She said at last. Means a great deal. Barney slung an arm around her shoulder, Giving her a squeeze. Trust dad to bury his heart under a mountain of snake oil. Dr. Redfern barked a laugh. But you'll thank me. When the purple pills keep you vigorous enough to use this telescope for 50 years yet. Over supper, Dr Redfern had demanded a full account of their travels and would not be satisfied with respectable answers. He wanted mishaps, Absurdities and near disasters. Before long, Barney and Valancy were talking over one another, Correcting each other's versions and laughing. While Olive listened with interest. Fascinated amusement. Dr Redfern contributed several outrageous travelling tales of his own and declared that seeing the world was almost as invigorating as a hefty dose of purple pills. Later, As the sun dipped lower, The lake stilled into a sheet of pewter. Supper had been cleared away, And Dr Redfern, Still brimming with energy after a glass of Barney's home-brewed cider, And an alarming handful of his own pills. Was determined to unveil his gift properly. He had already scattered little violet bottles across the kitchen shelf, Like so many soldiers, Each bearing the florid label, Dr. Redfern's Purple Pills, For vigour, Vitality, Vision. But he was certainly not finished. Ladies, And my errant son. Come forth, He cried. Carrying a long polished case out onto the veranda with exaggerated pomp. For what is life? What is science? What is? Action! If not. Magnify. Barney shot Valancy a look. Half amused, Half resigned. And helped his father prop the case on the porch rail. With practised hands, Dr Redfern set the brass telescope upon its stand and began adjusting the fittings. Olive caught her breath. Ugh. It's beautiful. Not half as beautiful as what it shall reveal, Dr. Redfern declared, My anniversary gift. To you both. Though, Dear Miss Stirling, You must share in it too. Tonight? I shall introduce you. . . To the moon herself. Face to face. By the time night fully fell, The telescope was trained high. The silver disc of the rising moon suspended above the black lake. Dr Redfern insisted each of them take a turn. Olive bent to the eyepiece first. The world fell away. As she found herself staring at craters and shadows, Vast seas of light and dark. She pulled back with a sharp intake of breath. Eyes glistening. It looks so Nia. She whispered. So. . . Alive somehow. For Lancey's turn left her silent too. She lingered longer than the others, Her heart swelling at the luminous world, So close yet unreachable. Barney rested a hand on her shoulder, Leaning to murmur in her ear, Moonlight staring into moonlight. Dr Redfern clapped his hands in triumph. Have I not given you more than pills? More than promises? I give you. Eternity itself. Writ in silver fire. Above. The waters Olive laughed softly. But there was something. Hushed in it. She turned her face upward. No lens between her and the heavens. And for once, Let herself simply be. Marvel. Barney rested against the veranda rail, Gazing at his father with wry affection. Only you, Dad, Could arrive with a thousand bottles of quack medicine. And still managed to give us something unforgettable. Dr Redfern retorted in mock offence. Science, Sir! Science! And? Love. Don't forget that. I love you, Son. He stood there in the moonlight. Looking. Wild. A little Ridiculous yet strangely noble all the same, His silver hair glinting as though he were kin to the stars themselves. Olive could scarcely believe all that she was seeing and hearing. For a long time, She had tried to picture Barney's mysterious father. The elusive millionaire who had lived in distant Montreal, Spoken of in whispers by dearwood gossips as if he were a king in exile. She had expected grandeur. Perhaps a stately figure in fine clothes, With a cold gaze and cutting manners, Someone severe and formidable. Maybe even a little frightening. And yet, Here he was. Hair wild from the wind, Voice booming like a circus ringmaster, Laughing at his own jokes and handing out purple pills as if they were lozenges at a village fete. His waistcoat bulged slightly where he had stuffed extra packets into his pockets and his eyes twinkled with a boyish mischief. That left Olive quite stunned. She glanced helplessly at Barney. He only smirks. Leaning easily against the portrail, Arms folded, As if he had been waiting all along. For Olive's carefully held motions to shatter. Balancy, Meanwhile, Was radiant. Half in laughter, Half in delight, As if the evening had handed her a particularly generous and humorous gift. Dr Redfern sank down onto the porch steps, Still chuckling contentedly to himself. He fished another pill bottle from his pocket and pressed it solemnly into Olive's hand. Take one whenever you feel life is too dull, My dear. Though I doubt you'll need it here. My son and daughter-in-law seem to have brewed their own potent elixir of joy. Still. A little insurance never hurts. Olive found herself laughing again, Despite her bewilderment. Though privately, She thought this was hardly the way a dignified man of millions really ought to behave. When the laughter subsided, Dr. Redfern tilted his head back to study the moon again. Now climbing steadily over the treetops. His face softened for a moment in the silver light, And he spoke with a quiet gravity that caught them all unawares. Strange, Isn't it? I've travelled half the globe. Made fortunes. Lost son. Built more. Yet. The most enduring riches. Are always here. Above us, Around us. The same moon. That shone over my youth. Now shines over you. And yours. Makes me think. He turned suddenly, Pinning Barney and Valancy with his gaze. When, Pray, Are you going to give me grandchildren to share this with too? I'm not getting any younger, You know? Valancy inhaled sharply, Colour rising in her cheeks. Barney threw his head back and roared with laughter. Dad! You've been here just a few hours and already you're demanding airs? Demanding? Not at all. Yearning, Dr. Redfern protested, Hand over his heart. What use is all my fortune? My research, My purple pills. If I cannot bounce a grandchild or two upon my knee before I depart this weary old world. Montreal is far too quiet. You must come and visit me there soon, Both of you. With Miss Stirling as chaperone, If you like. Do bring along a little one when you can contrive it. Olive turned hastily away, Biting her lip. The sheer audacity of the man. Barney reached over and gave Valancy's hand a squeeze. Valancy and I will think on it, " he said lightly. But you'd better not put Olive to work knitting baby clothes just yet. Olive snorted. You'd be lucky if I could manage a scarf without holes. Dr. Redfern chuckled. Ah, You see? Wit as well as beauty. You three have made a little paradise of sorts here. And I shall brag of it endlessly when I go back to Montreal. But alas! He stood brushing off his trousers. Go back, I must. The moonlight will serve me well across this channel, But It grows late. And even millionaires' knees grow stiff if they stay too long on damp ground. Barney, Of course, Insisted on taking his father back. Valancy and Olive walked with them to the dock, Carrying a lantern whose circle of light wavered over the water. Dr Redfern strode ahead as if the night belonged to him, Declaring the air was better than champagne. Olive still couldn't reconcile this boisterous man. With the sizeable fortune behind him. At the dock, Barney steadied the boat while his father clambered in with an agility that startled Olive further. He settled himself, Hat at a jaunty angle, And beamed up at the two women. Now, Don't wait too long to bring me that grandchild, He cried merrily. And don't forget, There's a city called Montreal. We're an old man. Would be very glad to see you. Olive coloured Scarlet, Valancy laughed outright. Barney only shook his head as he cranked the motor. It caught with a sputter than a steady thrum. Dr. Redfern lifted his hat in an exuberant sweep. Blessings upon your island kingdom, He called, His voice carrying out over the dark water. Then, With a final ringing laugh, The boat skimmed into the moonlit ripples, Dwindling to a shadow against the silver path of the lake. The two women lingered a moment in the stillness after the boat had slipped into darkness. The moon hung round and bright above the trees, Gilding the reeds, Drawing a track of light straight to their feet. Olive. Let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. I. . . Don't know what I expected, She admitted, But It certainly wasn't. That. Valancy, The moonglow silvering her short black hair, Smiled. Yes, He isn't what people imagine, Is he? He's so much more. Olive gave a half-laugh, Half-grown. Heaven help us all. They turned back up the path towards the warm glow of the cabin windows. Chapter 19 dangerous hope. On a blissfully sunny day in early August, Barney came back from the mainland with a basket of supplies balanced on one arm and a small bundle of letters in the other. He dropped the basket on the table, Kissed for Lancy's cheek in passing, And set the letters down beside Olive. Your kingdom's correspondence, Ladies? The postmaster says I'm working harder than he is these days. Balancy barely looked up from tying a neat string around her bundle of lavender. She was used to Barney arriving with scraps of news from the mainland, Tucked in among tins of beans and packets of nails. But Olive, Sorting through the envelopes, Suddenly went very still. Her fingers closed on a square cream one. The hand. Unmistakable. Miss Harrington. Her old art mistress from Port Lawrence. The one who had once pressed the Toronto Scholarship. Into Olive's clammy palm. Olive's breath caught. And for a moment, She didn't speak at all. Olive sank back onto the window seat. The envelope unopened, Her knuckles white around it. It can't be. She whispered. Not after all this time. Barney glanced up from the doorway, Biting into a ripe peach. What sort of news? Looks like it might bite. Olive's voice shook. It's. . . About the. . . Scholarship! It has to be. I wrote her a little note last month. Just a passing question, Really. I never thought anything would come of it. I wonder what it says? The room felt suddenly smaller. For Lancey Rose, And cross to Olive, Lavender stems dropping from her lap. Open it and find out, She urged gently. Olive fumbled. Broke the seal. And red. The words danced before her eyes. Impossibly alive. Miss Harrington thought. There might still be a way to revive the scholarship. Some provision that had somehow remained unclaimed. And might perhaps now be extended? To Olive. The chance to study in Toronto. To paint under masters whose very names made her hands itch. Charcoal and color. For a moment. Cabin swam. With the dreams of her younger self. All pressed flowers and sketchbooks. That she had thought, Long ago, Buried. Her voice came low. Almost frightened. She thinks. They might still take me. If I want to try for it. But I'd have to go by mid-September! She looked up at Barney and Valancy, Her eyes enormous. That's just a few weeks away! No one spoke at first. The gulls outside cried across the water. Fierce and free. Olive pressed the letter to her breast. Oh. Oh my, It's. . . Too much. Too soon, Too. . . Late. She said. How could I possibly uproot myself like that? At my age? What would people say? My mother would faint dead away. Yet. Her lips trembled into a smile that was half sob. And yet. . . It would be. Such an opportunity. Barney leaned his elbow on the mantle. Then, Don't decide today. Olive stared at him. You've waited this many years, He said. Another day won't hurt. He's right, Said Valancy. I'll live. Looked down at the letter again. Toronto. The words seem to have grown enormous on the page. The rest of the day, She carried the letter with her. Tucked carefully into her pocket. Sometimes she forgot it was there. Then she would move and hear the faint crackle of paper. And her stomach would turn over again. Barney, Meanwhile, Seemed caught by his own quiet flame. Olive noticed him scribbling in a notebook after supper. Muttering lines under his breath. Another John Foster masterpiece, She asked. Barney glanced up. Just testing the engine to see if it still runs. Valancy smiled. It still gave her a peculiar little thrill to hear that name attached so casually to the man sitting across from her. Once. Before she had known Barney at all, John Foster's books. Had opened windows onto a world she had thought she would never be free to enter. She had loved his words. Long before she knew the man who wrote them. And now, Here he was, Pencil behind one ear, Frowning at a sentence and drinking cold tea. His creative fire seemed to burn more brightly now since their return to Mystawis. Valency. Was delighted. The hazy summer air grew heavy. Bees buzzing drowsily over the clover. Melancy woke one morning with her stomach roiling. A faint sickness that sent her back to bed. While Barney brewed strong tea. She laughed it off, Blaming the heat or a hasty supper. But a secret flicker of possibility kindled in her heart. She busied herself with jars and berries, Yet her thoughts often drifted elsewhere, Pondering her own blossoming possibilities. A plan was laid to take a surprise picnic over to Eliza Grey's cottage. Valancy packed the hamper with almost maternal care. Fresh bread, Sliced ham, Jars of raspberry jam, Lemonade. Even a custard tart Barney had coaxed from the oven. Olive added a basket of peaches and plums, And after much hesitation, Slipped her finished, Framed sketch of the grey cottage into her satchel. She had worked at it for weeks, Shading every shingle and shadow with love and care. The day shone clear and golden when they set out across the bay. Olive sat in the stern, Letter tucked inside her pocket like a secret stone. Her head still spinning with the mingled ache of decision and possibility. The little propeller boat purred them over the water, Its wake flashing white against the dark green stillness of the bay. The August air was thick with the smell of pine warmed in the sun, And Olive turned her face into the wind, Letting her hair loosen from its pins. It seemed absurd that the world could look so unchanged. While inside her. Everything had shifted. Tilting on some unseen axis. When they pulled up at the dock on the mainland, Barney steadied the boat while Olive and Valancy stepped ashore with their baskets. A short drive later, The car rattled up the sandy track to the grey cottage, Where Eliza was already in the doorway, With her youngest clinging to her skirt, And the others tumbling in the grass. She waved so vigorously, The children began to copy her, A flurry of little hands and sunburnt faces. Wow! If this isn't a feast day, Eliza cried as Barney heaved the hamper out of the car. I was just saying to myself, We'd have to make do with porridge again for supper. And now! Look at you! Arriving like a royal procession. Oh, It's nothing so grand really, Valancy laughed, Her cheeks glowing as she smoothed out a picnic blanket with olive. But we did think a picnic would taste better in your garden than ours. The grey children fell upon the blankets with squeals, Though Olive noticed how politely they waited to eat until their mother nodded. Hunger had trained them in restraint. Olive's heart gave a twist at how thin their arms still were, Though they were certainly filling out compared with the hollow-eyed waifs she had first met a few weeks ago. Eliza herself seemed changed too. She spoke with more ease, Her shoulders less stooped, Her hands busy with a little pile of shirts she had taken in for mending. There was colour in her cheeks again. And a look of pride when she mentioned that neighbours were beginning to send steady work her way. The children were plainly better clothed, Their eyes brighter, They're laughter freer. Two of the older children immediately claimed Barney for a game of catch, And within minutes he was being soundly defeated in the grass. Under the lilac bushes, Where the shade dappled soft on the grass, Valancy arranged the refreshments with careful delight. The bread wrapped in a clean cloth, The lemonade in glass bottles still pleasantly cool, The tart gleaming golden as a promise. Olive laid out the stone fruits, Then hesitated, With the framed drawing still in her satchel. You. She had meant it as a joke. A delightful surprise, But. . . Suddenly her confidence wavered. Would Eliza think it a frivolity? When what she needed most were sensible things, Like boots for the children and proper winter blankets. Yet when the meal was over and the children sprawled full-bellied on the grass, Olive indeed brought the picture forth. I. . . Don't know if this is of any use, She said awkwardly. But. . . I wanted you to have it. Your cottage. As it looks when the light falls just so in the afternoon. Eliza took it in her hands and gasp. Why? Miss Olive. It's beautiful. Look at the way you've caught the ivy Oh children, Come see, Isn't this our very own house? She traced the lines reverently, Her eyes wet. Ugh. You've made it look like a palace, Miss. I'll hang it above the mantle, Where we can all remember. How it feels. Yeah. Now. . . Today. Full. And safe. Olive coloured fiercely. Half ashamed of her tears. For the first time in years. She felt like she had given something that mattered. Balansi. Lent back on her elbow. Watching Olive. With a curious pang. Olive's face was luminous. Almost girlish in its wonder. Yet Valancy also saw the lines of strain that spoke of age and of choices deferred too long. In her own body, A softer strain was beginning. That mysterious queasiness. It seemed she could no longer blame on the weather. When she saw Eliza's children racing across the grass, Their hair flying like banners, Valancy's heart fluttered. With an A. That was not envy but hatred. Something. Altogether sweeter. She pressed her palm to her middle finger. As if to hush a secret. Too tender to speak now. Barney dropped beside them at last, Wiping his brow with exaggerated weariness. Thoroughly defeated. I shall require custard tart as consolation. The children shrieked with laughter, And Eliza sliced the tart with motherly delight. Olive laughed until she nearly choked on her lemonade. The afternoon lingered golden and heavy, The kind of day that stretches like honey. They played games with the children. Olive discovering she could still run if she kicked off her shoes. Valancy finding her stomach turned at the thought of too much motion. But cheering all the same. Eliza sat with Barney, Talking of winter fuel and whether she might manage to lay in enough potatoes before the frost. Later, Olive and Valancy leaned together against a tree, Watching the children roll down the slopes. It's strange, Olive said in a low voice, To feel both so old. And so young. Watching them. I almost believe. I could begin. Again. Balancy turned to her. Perhaps you can. Olive's hand went to her pocket, Where the letter burned. She didn't answer, But her eyes glistened with a dangerous hope. The shadows lengthened across the grey cottage garden until the grass turned dusky and cool. The children, Sleepy after so much food and play, Lay sprawled in a tangle at their mother's feet. Eliza's smile was tender and weary. The look of a woman who had spent too many years braced against hardship and was only now beginning to believe the worst might be over. Barney packed the empty jars and bottles back into the hamper, Whistling softly, While Valancy brushed crumbs from the quilt. Eliza touched Olive's arm before they left. Miss our live. That picture of the cottage I want you to know. It makes this house. Feel truly ours. I'll look at it every day. And think that we can weather. Anything. Olive flushed. Stammering a little. It was nothing. Just a sketch. Not to us, Eliza said firmly. You all. Have given my children a home. To be proud of. And I will be eternally grateful. The drive back to the landing was quieter. The heat of the afternoon lingered in the fields, The cicadas shrilling so loudly it seemed the air itself might split. Olive sat in the back seat, Chin propped on her hand. The letter crackled faintly in her pocket whenever the motorcar jolted over a rut. She did not take it out. Back at Misdarwis, The evening air felt cooler. The gulls wheeled over the bay, Shrieking. Barney tied the boat, While Valancy carried the blankets back inside. Olive, However, Lingered at the edge of the water. Staring across the ripples, As though the distant shore might hold her answer. That night, She tossed restlessly in Wynwood. Every time her eyes closed, Images surged. Canvases luminous with colour, The red-brick streets of Toronto alive with carriages and bicycles, The occasional clang of a streetcar, Rooms full of young students bent over their easels, But also her mother's stricken face, The gossipy murmurs of Dearwood, And her own self. Trembling and out of place among younger, Braver students. When sleep finally came. It was troubled. And she woke at dawn with her pillow damp. The next day passed in fits and starts. Olive wandered the island, Sketchbook in hand, But hardly drew a line before staring into the trees with a look that was nearer to panic than inspiration. Barney sat in Bluebeard's chamber, Papers scattered around him, Fountain pen moving furiously. As he murmured lines under his breath, Testing the rhythm of each phrase aloud. Valancy simmered blueberries for jam, Though her stomach rebelled at the smell. And she had to step outside more than once. Breathing in sharp lungfuls of pine. At dinner, Olive hardly touched her food. She pushed the potatoes round her plate. And finally burst out. It's absurd. I can't go. Imagine me. Packing up my life in a few weeks. Leaving? Miss Star Wars and Dearwood and. . . All I know behind. I should crumble. Before I even reached Toronto. She grimaced, And her eyes threatened to spill over into tears. Barney swallowed his mouth full of food. You needn't solve everything about Toronto tonight, Olive. You'll only have to decide whether to. . . Get on the train! I think. You'd surprise yourself, Olive, Said Valancy. Olive gave a little moan and hid her face in her hands. Oh, Don't encourage me. You'll make me believe I can do it. I'll be ruined when I fail. Neither Barney nor Balancy pressed her. And before long, Olive excused herself and made her way outside. The little house grew quiet. Together, Barney and Valancy cleared away the supper dishes in the easy silence that comes of long familiarity. Oh! Barney said suddenly. I nearly forgot. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a yellowed envelope. Found this while I was tidying Bluebeard's chamber. For Lancey took it. The handwriting caught her at once. My letter! For your mother. To exonerate me if you had indeed dropped dead, As Dr Trent predicted. She smiled as she turned it over in her hands. Remember being so certain. That she'd be reading this within the year. Me too. For a moment, They stood quietly together. Barney softly stroking her hair. For Lancey scanned the lines of the stiff old missive. The words belonged to another Valancy now. A frightened woman. Trying very hard to sound brave. One who had believed every sunrise might be her last. And who had found the courage to begin living only because. She believed. She was dying. Extraordinary. She murmured affectionately. What a remarkable mistake Dr Trent made, She said at last. He gave me a death sentence. Barney's eyes twinkled. He accidentally gave me a wife. Balancy laughed softly. She slipped the letter back into its envelope. But her hand. Lingered there. How strange life was. The little kitchen seemed suddenly. . . Full of all the years that had followed. When neither of them. Had expected. Three years ago, She had believed herself to be writing a farewell. She stood in her own little kitchen on Miss Starwyce. With Barney beside her. And deep inside. So quietly she scarcely dared give the thought words. She wondered if, Perhaps, Another little life had only just begun. Well, I don't think I'll send it after all. Barney chuckled and raised an eyebrow. Yes, A trifle late, She smiled. Mother might begin to worry. He laughed aloud and drew her into his arms. I love you Moonlight Later that evening, Olive caught sight of Barney writing again by lamplight. His notebook lay open, Lines scribbled across the page, His brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment, She almost envied his certainty. She wanted that same sense of Fire! That same willingness to leap. Into words or colour without fear, Without restraint. Olive stood a while in the doorway, Watching Barney's pen move across the page. The lamplight gilded his hair. And Valancy sat close by, Mending a tear in one of his jackets, Her head bent, A soft half-smile on her lips. The quiet between them was alive. Not empty. Olive felt as though she had blundered into a little sanctuary. That she could only look at from the threshold. She slipped outside into the night. Miss Darwiz was hushed. Except for the water lapping the shore and the distant call of a loon. Stars wield thick and bright above the trees. For a moment. She tipped her head back and breathed in the dark, Cool air. As if it could study her. Could she? Really? Do it. Toronto her paintings. The risk of beginning again. Could she really not do it? She hugged her arms around herself, The thoughts tugging at her. Dangerous and enticing. Later, Lying awake on her cot, Olive listens to the wind shifting through the pines. She did not know what she would choose. Or when? Part. For once. The uncertainty. Did not feel quite right. Sew. Unbearable. Chapter 20 The Road Up Back The idea was Barney's. They were eating supper on the porch one warm August evening, While Banjo stalked moths with more enthusiasm than success, And good luck slept through the proceedings. A bat flickered overhead. Barney set down his coffee cup. We should go see Abel. Valanci looked up. Able. We haven't been to his place since we got back. The suggestion appealed to Valancy immediately. It had been years since she had been to Abel's house. She had seen Abel many times since returning from their travels, But somehow they had never yet made the journey out to his place. I'd like that. Across the porch, Olive looked up abruptly from the sketchbook balanced on her knees. You're not expecting me to come too, Are you? Barney regarded her with exaggerated surprise. Why? Olive! The enthusiasm in your voice is deeply touching. Valancy laughed. Able likes you. That is exactly what worries me. Olive closed her sketchbook and shook her head. I shall remain here and hold down the fort. Somebody has to maintain standards while the two of you disappear off into the wilderness. I have several sketches to finish anyway. If I don't complete them soon, I shall lose my nerve and convince myself they're dreadful. Are they dreadful? Asked Barney. Probably. Well, Then I guess you're ready for art college. All artists seem convinced of that. Barney leaned back. We can stop in Deerwood first, Moonlight. I promised Fiddlehead Mike I'd leave those fishing hooks at the general store. Valancy laughed. Of course you don't. The matter was settled. The following morning was bright and fragrant with pine and sunshine. By mid-morning, They were in Deerwood. Barney left the motor car outside the general store while he carried in a parcel of fishing hooks and emerged 10 minutes later with a newspaper, A bag of peppermints. And a mysterious brass object that he insisted had been an excellent bargain. For Lancey had long since learned not to ask. They were crossing the street when a familiar voice halted them. Valancy. She turned. Uncle James stood on the boardwalk outside the bank. Time had not improved him. His moustache remained severe. His collar remained aggressive. The years had etched a network of stern lines around his eyes and mouth. As though life had spent decades presenting him with opportunities for disapproval. And he had conscientiously taken every one. He looked exactly like the sort of man who would correct a hymn book for being overly cheerful. Uncle James. He bowed stiffly. Mrs. Redfern. Barney's eyes gleamed. And Valancy at least recognized the warning signs. So good to see you again, Mr Stirling, Barney said in an overly sweet voice. Uncle James cleared his throat. I trust you are both well? We are. Excellent. Excellent! He did not look as though he found this excellent at all. There was a brief silence. Then Uncle James said with an air of confidence. Reluctant duty. I have recently had occasion to see your cousin, Olive. Valancy said. Uncle James frowned. She seems to have adopted certain ideas. The word emerged as though it tasted unpleasant. What sort of ideas? Asked Valancy. Oh, Notions, He waved a hand. Independent notions. Romantic notions vary. Tickle notions. Barney nodded gravely. Those are the worst kind. Uncle James either missed the irony or chose to ignore it. I fear she has been influenced. Valancy knew exactly where this was going. By whom? She asked sweetly. His gaze settled on her. My dear Valancy. There is no use pretending. Barney folded his arms. None at all. Olive. Was once a very sensible girl. My point is. . . Merely that some women are happier. When guided by experienced family members. Like Aunt Wellington asked Barney. The silence that followed. Was profound. Even the sparrows seemed interested. Uncle James's face twitched. James drew himself up. My concern. Is that Olive has reached a difficult period in her life. Such times require steadiness, Prudence, Sound advice. Indeed, Said Barney. She has suffered a disappointment. Balenci's expression softened slightly. Yes. James nodded as though encouraged, A painful one. Undoubtedly agreed Barney. And yet. . . Instead of settling quietly among her family. And considering her future sensibly. She appears determined to pursue a number of highly impractical ambitions. Barney's eyes widened. Good heavens! Exactly! Responded Uncle James with sudden enthusiasm. Apparently convinced that his cause was gaining ground. Perhaps there was an ounce or two of decency left in these heathens after all. I mean, Which ambitions are these? Has she taken up piracy? James stared. Piracy! It seems possible, From your tone. It is not piracy. What a relief. James's moustache quivered. I refer to this absurd notion of studying art. For Lance he felt a small flicker of irritation. Why absurd? Because it is! A compelling argument, Murmured Barney with mock solemnity. James ignored him. A young woman requires stability. Olive? Has. Stability. Said Valanci. She is intelligent. Talented. Quite capable of making decisions. Women often imagine themselves capable of making decisions, James pronounced with a sniff. Barney regarded him curiously. Do they? Certainly. And then what happens? They make mistakes. Barney considered this. So do men. That! Is entirely different. How? James opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again But Lancey suspected that nobody had challenged this particular theory in years, Perhaps decades. Men possess experience. Barney nodded thoughtfully. I once knew a very experienced man. Who tried to carry a stove. In a canoe. He sank both. For a moment, Even Valancy could not tell whether he was serious. That was one of Barney's most alarming qualities. Uncle James made a sound of exasperation. You persist in treating everything as a joke. Not everything. Barney's tone remained mild. Only the things that are funny. A horse and buggy rattled past. The driver raised a hand in greeting. Neither James nor Barney noticed. They were regarding one another. Like two gentlemen engaged in a duel. With entirely different weapons. At last, James sighed. It was the sigh of a man exhausted by the shortcomings of an unreasonable modern world. Very well. I can see there is little use discussing this matter. On that point, Said Barney, We are in complete agreement. James ignored this. He turned to Valancy. If you see Olive before I do. Tell her. That her family remains concerned. Balancy met his gaze. I'll tell her that her family loves her. Something flickered across his face. Annoyance perhaps? Or uncertainty? Or the uncomfortable suspicion that those two things might not always be the same. He adjusted his cuffs. Good day. Good day, Uncle James, Said Valancy. Good day, Mr. Stirling. Barney inclined his head. Always a pleasure. Uncle James walked away with great joy. Dignity. They watched him disappear down the street. Only to trip over a kerbstone as he turned the corner. The moment he was out of earshot, Barney released a long breath. Remarkable. What is? That moustache! Valancy laughed. What about it? It appears to disapprove of people. Independently from the rest of him. For several seconds, She tried, Unsuccessfully, Not to laugh. Then she gave up entirely. Releasing all of the tension she'd been holding for the last few minutes. The sound followed them all the way back to the motor car. The road leading up back seemed narrower than Balancy remembered. Perhaps all roads seemed narrower after one had crossed entire oceans. The forest pressed close on either side. Sunlight flashed through spruce and maple. Ferns crowded the ditches. Somewhere deep among the trees, A thrush was singing with such conviction. Fiction, That it sounded determined to improve the entire world by music alone. For several miles, Neither of them spoke much. At last, Barney said, Well, Moonlight, I do fear we've disappointed Uncle James. The lancy laughed. How dreadful. He seems to think Olive should be placed under supervision. Olive has spent 30 years under supervision. Exactly. Barney stared around a pothole. One would think 30 years had proved the point. Valancy smiled and turned her face towards the warm breeze. How strange life was. There had been a time when an encounter like that with Uncle James would have ruined an entire day. Now she found the experience amusing. At length, The road curved through a stand of tall pines, And roaring Abel's property appeared. The house looked very much as it always had. It sat among the trees with a stubborn air of belonging there. The woodshed leaned, The porch sagged slightly at one corner. An assortment of mysterious machinery still occupied part of the yard. Abel had never knowingly discarded anything. Yet the place was tidier than Valancy remembered. The vegetable garden had been weeded. The path was neatly swept. Fresh curtains hung in the windows. Wow, Said Bonnie. The Cousin the cousin. The distant relative who had arrived after Sissi's death. And apparently stayed. Or someone else capable of keeping things somewhat in order. Abel had predicted that this distant cousin would never equal Valancy's sterling housekeeping efforts. That was undoubtedly true. On the other hand. She had evidently succeeded in preventing complete domestic collapse at Abel's, Which was no small achievement. They began to sidle up the garden path, Admiring the trim flower beds. The front door opened. A stout, Sensible-looking woman with iron-grey hair stepped outside. Carrying a basket of laundry. She halted. They halted. For a moment, Everyone examined everyone else. Balanci smiled. You must be Cousin Myrtle. The woman's eyes narrowed slightly as she took them in. I'm Valancy. Valancy Redfern and this is my husband Barney Redfern. We're here to see Abel. Valancy. Yes. You're the one that was here before me. Valancy glanced around the yard. Place looks wonderful. Myrtle snorted. It looks respectable from a distance. It looks far better than when Abel is left to his own devices. Wow, That's not difficult. Myrtle smiled faintly. I'll say this for you. The old rascal still talks as if nobody's managed a kitchen properly since you left. Well, Lancey laughed. I'm sure that's not true. It certainly isn't. But don't tell him that. Myrtle shifted her basket. Is in the barn. A tremendous roar sounded from somewhere behind the house. Myrtle didn't even blink. Still in the barn, She said. Then she headed off towards the clothesline without another word. Barney and Valancy crossed the yard and headed towards the barn. The great doors stood open to the blazing August sunshine. Even before they reached them, The familiar smells drifted out to meet Valancy. Hay, Leather, Horse, Old wood warmed by decades of summers. Beneath it all lingered the sharp scent of oil and grease and iron. Unexpectedly, The smells brought back a flood of memories. For a moment. She was 29 again. And standing in this very place. With a pail in one hand and a basket of laundry in the other, While Abel roared instructions that Nobody intended to obey. The interior of the barn appeared much as she remembered. Which was to say that it appeared to have been organised according to principles known only to Roaring Able. Harnesses hung from pegs. Tools occupied every available surface. A collection of wagon wheels leaned against one wall. Several battered trunks lurked in shadowy corners. Lengths of chain, Coils of rope, And mysterious pieces of machinery were distributed throughout the building with cheerful disregard for logic. Balanci spotted an old butter churn. A broken lantern. Three axes. Part of what might once have been a cream separator? And something that looked alarmingly like Half of a steam engine. "'Do you suppose Abel knows where any of this is? ' she whispered. " Barney looked around. Not a chance. From somewhere deeper in the barn came a metallic clanging. Then a muttered oath. Then another clang. They followed the sounds. At the rear of the barn stood an ancient farm wagon. One wheel had been removed. The remaining structure was supported by blocks of timber and looked as though it had been undergoing repairs since Confederation. Abel was crouched beside it. His sleeves were rolled above his elbows. His blue flannel shirt bore generous streaks of grease. One enormous hand gripped a wrench. The other held what appeared to be a bolt of considerable antiquity. For a moment, Neither Barney nor Valancy spoke. The sight of him there was oddly reassuring. Abel seemed less like a man than a permanent feature of this landscape. His great beard was still magnificent. It flowed over his chest like a fiery banner. Streaked now with some white. His snow-white hair stood up in rebellious tufts beneath an old hat whose best years had plainly occurred in another century. His eyebrows remained astonishing. Valanci had forgotten just how astonishing. He looked up. His striking blue eyes were exactly the same. Bright, Keen, Mischievous. Young, Still young, Despite all his years. For an instant, Surprise flashed across those steely blue eyes. Then his face split into a grin. Well, Now he's straightened up. The movement seemed to unfold forever. Abel had always been a large man, And age had done nothing to reduce him. He still rose like a bear standing on its hind legs. My girl! Valancy laughed. The next moment she found herself enveloped in a hug powerful enough to rearrange several ribs. He released her and seized Barney's hand. Redfern? Able. Still causing trouble? I do my best. Good lad. Abel nodded approvingly. Then he pointed at the wagon. Damn thing's been fighting me all morning again. Barney examined it. It appears to be winning. Abel snorted. Rubbish! The wheel's rotten! The wagons rotten, Said Barney. The wagon's sound. Barney tapped one of the sideboards. A small fragment of wood detached itself. And drifted down to the floor. Abel glared at it. The board remained unapologetic. Lancey bit her lip. For a moment, Nobody spoke. Then Abel gave an enormous snort. Traitorous lumber! Bony loft. I believe the evidence is against you. Nonsense. It's got another 20 years in it! Which part? Abel ignored the question. He tossed the wrench onto a nearby workbench and wiped his hands on a rag that appeared to have spent its entire life wiping things with no reprieve. Well, Come on, He jerked his head towards the house. I'm tired of wrestling with the infernal contraption anyway. Abel gave the wheel a final suspicious look. We'll continue this later. As they crossed the yard, Abel scrubbed at his oil-streaked hands with the wretched rag. It improved matters only very slightly. The grease spread itself into broader territories. Valancy laughed. You've missed a spot. I've missed several spots. You could wash them. Abel looked scandalised. What for? I only get dirty again. That has never stopped anyone else. Aye, And that's why they've wasted half their lives washing. They stepped onto the porch. The screen door gave its usual creak as Abel opened it. For a moment. Valancy simply stood in the doorway. The house felt both familiar and strange. The shape of the rooms was the same. The old stove still stood in its corner. The broad table remained beneath the window. Yet. There were changes too. Fresh curtains hung at the windows. A vase of wildflowers stood on the table. The shelves were neatly arranged and the floorboards fairly gleamed from recent scrubbing. Everything looked cared for. Everything looked lived in. Myrtle might not be Valancy but She was plainly a capable woman. Abel caught her looking around. Myrtle won't admit it but she enjoys bossing a house a voice drifted through the open window i heard that abel rolled his eyes heavenward see Valancy laughed. The old warmth of the place settled around her immediately. It felt. To be here again. Without even quite realising she was doing it, She crossed to the stove and lifted the kettle. It was almost empty. She filled it at the pump by the sink and set it back on the range. Just then, The back door opened. Myrtle stepped inside. She paused. Her eyes travelled from the kettle to Valancy. For the briefest moment, The two women simply looked at one another. Valancy Coloured. Oh, Dear. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to. . . I know. Myrtle moved easily to the cupboard and reached for the teapot. I'll make the tea. Valanci hesitated. May I help? You may hand me the cups. There was just enough firmness in Myrtle's voice to establish the proper order of things. Valancy obediently handed them over. Myrtle arranged everything with brisk efficiency. Then she glanced sideways. If you stay long enough, You'll probably start putting my pantry in order. Valancy smiled. Only if you ask. Myrtle gave a satisfied little nod, As though that was exactly the right answer. I'll finish the washing while the water eats. She lifted the tray. You three can gossip. Abel snorted. I don't gossip. You certainly do. We discuss important matters. You disgust everybody for 10 miles around. That's different. It is not. She disappeared through the back door again, Leaving it swinging gently behind her. Barney watched it close. I like cousin Myrtle. So do I, Said Valancy. Abel grunted and reached immediately for the biscuit tin. Speaking of gossip, Began Barney, Abel's eyebrows lifted, We encountered Uncle James in Dearwood. For a moment, Abel froze, Then his great eyebrows shot upwards. You don't say. Oh yes. Barney settled back in his chair with obvious enjoyment. He intercepted us outside the bank. What was the old rooster crowing about now? He wanted to express concern. Abel gave another ominous grunt. That's never a good sign. He feels Valancy has been leading Olive astray. Abel blinked. Then he threw back his head and exploded into laughter. It was the sort of laughter that belonged to him alone. It began as a rumble somewhere deep in his enormous chest, Before erupting into great booming peels that seemed capable of shaking dust from the rafters. He slapped the kitchen table with one broad hand. Leading Oliver stray. He laughed again. Well. I'll be switched. Valancy could not help laughing too. I don't think Uncle James found it amusing. No. Barney sighed thoughtfully. He appeared to regard it as something between a national emergency. Theological crisis. Abel wiped a tear from one eye. That sounds like James. He informed us that women are happiest when guided by experienced family members. I asked whether he meant relatives like Aunt Wellington. That did it. Abel roared so loudly. That somewhere outside a dog began barking an alarm. He pounded the table again. Bless mice. Valanci suspected the table had survived many such assaults over the years. Oh, I'd have paid good money to be in that conversation. Abel shook his head slowly. I've known James Stirling for 40 years. Only 40, Said Barney. It feels longer. He took another biscuit. The trouble with James is. . . He was born old. I don't think he was ever a boy, " said Valancy. Oh. He was, Abel's eyes twinkled, I remember him at twelve. You do? I surely do. Abel leaned back with the unmistakable expression of a man preparing to tell a favourite story. He was 12 years old. When he informed me. I was harnessing my horse. Incorrectly. Were you? Asked Barney. I've been harnessing horses for 15 years! I asked him whether he'd ever honest one. And He said, No. But he'd been watching. Carefully. Both men roared with laughter. Valancy shook her head as she covered her mouth. I reckon James came into the world complaining that his mother wasn't holding him properly. Bellowed Abel in between bouts of laughter. Even Valancy laughed aloud at that. Abel looked thoroughly pleased with himself. Mind you, He reached for another biscuit. I haven't always been as patient with James as you were today. Barney's eyes gleamed. No. No. Abel's grin widened. There was that business with the garden bed. Just then, The kettle began to sing on the stove. From the back porch came the sound of footsteps and the screen door creaked open. Myrtle returned with the empty washing basket balanced against one hip. Perfect timing, She said, Tea's ready to be made. She crossed briskly to the stove and lifted the kettle before it could work itself into a full whistle. The kitchen filled with the soft fragrance of warming tea leaves. Abel continued with immense satisfaction. I reckon James Stirling still wakes up thinking about that asparagus bed. He was up here trying to persuade Valancy to go back to Dearwood. He called me a drunken, Blasphemous, Old scoundrel. Myrtle's eyebrows rose. I wasn't having that. I picked him up by his trousers and I. . . Threw him over the garden paling. Face first, Right into the asparagus. Belancy laughed. I've never forgotten seeing Uncle James's coattails disappearing into the garden. Barney laughed with her. From the kitchen sink, Myrtle glanced sideways at the table. Abel accepted his tea with a deeply satisfied expression. There now, He said, Justice was done. And it certainly seems to have discouraged further visits from James Stirling too. The conversation drifted on to other Dearwood characters. Someone's cow had wandered into the churchyard. Somebody else had attempted to keep bees in their attic. With predictably disastrous consequences. Abel maintained the bees had shown considerably more common sense than their owner. While the two men argued on cheerfully over whose version of events was more accurate. Valanci got up. And found herself wandering quietly about the room. She scarcely even realized she was doing it. Her fingers brushed absentmindedly across the mantelpiece. She paused beside the dresser. There was Sissy's little china shepherdess. The tiny crack in one arm was still visible, If one knew where to look. Beside it sat the faded pink cushion Sissy had embroidered as a girl. The stitches were uneven. One tiny blue flower had always leaned sideways as though growing in a stiff breeze. Malancy smiled fondly as she reached out and gently touched the dear, Familiar little object. Near the window stood Sissy's old sewing basket. The handle was a little loose again. Without thinking, Valancy tucked the fraying end of the braid neatly beneath itself. Behind her, Abel was saying, I'm telling you Barney. If a fella insists on keeping bees upstairs. He's got no call to complain when they decide to come downstairs. They were merely broadening their horizons, Barney replied. They broadened his nose. Valanci laughed. The room was full of. . . Sunlight. Tea. Laughter. The ticking of Abel's old clock. There had been a time when she had wondered whether roaring Abel would survive losing his dear Sissy at all. She had feared the grief might swallow him whole. That he would drink himself into oblivion or. . . Simply ceased to care whether the fire was lit or the roof leaked or the garden ran wild. But Abel had done what great old trees did after the fiercest storms, He had bent. He had lost branches. He bore the scars plainly, Yet he Somehow. He had remained standing. The house had changed. Myrtle's capable hands had brought a different sort of order to it. Sissy's little treasures still rested quietly in their familiar places. Abel still laughed loud enough to shake the crockery. The seasons still turned beyond the windows. Life. As usual. Had not asked anyone's permission to continue. It simply had. There was a quiet. . . Reassurance. In it all. A while later, Barney glanced towards the window. If we don't leave soon, We'll be driving home in the dark. Nonsense, Said Abel. You even have a free hours before you can honestly start worrying. And if I stay another three hours, You'll have me helping you repair that wagon. Oh, Don't remind me. Groundable. Outside, The afternoon had begun its slow drift towards evening. The shadows of the pines stretched long across the yard, And somewhere beyond the barn, A white-throated sparrow was singing its clear, Sweet refrain. Abel walked with them as far as the motor car. Mind you don't leave it so long next time, He said gruffly. We won't, Said Valancy. He hugged her once more with enough enthusiasm to make her suspect that several ribs had again shifted slightly from their proper positions. Then he shook Barney's hand with equal vigour before stepping back as Barney started up the engine. Balancy looked back over her shoulder as they drove away. Abel was still standing there in the middle of the yard with his hands in his pockets and his magnificent red and white beard stirring gently in the evening breeze. He raised one enormous hand. And she waved back. Until the bend in the road hid him. From sight. Chapter 21 Between Two Shores The lake in August was a world of late bloom and ripening edges. Goldenrod had begun to kindle at the borders of the meadow. And the island paths were powdered with the fallen petals of wild roses. Olive walked with her sketchbook under her arm, Stopping now and then to kneel and catch the bend of a stem, The turn of a leaf, The way a cluster of berries held themselves in the sun. Her lines were quicker these days, Less fussy. She had begun, Without realising it, To sketch for herself instead of for anyone else's approval. Yet the whisper of an old voice was never far away. Cecil had once told her, With that smiling authority of his, That Sketching flowers is well enough for an amateur. But what could you possibly do with it, Olive? She had laid her pencil down at that. Years ago. Now, Kneeling in the high grass with her hem damp from the dew, She found herself. Answering him. Not allowed. But firmly, With her strokes on the page, She drew the sharp, Wild tilt of a thistle. And it looked nothing like a polite, Reserved botanical plate. It looked alive. Satisfied, She rose and wandered further. Mastartwis seemed to meet her halfway, As if the island itself wanted her to see it, To take it with her. The crows swept after her in their noisy patrols, Nip and tuck, Scolding until they settled back into the spruces. A dragonfly clung to her wrist a moment, Green and trembling. Before darting off. It was all so exquisite. And too much to hold. And yet she tried, Scribbling, Shading, Filling, Page after page, As the hours drew on. By noon, Olive was weary from the searing heat. She sat on the dock. Legs dangling into the deliciously cool water below. Balancy came along the path with a basket of flowers balanced on her hip. She stopped when she saw Olive's face. You've been away somewhere in your mind, Valancy said. Olive let the sketchbook fall shut. I keep thinking about Toronto. Valancy sat down beside her. That sounds dangerous. I wrote back to Miss Harrington. Valancy turned quickly. You did? Over a week ago. I told her. I wanted to try for it. Olive looked out across the water. I suppose now I have to wait and see whether. . . It can really be arranged. What do you hope would happen? Olive was silent. The water lapped softly beneath the docks. At first, I thought I only wanted to undo what Cecil talked me out of. She said at last. To prove that I could still do it, Perhaps. She opened the sketchbook again. And looked down at the wild thistle she had drawn. But I don't think that's all of it anymore. " Valancy waited. Olive's voice dropped. I want to make something lasting. Something of my own. The lance he nodded Then make it! That evening, Barney spread his notes across the table, Muttering to himself as he scrawled lines of description, Sketches of moon phases, Half-formed dialogues. He looked more alive than Olive had ever seen him. His eyes burn! With the same light she sometimes glimpsed in Valancy when she was laughing. Valancy watched him with an expression that was both amused and tender. She had been feeling so odd lately, Though she still said nothing aloud. A wave of tiredness in the afternoons. A faint queasiness in the mornings. Small shifts. She could not quite ignore. They stirred that secret wonder in her heart that she carried like a fragile flame, Too delicate to name aloud just yet. Olive noticed Valancy's far away smile and felt a pang of envy. Though it was not the sharp envy of old. It was. . . A gentler wistfulness, The ache of watching someone live a fullness you have never quite reached. That night, While Barney worked on in Bluebeard's chamber, Olive lingered by the old telescope on the porch. She hesitated. Than bent to peer through it. The moon loomed. Luminous and steady. She sighed. Deeply. And let the sight wash over her. Her throat tightened. I want it to happen. She whispered conspiratorially to the night. Who won? Scholarship. I'm just. . . I'm terrified Valancy's voice floated over from the doorway. Then I suppose you'll have to be terrified. Olive started so violently that she nearly knocked her forehead against the telescope. Valancy! Valancy stood in the doorway. Shaw gathered around her shoulders. Looking wholly unrepentant. How long have you been standing there? Long enough. Olive's face flamed. I was not talking to you. No, Said Valancy gravely. I gathered you were consulting the moon. Olive stared at her in mortification. And did it offer any useful advice? Valancy asked. No. Very inconsiderate of it. Against her will, Olive gave a short laugh, The embarrassment ebbing a little. I meant it. She said more quietly. I do want it. I'm frightened half out of my senses. Valancy came out onto the porch, Drawing her shawl more closely around her. You can hardly wait until you aren't frightened. You might be 80. " Olive gave an unwilling laugh. I thought courage was supposed to make one feel rather splendid. I've never found that. No. Mostly it makes my knees shake. Olive sighed, Turned and looked back through the telescope. The moon hung serenely above Miss Darwes, Apparently quite indifferent to Toronto scholarships and the opinions of her immovable mother. What if I go and discover I'm no good? Then you'll know. And if I hate it? Then you'll know that too. You make failure sound terribly reasonable. It usually is afterwards. Olive was silent. What did you do? She asked at last. When you were afraid. Valancy considered. Whatever had to be done next, I suppose. Usually it was something quite small. Olive looked at her. And what is my next thing? Well, I would think, Said Valancy, That before becoming a celebrated Toronto artist you might find out where you intend to sleep, For example? Olive laughed again, More freely this time. Well, Yes, I suppose that does sound thoroughly practical. Well, Even artists have to sleep somewhere. They stood for a while without speaking, Listening to the water brushing softly against the shore. Later, Olive slept badly. She dreamed of a train pulling away while Cecil called after her from the platform. Though when she woke, She. . . Could not remember whether he had been telling her to stay or warning her not to miss it. By breakfast, She had decided one thing, At least. "'I need somewhere to live in Toronto, ' she announced as Valancy set down a plate of cornmeal cakes. Barney looked up. Do you? Olive coloured. If I go. Ah. Important distinction. I know I could take a boarding house room, But. . . I shouldn't know where to begin. Balanci paused, Butter knife in hand. Bonnie? What about Aunt Josephine? He blinked, Then grinned. Good old Aunty Josephine. Olive looked between them. My father's sister, Barney said. Lives in Toronto. Big house, Strong opinions. Considerably better than most boardinghouse porridge. I believe she sometimes lets rooms, Valancy added. We could write and ask. Olive's eyes widened. Would you? Of course! Olive tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. Well, She said. I suppose. That would be one thing settled. One thing. Said Valancy. For the moment. That was enough. Breakfast went on with lighter talks. But when the dishes were cleared, Olive gathered her notebook and slipped back outside. She wanted the open air, Some quietness to really On the porch, The morning sun struck bright off the lake. Olive lowered herself onto the steps and opened her sketchbook, Though she did not draw. Shioni let the pages rest in her lap. A sudden flutter of wings startled her. A crow swooped low over the clearing, Landed on the railing, Cocked its head at her, In its beak. Dangled something. A small twist of ribbon, Frayed but still red. With a brisk shake, The bird dropped it at her feet. And then took off. With a loud squawk. Its wings flashing black against the mellow sky. Olive stared at the ribbon. She bent and picked it up. Dusty. Faded but stubbornly bright where the sun caught it. Another gift The previous marbles and feathers had seemed merely charming. Now! She felt a shiver run down her spine. It's. . . Ridiculous, She murmured. Yet her fingers closed around the ribbon. And did not let go. Inside the cabin, Valancy lingered by the window, Watching Olive outside. Barney came up behind her, Still drying his hands from the washbasin. She's thinking herself in circles again, He said quietly. Lancy nodded. Almost before she meant to, She added, She'll find her way. But Barney? She hesitated. Resting her hand on the windowsill. I think. I think we may be finding our way too. In a different direction. Barney's brows drew together. What do you mean? Her dark eyes were unusually soft as she looked at him. It's only a suspicion but Bunny? We might not be just Too much longer. For a moment. He only stared. Then his face lit as though someone had struck a match in the dim cabin. For Lancey. His voice was low. Full of wonder. He reached for her hand, His fingers closing tight over hers. Are you certain? Not certain, She admitted, Her mouth trembling into a smile. Not yet, But. . . I think so. Barney bent and pressed his forehead tenderly against hers. A laugh breaking from his chest. Astonished. Wow. The world's gone and made itself new again. Hasn't it? She laughed too, Shakily. It has a habit of doing that, I guess, When you least expect it. They stood a moment in the quiet, Holding each other. Before Valancy whispered. Not a word to Olive yet though. She has enough tumbling in her mind. Not a word, " Barney promised. Before Valancy could breathe her relief, He scooped her up in his arms and kissed her with reckless tenderness. She gave a soft, Surprised laugh against his mouth, Clinging to him as though they were the only two souls in the world right then, Outside, Olive sat straight-backed on the porch steps. Unaware of the quiet wonder unfolding just behind her. Olive sat and traced the crow's ribbon between her fingers, The faint red bright against her skin. She tried to scoff at the thought of it being a sign. Yet the wildness in her chest refused to quiet. The world seemed suddenly full of hints, Nudges, Conspiracies. She pressed the ribbon between the pages of her sketchbook and shut it firmly, As if to seal something sacred inside. Toronto waited, Somewhere out there, Past the world she had always known. She did not know if she would really reach it. Spot. Beneath all the fear. She found herself hoping. Desperately that Toronto. Wood. Take her. Chapter 22. The second The letter came the following morning. Olive noticed the Toronto postmark before she recognized anything else. And stood for several seconds with the envelope unopened in her hand. Barney said at last. Opening it, You've been opening it for nearly a minute. Olive gave him a look. And tore the envelope open. She read the first lines, Standing up, Then she sat down rather suddenly. For Lancey came nearer. Olive? Thanks. Accepted me. Nobody spoke. Olive looked again as though the words might have rearranged themselves. Formerly. She said, For the autumn term. Then Valancy was hugging her and Barney was saying something jubilant that Olive did not even properly hear. Her hand was shaking. Acceptance. Tuition confirmed, A date on which she was expected in Toronto. Nothing vague, Nothing dreamy. She had asked, She had applied, And she. . . Olive Sterling! Had been chosen. For one dizzy instant, She wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Then came the fear. Toronto. Her mother. Deerwood. Strange rooms and strange people. Easels and examinations and other students who might be Twenty! And brilliant and happy. Quite certain of themselves. Olive pressed the letter flat against the table. Frightened. She said. I know. Said Valancy. Olive looked at her with eyes wide, Swallowing hard. She read the letter once more. She drew a long breath. Going! Valancy smiled. Yes. I'll live set again. And this time the words somehow seemed steadier as she spoke them. I'm going. To Toronto. Later, Olive sat at the tiny table in her cabin. Pen hovering above a sheet of paper. As if it were a weapon she had not yet learned to wield. The lamp hissed faintly. And through the open window came the night sounds of Miss Starwess, An owl calling, The sigh of the pines, The rhythmic lapping of the lake. It was late, But she could not sleep without at least attempting this. She had to write. To her mother. She had to put words down that. . . Might as well have been flints. Sharp and sparking. Dear Mother. She paused. Staring at the two words as if they mocked her. Her hand trembled. She tried again. I am thinking. . . I have decided. . . The nib scratched. Hesitated. Blotted. All who've pressed her lips together. Heart racing. She felt as if she were announcing her own funeral. When at last the letter was written, She read it through. The words looked stiff, But they were clear. She was going. To Toronto. She was hoping to stay with Barney's aunt Josephine if the arrangements could be made. Dr. Redfern's esteemed sister. She was going to study again. This time, She had written to tell her mother what she meant to do. Not to ask whether she might do it. The reply from Dearwood came two days later in her mother's thin, Spidery hand. Olive, I am astonished by your utter folly. Toronto! At your age? Planning to live with some Curious old spinster we've never heard of. Paul will laugh. What will Dearwood think? You cannot carry on as though you were a schoolgirl running after whims, Olive. Nothing good will come of this, And I wash my hands of it. Your mother. Olive read it twice. Then she sighed. Folded the letter neatly. And set it aside. A second envelope, Pale blue, Came tucked into the same delivery. Georgiana's script slanted across the page, Gentle and steady. My dear Olive, I have just heard your news and I must say I find myself smiling. Smiling in a way I have not for years. You look more alive now than i have ever seen you dear if Dr. Redfern's sister welcomes you. May you go with all my blessings. Gladly. I will be glad. So glad, Olive, To know that you are doing what you have long wished to do. With all my love. Georgiana. Olive gripped this letter with both hands, Pressing it to her forehead. For the first time she could remember, She felt not reproached but blessed and happy. Understood. Two days later, Olive went back to her parents' house to collect what she required for winter in Toronto. I'll come with you, " Valancy said at once. I'll live. Hesitated. Part of her wanted desperately to say yes, To have Valancy beside her when she walked through that door. Barney, Too, With his uncanny ability to make even the most formidable Sterling seem faintly ridiculous Something in her resisted. No, She said at last. I think I ought to do this myself. Valancy looked at her for a moment. Then nodded. Barney raised his eyebrows and wisely said nothing. Her mother. Was at home. Olive had hoped she might be out making calls. But Aunt Wellington was in the upstairs sitting room, Splendidly arranged as ever, Sorting correspondence at her little rosewood desk. She looked up when Olive appeared. So. . . You have come back. Yes, Mother. Olive had rehearsed several versions of what she might say next, All of them now deserted her. I've come for my things. A small pause. For Toronto. Olive added. I see. That was all. Somehow Olive would almost have preferred a scene. She swallowed, Backed out of the doorway and went along the passage to her bedroom. Nothing. Had changed. The silver-backed brushes lay precisely upon the dressing table. Three hat pins rested in their china tray. The embroidered cushion on the chair had been plumped into its usual fat complacency. For years, Olive had thought the room beautiful. Now, It seemed. . . Curiously airless. She dragged her trunk from the box room and began to pack. Stockings, Chemises, Two sensible woolen dresses, Her grey coat, The brown walking shoes she had once considered unbecoming and now regarded with affection because they could survive almost anything. Her hands were steady until she opened the wardrobe. There hung the dresses of perfect Olive. A blue silk, Chosen because it brought out her eyes. A dove grey afternoon dress her mother had declared quite distinguished. A cream frock she had worn to one of the first dinners at which Cecil had sat beside her. Olive touched its sleeve. For one instant, She could almost smell that evening again. Beeswax, Roses, Coffee. And hear Cecil saying something complimentary that had pleased her boundlessly. Because she had wanted so. . . Desperately. To be. Dude. Admired. Chosen. She let the sleeve fall. The cream dress stayed. The blue silk stayed, Too. She packed the grey wool. Behind her came the rustle of skirts. Her mother stood in the doorway. You cannot possibly mean to take that to heart. Olive looked down at the dress. Why not? It is three seasons old. I know. And the hem has been let down. Yes. People will notice. Olive folded it neatly in the trunk. Then they will. Aunt Wellington's mouth tightened. If you insist upon pursuing this extraordinary scheme. There is no reason to make yourself look impoverished while doing it. I don't think art students are likely to inspect my hems. You know nothing whatever about art students. No, Said Olive. That's rather the point. Her mother glared at her Olive felt the old instinct rise instantly. To explain. To soften, To heal. Make mother understand. Instead. She exhaled. Looked back down at her trunk, And packed another pair of stockings. I cannot understand what has come over you this summer, Olive. Olive said nothing. You were always such a sensible girl. Another stocking. You understood what was expected. Olive smoothed the stocking flat. Yes, I think I understood that very well her mother's face changed slightly Valancy has encouraged this. Don't be absurd. You spent half the summer. Wretched! Dirty little island! And come back here talking of Toronto. I was thinking of Toronto before I went to Miss Darwin's. Aunt Wellington's already steely gaze became positively glacial. Olive crossed to the little desk beneath the window and opened its bottom drawer. Her old sketchbooks were there. Beneath some sheet music. She took them out. You cannot intend to take those. I do. They're schoolgirl scribblings! Olive held them against her breast. Ehh. . . Mine. Of course they're yours! I merely. . . Just imagine why you would burden yourself. With them. I want them. Olive put them in the trunk, Followed by her old paint box. The cakes of colour inside were cracked and dusty, But still there. Ultramarine, Ochre, Crimson, Sap green, Small squares of a life she had once almost permitted herself. Her mother moved to the window, Frowning. I suppose you imagine this will be very Romantic. No. Living in some. Key room. Smelling of paint. Associating with Goodness knows whom! Probably. And when you tire of it. Olive stopped. Not if. For a moment, She wanted desperately to explain more about Miss Harrington, The scholarship, The academy, To lay every fact before her mother until the whole mad undertaking became respectable enough to be permitted. But Toronto did not need to be. Permitted. If. . . I tire of it, " she said. I shall decide what to do. Then. Her mother turned. You are 30 years old, Olive. Peace. Is the sort of foolishness one expects from a girl of 18. Perhaps I should have done it at 18. The words were out before Olive could stop them. Silence fell. Olive's heart began beating painfully fast. But she kept packing. Weeeeee! GAVE YOU! Every advantage! Her mother's pent-up indignation, Held so rigidly in check until now, Broke suddenly through. I know. Olive Managed. She found that she couldn't even raise her eyes to her mother now. You never wanted for anything! Music lessons, Dancing, Good clothes, Travel. Every opportunity. And now you speak! As though we prevented you from living. Olive paused for a moment. She said quietly. I think, Perhaps, I. . . Prevented myself. She turned back to the wardrobe. On the upper shelf set a hat box. Inside wrapped in tissue. Lay the pearl trimmed veil. Intended for her wedding. Olive rested her fingers upon the paper. Beyond this bedroom was the hope chest. Embroidered linen, Towels, Tablecloths, Pillowcases, The careful furnishings of a future that had never happened. Once. They had comforted her. Then they had humiliated her. Now they seemed merely to belong to somebody she used to know. Olive replaced the hatbox lid. She left the veil where it was. And Cecil, Her mother said pointedly. Olive's hands stopped. It was the first time his name had been spoken between them in months. What about him? Have you considered what people will think? The engagement ends and now you go running off to Toronto to become. . . An artist. It looks. . . Her mother stopped. Like what? Unsettled. Olive blinked hard and looked down into the trunk. Grey wool, Stockings, Sketchbooks, Paints. Yes, It did. How wonderful. I suppose it does, " she said as she closed the trunk and fastened one clasp, Then the other. The second click. Sounded extraordinarily Final. Olive thought of all the parlours and church steps and bridge tables of Dearwood. Where her name had passed from mouth to mouth. For years. It had seldom seemed to come back to her, Any kinder for the journey. You will regret this, Aunt Wellington said. Perhaps she would. A few months ago, The possibility would have been enough to stop her. Perhaps. Her mother blinked. You admit it? I might. Hate Toronto. I might discover I'm not nearly as talented as Miss Harrington thinks I am. I might be lonely. Might make a fool of myself. If I stay. I know! I shall always wonder. What might have happened. Her mother said nothing. Her eyes narrowed, Though, And her lips compressed, As though Olive's reasoning were not merely foolish. But entirely. Indecent. Olive lifted the smaller case from beside the bed and looked around the room. The blue silk still hung in the wardrobe. The wedding veil remained in its hatbox. The embroidered cushion sat plump and correct upon the chair. Perfect olive. Could stay here if she liked. Olive Sterling was going to Toronto. Goodbye, Mother. Aunt Wellington's fingers tightened around the back of the chair. You know your father and I cannot approve. Another pause. Then her mother said, Very stiffly, You will write when you arrive? Olive looked at her then. It was not. Approval. It was not apology. But it was something. Yes, She said. I will. Then she took her smaller case and went downstairs. She arranged for the trunk to be sent on to the landing. Olive returned to Mistawis feeling strangely light and utterly exhausted at the same time. She had not known until it was over how much courage the afternoon had cost her. Melancie was waiting at the landing. Well, She asked, As they walked up through the pines, While behind them Barney wrestled the trunk from the propeller boat. How did it go? Olive considered. Quite well. Balancy glanced sideways at her. That bad, Was it? Olive gave a startled laugh. Not bad, Exactly. Mother and I merely discovered that we have rather different opinions about how I ought to spend the remainder of my life. Ah, Said Valancy, One of those little differences. They carried Olive's things to Windward, And the two cousins began unpacking them together. It was rather like excavating a museum of Olive's former selves. There were sensible things enough – woolen dresses, Stockings, Gloves, Books, But among them also appeared several objects which seemed to demand explanation. Valancy held up a remarkably elaborate hat. Oh dear. I know. It was a confection of velvet, Ribbon and feathers, With an enormous plume sweeping dramatically from one side. Why did you bring this? I don't know. Olive admitted. I think I wanted evidence. Of what? Olive took the hat from her and regarded it ruefully. Perfect olive, I suppose? She put it on. The plume drooped magnificently over one eye. Valancy stared at her, Brows knitting together, Head askew. Perfect olive. Was a fright. Olive tried to look offended. She managed it for perhaps two seconds. Then they both collapsed into helpless laughter. The laughter rolled out of Olive in great, Breathless waves, Until she had to sit down on the edge of the bed, Clutching that absurd hat to her chest. Melancy was laughing just as helplessly beside her, Wiping tears from her cheeks. Goodbye, Perfect olive, She said at last, When she could speak again. Valancy took the hat solemnly from her. May she rest in peace. That set them off again. They continued their excavation. A pair of kid gloves too delicate to be useful for anything. A signed book presented by a family friend which Olive confessed she had never read. A beaded evening bag, Chosen because another rival cousin had possessed one rather like it. There were other things she had deliberately left behind too. But Lancey grew quieter when Olive told her about those. And what did you say to your mother? Not nearly as much as I meant to. Balanciweighted. I had all sorts of things prepared. I'll live admitted. Very. Brave things. Very final things. I said hardly any of them. Did you pack your trunk? Olive looked at her. Yes? Did you leave? Yes. Then perhaps you said enough, Said Valancy. Olive was silent for a moment. Then she reached into the case for another bundle. Barney appeared in the doorway, Just as she was shaking out an elderly shawl. He surveyed the room. The open cases, Scattered clothes, Books piled on the floor. And the magnificent plumed hat now perched crookedly on the bedpost. Well, He said. It looks to me, Olive, As though you're preparing to turn into a bohemian. Olive groaned. Oh, Spare me, Bonnie. Bohemian olive, He continued thoughtfully. Barefoot. Painting on bridges, Scandalising Deerwood. I have never. . . Painted on a bridge in my life. Not yet. Go away. Barney obligingly disappeared. Olive shook her head, But the smile remained. Bohemian olive. Once, The very idea would have horrified her. Now. . . She thought. She might rather like to meet her. Later, Olive and Valancy sat together at the table in the main cabin. Still can't quite believe this is happening. Olive said softly, Almost to herself. It all seems so real. Unreal. Ha! Things do seem to be falling into place, Don't they? In ways I never dared hope. Valancy reached across the table. And handed her a neat envelope. The handwriting precise and cheerful. Well. . . I think you're going to like this, She said. Olive unfolded the letter. Aunt Josephine's words poured across the page, Warm and welcoming. She had made arrangements for Olive to stay. Described a small, Comfortable room. Books and sketching supplies ready. Everything had been set up so Olive could arrive and begin without worry. I'll have read it twice, Then leaned back in her chair. Eyes wide. It's. . . Really happening. She whispered. It's. . . Real. Then she reached into her bag for her notebook. I must write to her at once. She opened her notebook and began flicking through the pages, Looking for a blank leaf. Thinking of how much she wanted to say in her reply. As she turned the pages, One caught beneath her thumb. Olive stopped. The writing sprawled across it. In her hand, She's scarcely recognised as her own. Jagged. Blotted. Furious in places. She had written it to Cecil months ago. On one of those terrible nights after everything had ended. But she had never sent it. Balancy glanced over. What's that? Olive turned the page. Then she paused. No. She said. Not nothing. She turned back and looked at it again. There were accusations there, Questions, Things she had wanted Cecil to understand. Things she had wanted him to be sorry for. At the time. It had seemed desperately important that he should know them. Now she found herself wondering what difference it would make if he did Something for Cecil, For Lancey Ventured. Olive nodded. Are you going to send it? Olive looked down at the old page. Then she smiled, A little ruefully. She turned it over. And began her letter to Aunt Josephine on a clean page beyond it. That night, The light softened over Miss Darwis as Olive and Valancy settled in the main cabin after supper. Barney emerged a few minutes later from Bluebeard's chamber, Notebook in hand, Cheeks flushed. I thought you ladies might like to hear a passage from John Foster's latest musings, He said, Settling into his chair. Olive closed her sketchbook quickly, Sensing something unusual in his expression. Barney cleared his throat and began reading, His voice quiet. A lake keeps two skies. By day, It takes whatever is given it, Blue, Grey, Rain, The white disorder of clouds, And scatters it over the shifting water. But after dark, On a still night, Another sky gathers beneath the boat. Stars burn under your hands. The moon hangs somewhere below your feet. And the black pines grow downward. Into a country no traveller can enter. There are nights when one scarcely knows which world is the reflection. Then a loon calls beyond the point and glides out across the dark water. Its wake trembles through the reflected sky. The stars shiver. The moon breaks into a thousand silver pieces. The drowned forest wavers and is gone. A moment later, The water is still again. Keeping whatever it knows to itself. Barney closed the notebook. For a moment. Nobody spoke. Olive's eyes went to the dark window. Beyond it, Men lay quietly across the lake. She glanced down at her sketchbook. Thinking of the many times she had tried to catch that exact same light in charcoal and pencil. Beside her, Valancy had gone very still. She was looking at Barney, Not the lake. Olive gave a small laugh. Well, You make it sound rather better than I draw it. Nonsense, Said Valancy. You only show it differently. Her eyes dropped to the sketchbook in Olive's lap. And I do hope you'll take some of your finest lake drawings with you to Toronto, Olive. To remember us here by. Olive rested her hand on the closed sketchbook. She thought she would. Only 10 days remained. Until she was to leave. 10 days. To gather what she needed. Say what she had to say and somehow prepare herself for the train to Romto? And the vast new life that waited beyond them. Later that night, After Olive had returned to Windward, Melancy lingered by the window in the main cabin bedroom, The lake silvered by moonlight. Barney joined her, Notebook finally closed. Still feeling odd? He asked softly. Valancy nodded, Resting a hand lightly against her middle. More certain than I was. His expression softened at once. Are you? I think so. It's still early yet. Bani covered her hand with his. N. We'll wait. She looked up at him. You don't look very patient. I'm not. The lancy laughed softly and leaned against him For a while they simply stood there together, Looking out over the moonlit lake. Holding between them the possibility that was beginning, Little by little, To feel Elsewhere, Olive slept peacefully at Windward, Dreaming of Toronto, Of brushes and canvases, Of red brick streets bathed in late summer light. And the bright. Beckoning promise. Of a life. She. Had chosen. Chapter 23 Bramble Baptism. Olive appeared at the porch with a basket looped over her arm, The handle already lined with a folded cloth, As though she meant business. I'm going after blackberries, She announced, A note of satisfaction in her voice. There are thickets just past the ridge, Heavy with fruit. I thought I might try my hand at a celebration pie. Something worth the trouble of baking in this heat. Barney, Lounging with his legs stretched out, Glanced up from the knife he was whittling with, Well, Stick to the path if you head that way. The brambles are fierce. And they don't let go easy. I can manage brambles. Olive returned lightly. He raised an eyebrow. Half in amusement. Suit yourself. I mean to come back victorious, She said, Tightening her shawl with an almost regal little gesture. The woods were hushed that early September afternoon, Touched with the edges of autumn. Leaves trembled with a whisper of change, And shadows lengthened purple between the trunks. Olive picked her way confidently at first. Then, More cautiously, As the path narrowed, Ferns brushed her skirts, And the earth underfoot was springy with moss. She pressed onward, Scanning for the opening she had marked in memory. She had been certain, She remembered the way, But. . . Everything had grown in so much since she had last come this far. Bracken and young saplings blurred the edges of the path and Every little opening began to look like the one she wanted. There, She murmured triumphantly, Spotting a gap where tangled undergrowth thinned to reveal a deer track. She plunged in, Clutching her basket like a talisman. It. Was not long before the path dissolved into confusion. Branches snagged her sleeves, Briars clawed her ankles, And she felt her tidy plans unravel. Still, She pressed forward, Determined not to admit defeat. I am not lost, She told herself aloud, As if the words alone might keep the truth at bay. It will come out just ahead. But the brambles thickened. Lashing at her arms, Seizing the folds of her dress. She struggled free, Once, Twice, Then caught her foot in a hidden root and stumbled to her knees. Mud streaked her palms. Her hat flew sideways, Skewered by a thorn. Drat! She cried, With unladylike vehemence. Wrenching herself upright. Pushed forward again, Hair tumbling loose, Her hem now torn. Each new snare of thorns seemed more vicious than the last, As though the forest had joined forces to dismantle her pride. At last, She burst into a thicket so dense she could not go farther. She stood there, Scratched, Breathless. Mud-spattered, Heart racing, Her skirts in tatters, Her hair wild. For a moment. She was. Furious. Outraged at the indignity. On the verge of stamping her foot like a thwarted child. Quite suddenly. The absurdity of it all. Overwhelmed her. Here. Was Olive Sterling. The one-time undisputed princess of Deerwood Drawing Rooms. Reduced to a dishevelled scarecrow. Caught up in a vicious blackberry patch. She could not stop laughing. It bubbled up helplessly, Convulsing her whole body until she collapsed onto the moss with tears of mirth mingling with the scratches on her cheeks. Basket tossed aside, In defeat. She wiped at her eyes with a thorn-snagged sleeve, Still hiccuping with the remnants of her mirth. Well, This won't do at all, She scolded the brambles aloud as if they were unruly children. A fine notion I had of a Blackberry celebration pie. Clearly, The Berries had other plans very well. I shall contrive something else. Perhaps a tart without its crown. Or perhaps no tart at all. Dear me. Olive Sterling defeated by berries. Half an hour later, Olive came stumbling back through the fringe of birches with her empty basket, Swinging forlornly at her side. Her hair. Was a wild disarray. Her dress snagged in half a dozen places, And her face bore the pink tracery of scratches that looked at once tragic and comic. Well, Lancy sprang up from the cabin steps the instant she caught sight of her. Oh! Leave. What on earth? Oh, You poor thing, What happened? Olive tried to speak with dignity. But another ripple of laughter escaped her. The brambles one, I'm afraid. There will be no celebration Blackberry Pie tonight. I've been thoroughly humbled. Barney, Lounging against the rail with a stub of pencil in his hand, Let out a low whistle. Wow. It looks as though the berries won. Valancy reached for Olive's basket, Peered inside and shook her head. Not a single berry! Not one that survived my grand assault. Olive admitted ruefully, Brushing at her torn sleeve. The vines took their due. And I retreated. Dear me, I never knew fruit could be so. . . Ferocious! They coaxed Olive towards the main cabin, As if she were some wounded heroine returned from battle. Barney held the door wide, Mock solemn, While Valancy fussed over her and settled her onto the cushioned bench by the fireless hearth. Valancy disappeared to fetch her remedies and Barney stood over Olive with an exaggerated air of inspection, Arms folded. Well, He declared, I always suspected drawing room ladies weren't cut out for the wilds. This proves it. Brambles one. Olive Sterling No. Olive, Dabbing at a scratch on her arm, Said, You may laugh, But I dare say they were the most vicious berries I've ever met. I'd sooner face a flock of Toronto debutantes than another thicket like that. Ah, Yes, Said Barney, Eyes twinkling. But I'm sure those debutantes bite even harder. The lancy returned with a little tin of salve, Its lid worn bright from much handling. She perched beside Olive, Hands deft and gentle. Hold still. It's only spruce gum and sweet oil. Smells like the forest in a box. Sissy swore by it for scratches. She touched a fingertip of the balm to Olive's cheek, Where a thorn had left a deep, Fine red line. Olive wrinkled her nose. Nose at the resinous tang. I smell like a lumberyard. You'll thank me in the morning, Said Valancy firmly. She worked over Olive's hands and arms, Then turned to her skirt, Plucking thorns that clung like trophies of defeat. Each tug released a faint snap, And Olive alternately winced and chuckled as she helped dislodge the briars. When Belancy lifted a particularly jagged bit from the hem, Barney gave another low whistle. That one's a souvenir. You ought to mount that in a frame, Olive. Title it, Olive versus Wilderness. Or why there will be no blackberry pie tonight. Olive said with mock tragedy. All my efforts came to nothing. I ought to have gone with you said valency Never mind the pie though, We've plenty of food without it. Supper's nearly ready. Barney had set out fresh-caught trout, Crisp and golden, While Valancy had piled garden greens beside a loaf, Still warm from baking, And a pot of stew. Olive ate with unaccustomed appetite, Scratches forgotten, Laughter warming her face. Barney kept up a stream of teasing commentary, How he'd best fetch her a suit of armour for berry picking next time. Or perhaps hire a bodyguard to ward off hostile shrubbery. Olive, Surprisingly, Took it all with good humour. Tossing back quips of her own. Valancy, Meanwhile, Moved quietly about the kitchen, Tidying plates into a neat stack. She was glad to let their banter roll without her for a moment. A wave of weariness had crept over her as the day slipped towards evening. Even the savoury vegetable stew had sat uneasily with her. Though the plain bread and butter had felt more manageable. She pressed her hand lightly against her middle. The thought of what might be happening there still filled her with quiet wonder. Even as her body urged her towards rest. When the plates were cleared, They carried a pot of tea and a small dish of stewed rhubarb out onto the veranda. The lake lay wide and serene, The sinking sun laying a path of molten copper across its ripples. A pair of loons called from the far side, Their cries haunting and beautiful. They all sat in companionable silence while the sky deepened through shades of apricot and rose into dusky violet. Fireflies winked at the edge of the clearing. Barney leaned back, Pipe in hand. Looking as content as a man could be. Valancy's face glowed next to him with quiet happiness. I'll miss this, You know, " Olive said at last. You too. The lake. The evenings. Like this. I can hardly believe. I'll be gone so soon. One more week here at Misdarwis and then art school. A whole new world. Valancy smiled. We'll miss you too. Olive looked down at their joined hands. That still seems rather unlikely. What does? You missing me. Valanci considered. It does rather, Doesn't it? Olive gave her an affronted look. But there it is, Valancy added. You'll come back. Balansi said. Olive looked out across the darkening lake. Yes. She said. I think I will. When at last she rose to head to her cabin, Olive's movements were unhurried, As if she wished to stretch the evening just a little longer. Well, I suppose I'll survive my bramble baptism, She said softly. Though I don't know that I've really passed the true test of Mystarwis. Barney, Smoke curling from his pipe, Gave her a sidelong glance. The Star Wars isn't fussy. It only asks that you come back sometime. Valancy gave a small nod of agreement. Olive smiled, A small tender smile that lingered. Even as the twilight gathered and she bathed them. Good night. Chapter 24, The Silver Road. The air had sharpened. Not with frost, Not yet, But with that unmistakable edge that said September had now thoroughly stepped across the threshold. Miss Starwyce wore its lateness openly. Gold flickered in the birches, The water darkened with deeper blues, And the mornings carried a chill that even Barney admitted was brisk. It was the kind of air that made every breath taste clearer, Like the summer's haze had been swept away overnight. Olive felt it most of all. She had stayed longer than she had ever meant to. And though her heart still tugged at her to remain, The season itself was closing the circle. She began by saying goodbye to Dearwood. The town was small enough that one farewell walk would cover all its corners, Though to her it also felt so vast in memory. She walked slowly along the main road, Her hat pulled low against the breeze, Skirts brushing dust. The familiar buildings seemed both shrunken and enlarged, Had been playing tricks on them in her absence. There was the church, White paint a little more peeled than when she had last passed its steps. She didn't go in. Once, Olive Wood had ducked inside, Adjusting her gloves, Bowing her head, Offering herself up to be noticed for her reverence. Now, She only looked at the steeple, At the cross gleaming faintly in the autumn sun. And let the sight rest in her without need for gesture. The post office was much the same, The wide porch with its gossiping rails, The dusty windows that reflected the passers-by. She remembered how much she used to care about being seen there. Who noticed her dress, Who asked after Cecil, Who whispered about her prospects. Now, She simply passed by. She made the loop by the general store, Then the schoolhouse. The voices of children carried faintly from the yard, Shrill and urgent, The way they always had. I'll leave paused a moment. A memory arose. Herself. At their age. Ribbons tight in her hair. Determined. To be cleverer and neater than all the other girls. She almost smiled at the absurd earnestness of it. Then she walked on. By the time she reached her parents' house. She had grown quiet inside. She had already said what was necessary to her mother. But it had seemed impossible to leave for Toronto without coming once more. There were a few things she had overlooked in her first packing. Her warmest shawl, Some heavier winter things, One or two small keepsakes. And besides, One said goodbye to one's parents before going away. Olive had been too well brought up to imagine otherwise. Of course, The Wellington home had not changed in her absence. Not in walls, Paint, Furniture or smells. But the people inside seemed different somehow. Or perhaps it was only she who had shifted. Her arrival set the household in motion like a rock thrown into a pond. Her mother fluttered from room to room, Torn between outrage and concern. To have a daughter staying on a remote island all summer, Running wild with Valancy of all people, Was scandal enough to have her return with scratches down her face. As if brambles had claimed her for their own. Was beyond comprehension. You've been letting them mistreat you! Her mother exclaimed, Eyes wide with wounded righteousness. Olive! What on earth have they done to you? Olive, Laugh. Truly, Love. At the irony. That they could look at the marks left by her adventure in the thickets and imagine cruelty from Barney and Valancy. It was almost too rich. If you only knew, She said, Touching the faint scabs that remained on her cheek, Perhaps you'd see these as blessings, Not insults. Her mother stared at her. It was for Lancey and Barney who were helping Mrs Grey all along, You know, " Olive added. The food and clothes, The new cottage, All of it. I even helped them move in. You? " said her mother. Yes, Said Olive. Me! Her father, Her room. Her mother looked as though this only confirmed everything she had feared about Miss Darwiz. Through it all. Olive felt better. Curiously untouched. As if their disapproval surrounded her, But did not enter. Olive moved about, Gathering the last of her belongings, Thoughtfully. While her mother followed her from room to room, Offering increasingly gloomy predictions about Toronto weather. Unsuitable acquaintances and what would happen if Olive neglected to eat properly? Her father appeared in the hall as Olive tucked the final parcel beneath her arm. Well, He said with a portentous clearing of his throat. I suppose you are determined upon this? Yes, Father. You'll find Toronto very different from playing at artists on an island. I expect I shall. Aunt Wellington's eyes travelled once more to the scratches on Olive's cheek. At least try not to arrive looking as though you have been dragged through a hedge backwards. I'll do my best, Mother. There was a small silence. You will write said her mother. Olive looked at her. Then she stepped back into the sharper outside air with her parcels tucked under her arm. Almost giddy with relief. The road back towards Mastawis seemed both longer and lighter that evening. She had taken her leave of Dearwood. And though she carried pieces of it in her bundle, It seemed that the place itself no longer had any claim on her. Miss Starwyce received her return with the gentleness of an old friend. The island seemed to sense that she was drawing near the end of her season there, And it offered up its beauty in quieter ways. The riot of midsummer blossoms had softened into russet and gold, Ferns leaned heavy with seed, The lake lapped slower against the rocks, And the loons called more sparingly, As if conserving their voices. Olive breathed it all in. She had come to know these paths and stones with a familiarity she had never thought. Possible. When she first arrived, She had noticed only the inconveniences. Mosquitoes, Damp earth, Rough wood. Now every curve of shoreline every crooked tree felt etched into her very bones On her last walk around the cabins, She trailed her fingers along the rough log walls, Pausing at the windows to look in on the corners that had become familiar. The little shelf where Valancy stacked empty jars. The chair where Barney so often sat with his notebook. The cluster of feathers and stones she herself had collected down by the shore. She touched the doorway of her room. Her own cabin. Feeling how her hand rested there as though it now belonged. When Olive came into the main cabin that evening. She found the table laid for supper and a blackberry pie! Cooling beside the stove. She stopped. Blackberry. We thought you ought to have one at least before you left. Offered for Lancey. Olive looked at Barney. You went back into those brambles? We found a less murderous patch, He said. Olive laughed and sat down. Wow. I suppose I can allow Miss Star Wars one last victory. They ate together slowly. Lingering over the meal. Because none of them seemed quite willing to admit how little time was left. That evening, The three of them sat comfortably by the fire. Barney poked at the logs. While Valancy curled herself into the deep chair. A hand resting lightly on her stomach. Olive saw the gesture. And for the first time, With a private jolt, Thought, Perhaps she understood it. Perhaps Valancy was carrying something more than summer dreams forwards? Could it be? A quiet expectancy glowed in her face. Olive's eyes widened. But she looked away and didn't speak of it aloud. Some things were too tender to be named before they were ready. Instead, She returned her gaze to her sketchbook. By the firelight she drew. Not careful portraits, Not stiffly arranged compositions, But quick living lines of what she saw and felt. The slope of the roofline, Valancy small and dark against the deep chair, Barney's profile outlined by sparks. She had grown looser, Braver, Almost reckless in her drawing this summer. She was no longer trying to impress anyone, Only to capture what breathed before her. At one point. She looked up and caught Valancy watching. Their eyes held. For a long moment. Than Olive said. Almost under her breath. Think. I am beginning to like. Person I'm becoming. The words seem to surprise even her. But once spoken, They rang true. Valancy leaned across and squeezed her hand without comment. It was enough. Later, As the night deepened, Barney and Valancy slipped outside to listen to the loons calling across the dark lake. Olive stayed by the fire, Her pencil still busy. She felt no loneliness in their absence, Only a fullness that came from belonging. Even if only for a little while, To something kind. And larger than herself. She worked steadily until at last she was satisfied. From her satchel, She drew a simple wooden frame that she had carried back from Deerwood, Polished and ready. She slid her drawing inside. The little cottage on Miss Darwis. Stooped against the pines, But radiant in its lines, She had meant it as a gift from the beginning, And now she set it carefully on the mantle, Where the flames lit it with a golden glow. When Barney and Valancy came in, They stopped short at the site. Barney exhaled softly. Well that looks as though it's been here forever Valancy's eyes shone. You'll leave a piece of yourself with us then. We'll see you here. Every day, Olive felt warmth rise through her. She had never given such a gift without expectation before. There was no wish to. Impress anyone now, Only sincere. Gratitude and love of a kind that she could scarcely dare name. That last night together settled over Mystawis with a stillness that seemed to hold the three of them in a shared circle. The fire burned low, A steady orange glow against the dark, While outside the crickets played their thin fiddles. No one spoke much after the picture had found its place above the mantle. Words felt too small. Barney stretched himself out on the rug, Hands behind his head, Staring up at the rafters as if they held the stars themselves. Valancy remained in her chair. While Olive sat with her sketchbook closed on her knees. Unwilling to break the spell now with the scratching of a pencil. She thought of the woman she had been when she'd first set foot here back in April. Brittle. Quick to wound. Carrying herself like armour. That woman had expected to be bored. Or superior. Or, At best, Politely civil. Instead, She had found herself weeping on starlit nights, Laughing until she gasped, Sketching until her fingers cramped, And finally, Scraped raw in those blessed brambles. She had been. Undone. And holy. Remade. At one point, Barney rose and went outside to check the night sky. His boots thudded softly on the porch. Valancy leaned closer to Olive and whispered, You've been good for us, You know. Better than you realize. Olive shook her head in surprise, Though her throat tightened. Me? Oh no. It's you two. Who have been so Good. To me. So very good, Valancy. You gave me a place to start again. And I will never forget it. When Barney returned. Carrying in the coolness of the lake with him. Olive found herself. Laughing. Not at anything particular. Only at the sheer oddity of it all. That's she. Olive Sterling should end her summer on a half-wild island in the company of Valancy. And Barney Redfern. And be glad of it! So. Very glad of it. If the respectable women of Dearwood could see her now. They would not know whether to pity or envy her. Perhaps both. That thought somehow made her grin now. Barney cocked an eyebrow at her mirth. Well, I don't know what you're laughing about. Did Valancy finally confess to you that Windward is, In fact, The old toolshed? The lancy gave a helpless squeal. Pressing her hands over her mouth as her shoulders shook. It's true, She admitted through her laughter. For a moment, Olive only stared. Then the image broke over her. Olive Sterling of all people. Had spent the summer in an old tool shed. And it had been the time of her life. She laughed until her sides ached. Doubled over in a release of pure hilarity. For a long while, Their laughter rippled through the cabin until it left them breathless, Cheeks flushed, Eyes watering. Slowly, The merriment ebbed, Leaving behind a quiet warmth. As if the three of them had been bound even more tightly together by the absurdity of it all. Olive leaned back in her chair, Still catching her breath. In the hush that followed, She spoke with an earnestness that surprised even herself. Thank you, Beau. For everything. I don't know if I should ever have found my way without you. Oh. Olive, Said Valancy. I mean it. Olive looked down at their joined hands. I don't know. What would have happened. If I hadn't come here. You'd probably have driven Aunt Wellington distracted eventually. Barney said from his chair. I have great faith in you. Olive gave a watery laugh. Oh Barney, Well look what you've accomplished already. He has a point, Said Valancy. Olive looked from one to the other. There were. A dozen things she wanted to say suddenly. And no possible way of saying any of them without making a fool of herself. Oh. Miss you, She said instead. For Lancey's fingers tightened around hers. We'll miss you too. Barney poked at the fire. Windward will be inconsolable. I imagine Windward will be delighted to have its spiders back. Ungrateful woman. After all that, Shed is done for you. Olive laughed again. And this time. The tears came with it. She wiped them away, Impatiently. Nobody pretended not to notice. As the fire sank to embers, Olive excused herself and went outside. She walked down to the water's edge. The moon had laid a long, Silver road across the lake. And the island murmured softly around her. The sigh of the pines, The small stirrings in the underbrush, A loon calling somewhere beyond the point. Olive stood there for a long time. Tomorrow, She would head. To Toronto trains and streets and strangers and rooms she had never seen. The thought still made her stomach turn over. She looked back towards the cabin. Lamp light glowed warmly through the windows. Valancy's laugh floated out into the night. Followed by the low murmur of Barney's voice. Olive smiled. Goodbye. The Star Wisp. She whispered. The loon called again. Don't be absurd, She told herself, Wiping quickly at her cheek and turning up the path towards Windward. The little cabin stood dark beneath the trees. Olive paused at the door and laid one hand against the rough wooden frame, Letting her fingers rest there for a moment. Old toolshed, She murmured, Smiling. Inside, She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Moonlight fell through the little window. And made a pale square on the floor. Tomorrow. Olive, Lay awake. For a long time. Listening to the pines outside her window. Before. She finally. . . Select. Chapter 25 You are beginning. The morning of Olive's departure dawned clear and cold, A thin mist rising off the lake as if the island was exhaling in farewell. Windward stood quiet behind her, Its humble roof tipped with dew, And Olive paused once more on the path to take it all in. She had slept beneath those rafters for the last time for now. Listened to the loons through its thin walls and dreamed under its weathered shelter. Toolshed or not, Windward had become her sanctuary. Good luck came padding up the path and rubbed himself firmly against her ankle. Olive looked down at him. Then, After the briefest hesitation, She bent and stroked his head. His purr started up at once, Warm and steady beneath her hand. Perhaps some of your luck will rub off on me she murmured. Barney and Valancy were waiting by the boat. Barney steadying the prow against the rocks, Valancy's shawl drawn close about her shoulders. Olive's trunk was already aboard, Stowed securely for the crossing. Olive carried her satchel with surprising ease, As though its modest weight matched the lightness she felt inside. The moment was bittersweet, Yes. But not overly heavy. It was change. And, Somehow, Change no longer terrified her. Olive glanced between them. Dear. Unlikely companions. Who had become, Somehow, Her safe harbour. Thank you both. Thank you. For not asking me to be in it. Anything but myself here. For Lancey's eyes shone. We only wanted olive. The real olive. Barney coaxed the motor. Well, The other version looked like far too much trouble. Olive laughed, Then sobered. The trouble is… I'm still not sure what Toronto will make of me. I'm afraid I may turn into the old olive again. You managed, Miss Star Wars, Rather better than you expected, Commented Valancy. Barney nodded, Though his eyes were still on the tiller. Besides, If you forget, We'll only have to drag you back here and remind you. He cast her a side long glance, A flicker of amusement in his eyes. Anyway. You're lucky those bramble scratches are pretty much healed now. Wouldn't do to step into the big city. Looking like you just wrestled with a blackberry patch and lost. Olive gave a short laugh, Touching her cheek as if to make sure. They did leave me looking rather like a cautionary tale, Didn't they? Well, Let Toronto think what it likes. Miss Darwis will always know the truth. The boat nosed away from the starless. Olive kept her eyes on the island. As long as she could. Trees crowded the shoreline, Gold and russet glinting among the evergreens, The cabins half-hidden, Yet bright with memory. As the distance grew, The shapes blurred, Until only a line of trees and sky marked where she had spent this unexpected glorious summer. Altered her life. At the landing, Barney tied up the boat and loaded her trunk into the back of the car with efficient strength. Melancy tucked Olive's smaller satchel beside her on the seat, Then climbed in close so their shoulders touched. The motor rumbled to life and they set out towards the train station. The road rising and dipping through gold-tipped maples. No one spoke much. Every now and then, Olive and Valancy's hands brushed in the space between them. Light touches that said more than words as their destination drew nearer. The station was as familiar as it was transformed by the moment. Its clapboard walls, The blackboard with chalked times, The faint smell of coal and oil, Travellers, Porters, Children clutching parcels, All these had belonged to countless other ordinary days. Yet. To Olive. They seemed to tremble with new significance now. The clatter and shuffle of ordinary departures only made her own departure feel more momentous. Barney swung her trunk down from the car with ease, Setting it on the platform while Valancy hovered close, Thrumming with anticipation. Olive had rehearsed clever parting words on the drive. Brisk, Witty, Endearing, But now, Staring at the flat stretch of track running away into the autumn distance, She found her throat. Thick. She managed only. Wow. Here I am, Off to conquer Toronto. Her laugh was thin, But Valancy seized her hand with warmth. You needn't conquer all of it, Valancy said. A small piece of Toronto will do to begin with. Olive gave a shaky laugh. Perhaps a very small piece. Start with Aunt Josephine's spare room. That I may be able to manage. A whistle sounded in the distance. Olive's smile disappeared. Beside her, Valancy went suddenly still. Barney moved closer at once, His arms settling around her. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, And something unspoken passed between them. Valancy drew a deep breath. For one dreadful instant. The train. Ceased to be an idea. And became. A real thing. Bearing down now upon Olive. A giant, Beastly, Black engine that meant Toronto. Strangers. Art school and no possibility of quietly changing her mind tomorrow. Olive swallowed hard and her fingers tightened around Valancy's. Her other hand slipped into her coat pocket. And closed around the clear marble from windward. The faded red ribbon was safe between the leaves of her sketchbook. I will write, She said. You had better. The train came steaming into the station a moment later. Brakes shrieking as it slowed beside the platform. Barney lent in closer. Mind you don't let that city swallow you whole. And if it does, Write and tell us where it put you. Olive looked at him. Very comforting, Barney. I do my best. And, Windward? She asked. Still yours, Whenever you want it? Something in Olive's face crumpled for just a second. Oh. Bother you both, " she said and hugged Valancy. Then the conductor called and The moment had arrived. Olive stepped back quickly before her courage wavered. She turned to Barney, Whose nod of approval was steadier than words, And then, Gathering her skirts, She mounted the steps into the waiting car. From her seat, She pressed her gloved hand to the glass. The platform blurred a little from steam from her bleary eyes, But she caught sight of Valancy's small dark figure waving with both hands and Barney beside her, Lifting his hat in a grave salute, His messy hair ruffled by the station wind. The train jolted, Then rolled forward. The area she had always called home. Now slipped away. And with it. Miss Star Wars. And yet. . . Olive's heart felt stretched. Not broken. The rhythm of the wheels beneath her. Seemed to say what words had failed to. You are beginning. The drive back was quiet. At the landing, Barney parked the car and Valanci stood for a moment, Looking across at Mastawis. Funny, She said. What is? It looks the same. " Barney followed her gaze. Were you expecting Olive to take a few trees with her? Valancy smiled and exhaled. Possibly. They crossed over in the boat with the September sun warm on their backs. Windward was the first thing Valancy noticed when they came up from the shore. Its door stood shut. Barney glanced towards it too. Poor old Windwoods lost its tenant. Temporarily, Said Valancy. Inside the main cabin, Valancy set the kettle on the stove. She reached automatically for three cups. Her hand stopped. Barney saw. Neither of them said anything. Valancy. Put one cup back. They ate quietly, Though the food was good. Barney had roasted trout over the fire, And Valancy had sliced the last of the season's tomatoes. The meal felt both ordinary and strangely solemn. Like the closing of a door, They would never open in quite the same way again. When the dishes were stacked and the kitchen tidied, Barney reached for her shawl. Come on, He said, Slipping the shawl around her shoulders with the familiar gentleness that always softened his rougher edges. Let's stretch our legs before the night settles in. The maples had begun their slow fire, Edges tipped now with scarlet and gold. The air smelled of fallen leaves and damp earth, Rich with endings and beginnings alike. Valancy leaned into Barney's side, His arm heavy and reassuring around her. Neither of them spoke at first. The forest filled their silence with its own language. Twigs snapping underfoot, The faint scurry of a rabbit in the underbrush, The faraway hoot of Leander beginning his watch. They walked on until the trees thinned and opened into a small clearing. Here, The world seemed to pause. The moon was lifting over the dark horizon. Enormous and luminous. A giant lantern. The colour of pearl. Its light slipped between the branches and laid itself across for Lancy's face, So that Barney stopped short, Arrested by the sight. You'll blind me if you keep shining like that, He said. But the jest trembled with something deeper. Valancy tilted her head. It's the moon's doing, Not mine. Barney only smiled. She slipped her hand into his and stood very still. For weeks now, She had carried her suspicion quietly. Watching her body. Measuring time. Listening to herself in ways she had never dared before. At first, She had spoken of it only as a joke. A possibility. Half afraid to give it voice. But now. . . Three missed cycles had come and gone. And the truth. Was no longer a fragile hope. Eat? Was certain. Delightfully. Fearfully. Certain. Her voice when it came. Was steady. You know? We may feel a gap on the island right now, Barney, But She pressed his fingers. I believe. It really won't stay empty for long. Barney turned to her, Searching her face, As if to be sure he hadn't dreamed the words. She nodded, Her smile radiant under the silver light. It's true, Barney. By spring. There will be. Three of us. For a heartbeat. He simply held her gaze. Then a sound escaped him. A juddering, Raucous half-laugh He caught her against him, His cheek pressed to her hair. Oh! Moonlight. He whispered, The word breaking on his breath. I'd half dared to believe it but Hearing you say it now. Valancy pressed her face to his chest, Her own laughter spilling out, Rich and trembling with joy. We don't have to wonder anymore. AWE Little one. Will fill this island with new sounds, New stories, A whole new life. Barney drew back just enough to study her, His eyes fierce with tenderness. Your well? Truly well. She nodded happily. I feel stronger than ever. All of this, She gestured to the trees, The water, The moon above, Is lending its strength to me. They stood in the clearing, Wrapped in the humming hush of the woods. The leaves trembled in the silver glow, As if the island itself were rapturously listening. At last, Barney chuckled, His voice rough with wonder. I suppose I'd better get to building a cradle next. Can't have our little mite just. . . Sleeping in an apple box. Valancy giggled, The sound light as a girl's. Her mirth rang through the clearing, Bright as the moon itself, And Barney caught her close again, Laughing too. Then they grew quiet, The laughter giving way to something. Deeper more tender. Barney smoothed her hair back from her face. Whatever comes. Noisy, Messy, Sleepless nights and all. I'm. . . So glad it's with you. On this island. Nothing else matters. Valancy exhaled deeply. Yes. Let it come. Let it all come. I'm ready. We're ready. Barney's thumb lingered at her temple, His eyes searching hers. Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl? Valancy tilted her head against his chest, Smiling. I've no idea. A girl with your wild hair, Perhaps? Or a boy with your stubborn chin. Barney gave a mock groan. Heaven help us if it inherits my chin. Better, A girl with your laugh. That would soften anything. Valancy laughed again, Then grew thoughtful. Truly, I don't care which. Only that it arrives safely. His arm tightened around her. That's all I ask too. Boy or girl? It won't matter. We'll love it. With everything we have. She pressed his hand to her middle, Her voice low and steady. We'll muddle through the rest somehow. " Barney bent and kissed her hair. Of course we will. Barney was quiet for a long moment, His hands still resting against her. When he spoke, His voice was hushed. I. . . Never imagined this, You know? Being a father? My life's been so lonely in stretches. I never would have thought of that. This. I thought I'd chosen it that way. To keep clear of hurt. Of people. Never thought it would turn out like this. Never. Not before you. Balancy looked up at him, Her face open and tender in the moonlight. And now, Barney. He gave a low laugh with a soft shake of his head. Now. I can't picture anything else. You? Me? This little scrap of life we've somehow called into being? It's more than I ever dreamed. I love you. Moonlight. Chapter 26, The Moon at Your Shoulder. The first letter arrived with a Toronto postmark, The address written in Olive's familiar looping hand. Valancy opened it slowly, As though she were unwrapping something delicate and rare. My dear Valancy. I can scarcely believe I am writing this from a narrow little room in Aunt Josephine's great Toronto house, Only two streets away from the Academy. My window looks out upon a tangle of chimneys and roofs. The room itself smells faintly of varnish and boiled cabbage from the kitchen below. But I hardly mind for it means that I am here. Classes began only yesterday. Yet already my head is buzzing. Imagine me, With a stick of charcoal in hand, Sketching a plaster cast of some Roman nose, And being told by a severe-looking man with spectacles that my lines are confident. Confident. I nearly dropped the charcoal from shock. He added that I ought not to smudge so boldly across the page, But I do think his voice had softened just slightly when he said it. The air of the studios is thick with turpentine and damp canvas, Models stand in curious attitudes, As though frozen mid-dance or half-asleep. At first I thought I might laugh at them. But then. . . I found myself sketching furiously. Desperate to catch the strange poetry of their limbs. I confess I feel terribly out of place amongst all these students who chatter of Paris and Munich as though they had been born there. Their hands are perpetually streaked with colour, Their coats spotted with paint. I cannot remember when I last felt so thoroughly alive. And for Lancey, Someone actually admired a sketch I made. It was only a fellow student, A thin young man with reddish hair, Who leaned over and said, I had caught the angle of the shoulder. Well. I cannot decide if he meant it or if he was merely being polite, But his eyes shone when he spoke. And I did find it encouraging. At night, The house grows silent, Save for the occasional creak of footsteps in the hall. I sit with my lamp. And sketchbook. My fingers blackened with charcoal. My heart. Somehow both lonelier and freer than it has ever been. I keep the clear marble from Windward on the sill beside my lamp. It catches the city lights rather prettily. And the silly little red ribbon still marks a page in my sketchbook. I cannot quite bring myself to take it out. I must stop before the ink blots further. Tell me of Mistawis, Of the crows and cats and the lake. My heart longs to see the silver ripple of water again, Even if only in your words. With love, Olive. P. S. When I unpacked my trunk, I discovered amongst my stockings an entirely unexplained bottle of Dr Redfern's purple pills. I assume this is your doing? Should I find them beneficial, I shall write and tell you so. Valancy let out a small chuckle and held the letter to her chest for a long moment. Before reaching for her own pen. My dearest Olive. How I love the picture you painted for me of your little room and the studio I can almost smell the turpentine. Though I do prefer to imagine the colours rather than the fumes. You sound alive in a way that I have never heard you before. What a grand, Wonderful adventure, Dear cousin. I laughed when I read that you feel both out of place and vibrantly awake. Somehow I can picture you perfectly. Miss Starwhisk has slipped into full autumnal glory. The lake is a sheet of molten silver at dusk, And the birches burn pale against the shadows. Barney insists the cats grow fatter every day. Banjo sprawls on the veranda rail as usual, As though he were lord of the island. Nip and tuck core reproachfully each morning until Barney throws in the stale crusts from his breakfast. I'm not sure when they'll disappear again for winter. The new John Foster book is going splendidly and keeps Barney scribbling far into the night. He's working so hard to capture the moods of the moon and the lake in words, How they shift together and apart, How they tease and echo one another. Sometimes I find him on the shore at midnight, Jotting by lantern light. He pretends to be vexed when I tease him, But I know He is so happy right now with his work. You asked for news. And In fact, I am bursting with it. But I do find myself hesitant to write the words. Perhaps I will be braver in my next epistle. With all affection, Valancy. P. S. How curious to hear about the purple pills. I really don't think one ought to ask too many questions about unexpected blessings though. They have such a tendency to vanish if examined too closely. Closely. The letters went back and forth in this rhythm, Olive writing with a breathless mixture of wonder and dismay, Valancy replying with warmth and quiet steadiness, Olive's descriptions grew fuller and more confident each time. My dear Valancy. I have survived my first fortnight of classes. I can scarcely believe it. My hands ache. From drawing endless heads, Hands, Feet, The professors insist that we learn to see before we dare to paint. Sometimes I think I shall never see correctly. Yet once or twice I caught a curve or shadow that made even the severe instructor nod. There is a girl in my class with inky black hair who sketches so quickly that her lines seem to fly off the page. She told me that she likes the way I look at things slowly. Can you imagine anyone ever praising me for slowness? The reddish haired fellow. I think his name is David, Though he mumbled it so shyly I cannot be certain. Has taken to saving me a place beside Him. He chatters of landscapes and sky studies and. . . I listen more than I speak, But sometimes his enthusiasm lifts me. Yet at night I sit alone in my room, And cry. Though I cannot say for sure. If it is from loneliness or. . . From the sheer shock of having leapt into a life that feels nothing whatsoever. Like, Dearwood. I never thought courage ache. So much. But in the mornings it feels different. Aunt Josephine sets out a modest tray of porridge, Tea, And sometimes a slice of warm bread, And she always greets me with a cheerful word or two. I step out into the bustle of the streets with my sketchbook under my arm. And I find that queer little thrill runs through me. For all my doubts. I walk on as though I too belong here. Striding towards another day of. . . Plaster casts and smudged fingers. What is it like there now on the island in the mornings? Do the mists still lie low upon the lake? Yours, Always. PS. While searching for my old oil paints this afternoon. I discovered yet another bottle of purple pills tucked amongst the wrappings. I begin to wonder whether they migrate of their own accord. For Lancey smiled wryly. Laid Olive's letter down on the table and gazed across the twilight glades. She reached for her pen. My olive. Your words make me smile and ache. In turn. Toronto sounds alarming and wonderful in almost equal measure. But there you are. Walking through it with your drawing board under your arm. In spite of everything. I am so glad. The mornings here are misty, Indeed. Barney paddles out early and comes back with mist beaded in his hair. He says those quiet hours are the best for gathering notes for his book. And the pages surely are piling up quickly. I have news. Of my own. Something I have been keeping close until I could quite believe it myself. Olive. I am. With child. If all goes well. It will be born in the spring. I hardly dare believe it. Yet I am truly brimming with joy, Cousin. I have longed for this so deeply that it feels somehow like stepping into a dream made real. Always. Valanci. P. S. Barney says that his father would be deeply gratified to know his purple pills are traveling the country. He also suggests that they may prove useful should Toronto suddenly be overcome by a severe shortage of purple pills. My dearest Valancy. I read your letter twice over and then a third time, For I could not quite take it in. A child? Your child, Lancey. I am so truly thrilled. That I laughed aloud here in this dreary little room until Aunt Josephine knocked to see if I had lost my senses. You talked sometimes when we were young of wanting sweet, Fat babies. And now. . . It's happening, Valancy. I am so sorry. Proud of you, Cousin. And I am glad beyond words for both you and Barney. When I come back to Miss Starwyce, You must let me hold that darling baby and tell it that I am its second cousin twice removed or whatever the proper tangle of family means. I cannot wait for Nancy. I cannot wait. Your news strengthens my courage even more. Each time I falter. I will think of you. Rowing through the mists there at the lake with Barney at your side and a child to come. A child! Oh, Rejoicing to the highest with love and joy. I'll live. P. S. The weather has now truly become cold enough here for winter things, So today. . . I unpacked my fur muff for the first time since arriving. Hidden in the very centre of it was yet another bottle of. . . Dr. Redfern's purple pills. I must confess that I am now becoming slightly afraid of my own possessions. And what they might conceal. Valancy smiled through tears as she read Olive's words aloud to Barney. He whistled low, Then snatched up her pen while she protested. Dear Olive, This is Barney writing, Because Valancy went misty-eyed from your epistle, And now She is not paying proper attention. News from here. The cats are scandalously lazy. The crows, Insolent as ever. And the pantry is nearly empty of anything sweet because moonlight eats it all before I get a look in. If our child inherits her appetite. I shall be ruined. Yours in quiet desperation. Barney. P. S. How remarkable to hear of your ever-expanding purple pill supply there in Toronto. Your father would be so proud. He is convinced that no household is complete. Without enough purple pills to preserve the health of a moderately-sized nation. Give Aunt Josephine our love. Maybe give her some purple pills, Too. Olive laughed when she saw the uneven scrawl. She later answered him in the margin, Dear Barney, If the child has half your appetite, And Valancy's courage, Then you will indeed be ruined, But happily so. A week later, Another envelope came. This one from cousin Georgiana. Glowing with delight. My dearest Valancy. Your letter. Has gladdened my heart more than I can say. A little one. On the way! My dear child. What a blessing! I am knitting already! Soft greens and creams. I must tell you that I have been boasting of you to every soul who will listen. It is a mercy. And a joy. To see you settled so happily, My dear girl, After all the storms of the past. Write and tell me all about how you were feeling. Do you have your strength? Are you eating well? I trust that Barney is taking good care of you. Affectionately yours. Georgiana. Valancy answered with warmth and gratitude, Sending along a pressed spray of goldenrod from Mistarwis. Meanwhile, Olive had taken up her pen to write to her mother. Dear Mother. You will be surprised to hear that I am well. My days are full of study and my evenings of practice. The professors here are demanding, But fair. I begin to think that Perhaps I was not wrong to come? Do not worry yourself. I have decent lodgings and Aunt Josephine is kind enough to make sure I eat more than toast. The city is noisy, But alive and beautiful. I walk the streets each day with purpose. I suppose you have heard that Valancy is expecting a child in the spring. I could not be happier for her. With respect? Olive. Her mother's reply was thin and cold. Though Olive expected no more. Olive. It is well you are safe. I hope you do not neglect your health with all this sketching and wandering about. I cannot say I approve of your choices. But as you are determined. . . I must let matters take their course. As for Valancy, I am aware of her condition. There is much talk of it in Deerwood. I trust she knows what she is about. You may give her my formal congratulations, Though she has chosen her own path, Apart from her family. Your mother. Olive folded the latter without sighing. She tucked it into her drawer, As one might tuck away a used envelope. Acknowledged, But without weight. Her sketchbook lay beside the writing paper on the desk. The faded red ribbon still marked one of its pages. Olive touched it briefly, Then drew out a fresh sheet of writing paper and reached for her pen. She wrote again to Valancy. Late at night when her lamp burned low. Valancy, Dear. Mother sends you a cool word of congratulations. I cannot care much for it. My heart goes out is too full of delight for you. Every time I pass the window of a baby shop here, I stop. To look at the tiny shoes and bonnets. Imagine! Classes here are harder than ever. The instructors speak of light. As though it were a living thing. And demand that we chase it onto the page. I am not always equal to the task. Yet sometimes I do manage to capture something to which My whole soul thrills. In the evenings I walk past the river here in the city and I think of Miss Starwiss. I picture you standing with the moon at your shoulder. And somehow I. . . Feel less alone. Yours. Always. Olive. P. S. Your latest letter shed no fewer than 16 loose purple pills onto my lap. The moment I opened it. The young lady opposite me in Aunt Josephine's parlour looked quite alarmed. Of course, I offered her some. Immediately. She. Declined. Valancy's handwriting grew rounder as the weeks passed, The lines sprawling more generously across the page. My dearest Olive. Well, I grow larger by the week. And Barney says that I must soon be rolled about the island like a barrel. At first, I could scarcely keep food in me, But now the sickness has eased and I find myself actually hungry again. What a joy to finally eat properly again. Apples taste like. . . Ambrosia. Bread, Like a feast. And the thought of tea no longer turns me green. Barney spends his evenings between his book and his pet project, A little crib for the baby. He insists that it must be strong enough to hold a dozen babes, Though I hope he will not test that. Just one sweet little fat baby to begin with will be more than enough for me. I watch Barney, Measuring and hammering. And I think I have never seen him happier. We see Eliza Gray and her children from time to time. They have settled so well into the cottage now, And send you their fondest greetings. The children come running when we arrive with baskets of bread and preserves. Eliza looks less worn. And of course, As a mother of six, She has no shortage of advice for me about child rearing. Some of it very practical indeed. Your sketch still hangs in pride of place on their wall and it seems to brighten the whole room. The children always point at it and ask when Miss Olive will be back. Keen for you to return to draw them again. The little dears. I feel the child move sometimes. Just a whisper, Like the brush of wings. It startles me with joy each time. Yours, Always. For Lansi. P. S I am sorry to hear that your fellow boarder declined your very kind offer of purple pills. Perhaps you could try paying the landlady with them. Olive read the letter with mist in her eyes and an ache in her heart. Then set her pen to paper. Dearest Valancy, Your words make my heart dance. To think of you growing so beautifully. And Barney hammering away at a darling little crib while the cats look on suspiciously. I can almost see it. The thought of that little life stirring within you fills me with such gladness. It often carries me through the days here. When things can otherwise seem. . . A little notch. I, Too, Have something new to confess. The reddish-haired fellow I wrote of, His name truly is David, I have learned, Has become dearer to me than I ever expected. He's not dazzling or grand. He listens with such attentiveness. I forget my shyness. We walk together sometimes after class. And he speaks of skies and shadows as though they were friends. Yesterday he carried my books without asking and I found myself smiling the whole way back. I. . . Do not know what this is. I only know that It feels like. The start of something. I have not known before. Ever your cousin. Olive. PS. In the interests of scientific inquiry, I offered Aunt Josephine a bottle of Dr Redfern's Purple Pills towards this month's board. She declined. Rather emphatically. But not all letters carried such sweetness. One arrived on thin paper from Valancy's mother, The handwriting sharp with unease. Valancy. I must tell you that I am so concerned about your condition. You must be careful. Many things can go wrong. Women die of such ventures every day. You are not strong. And you were also always fanciful. Do not let this blind you. Avoid stairs. Do not overheat yourself with canning and preserves. For heaven's sake, Do not row out upon the lake. Above all, Do not neglect to consult a proper doctor. I know you think Barney is clever, But this is certainly not a matter for scribblers. Everyone in the clan is endlessly concerned. They say you were never made for this, That you have always been so delicate of health. And I simply cannot bear the thought of any misfortune. I am so very anxious for you. Though of course you. . . Never heed my advice. You. Valancy laid the letter aside with a faint smile and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Olive. Do not let my mother or other clan members' threats disturb you, If they write. I am well. The lake is calm, The air is sweet, The child is strong. Barney is beside me always, Whether with pen or hammer in hand, Or merely with his trusting smile. As for your David. . . I shall reserve judgment until I meet him. Bat. Anyone who carries your books without being asked. Perhaps be permitted a favourable beginning. Write soon and tell me everything. With love. For Lancey. P. S. I remain convinced that Dr. Redfern's purple pills will one day be accepted as legal tender. Visionaries are seldom appreciated in their own lifetime. I am also becoming slightly anxious that your supply of purple pills may be dwindling. So naturally, I have enclosed another bottle. Furthermore, I have the distinct impression that there is still one place in your luggage you haven't thought to examine. Have you really found no use for your travelling rug yet? Olive folded the letter with a smile and rested her head against the windowpane. Below, The city street rattled on with carriages. Chapter 27, A Thousand Shades of Fire. Dearest cousin Georgiana, The leaves here have turned to a thousand shades of fire. When the sun drops behind the ridge and the lake grows still, The maples seem to flame all the brighter, As though they were lit from within. I thought once that life had given me all it meant to give. A small circle of dull days. A dreary routine of silences and sighs. Yet now. My days are so full, And my heart so rich beyond measure, That I can only sit in wonder. At what has come to me. I must thank you, Too, For that little nudge you gave me in the spring concerning Olive. I don't think either of us could have guessed what would come of it. We? Are better friends now than I ever imagined we might be. Almost like sisters sometimes, I feel. And I miss her dreadfully about the island. As for Eliza Gray and her brood, You would scarcely know the little cottage now. It is noisy, Untidy, And thoroughly alive. And I find I like it all the better for that. There always seems to be a child underfoot and something happening that nobody has planned for. I come away from there oddly reassured. Olive's sketch of their cottage remains above the hearth in pride of place, Just as at our house. The youngest points to theirs every morning with great pride. I do adore them all. Barney's book, Too, Has grown apace. His desk is covered in sheets of paper, Scribbled in his wild hand. Sometimes he hums as he writes, And his low tune is truly like the heartbeat of our home. He read a chapter aloud the other night, And I confess my awe brought me to tears. His words carried me into forests I have never seen, Across hills I may never climb, Yet I felt them, As real as the very breath in me. He only shrugs when I praise him and goes back to his pages. As for myself, I am growing daily. And I'm very well. Barney watches me sometimes with such an extraordinary mixture of pride and concern that I have to laugh at him. I tell him that I have never felt so well or so happy. I am happy, Cousin Georgiana. Happier than I ever thought I could be. There are moments. I hardly dare believe it. Mist drifts over the lake in the morning. The loons call at dusk. And my heart says, As well. With all affection. For Lansi. She laid the letter aside and sat for a moment, Gazing out of the window. The sky beyond Mystawis glowed in fading gold. Barney had taken to reading his work aloud again. He would clear his throat with mock solemnity, Then begin his voice deep and hearty. The moon. Is not a lantern hung in the sky. But a mirror of hidden waters. When it lifts above the lake, It is as if another world rises with it. The waves hush to listen. The trees lean nearer. A man alone in his boat feels Less lonely, Then, For the silence is not empty, But full. The lake does not give back his reflection, But the moons. And in that gift, He learns that life is larger than himself. If he rose long enough under that silver path. He may yet find. That he belongs not to the shore, But to the shining middle, Where earth and heaven meet. When he looked up, His brows arched as if bracing for her teasing, But Valancy's eyes brimmed She sat wrapped in a shawl as he read, Listening without interruption. Is it very dull? He asked with a glint in his eye. Dull, She echoed. Bonnie. . . It is like drinking from the lake after a long thirst. Do you not know that already? He laughed and tossed the papers aside. More and more she caught him humming as he wrote, Little scraps of tunes that threaded through his days. The cottage was alive with his rhythms. Outside, The island slipped further into its autumn beauty. The maples flamed scarlet and gold, Then dropped their leaves to whirl in little storms along the paths. Mist clung low in the mornings and lifted slowly, As if reluctant to leave. Valancy kept busy with her quiet tasks, Yet she found herself pausing often to breathe it all in. She felt herself growing rounder each week. And instead of the weakness she had feared, Found herself stronger than she had expected. Letters still arrived frequently from Olive, Sometimes only a page dashed off between classes, With a sketch scrawled across the margin. Sometimes a longer letter, Full of tumbling impressions. She wrote of new friends at the art school, And the strangeness of models holding poses that left her stiff from only watching. The smell of turpentine and charcoal clung to her days, Yet She said she had never felt more awake. One letter carried a sketch of her lodgings, A narrow room with a desk by the window and a vase of late dahlias perched upon it. Olive wrote, Aunt Josephine sets porridge before me each morning and I step out into the brisk Toronto air as though the city were a gallery opening just for me. Another included a swift portrait of a fellow student with a shock of reddish hair. Valancy admired it with a smile that would not fade. Cousin Georgiana, Too, Wrote back, Full of tender encouragements. She rejoiced to hear of Olive's bravery and Valancy's happiness. She said that she felt younger merely by knowing the two of them were venturing so fully into new lives. Valancy kept those precious letters, Tucked into the drawer, Along with olives, As a treasured record of a season far too rich to be forgotten. A few mornings later, Mastawis woke white with frost. Valancy woke to find the window panes feathered white at the corners, And the grass outside silvered almost to the shore. The fallen maple leaves had stiffened where they lay, Their reds and yellows dulled beneath a fine crystalline glaze. Even the dockboards glittered. Barney came in from outside, Stamping his boots, His hair full of cold air and his cheeks ruddy. We've neglected Windward, He announced. Valancy looked up from the porridge she was stirring. Have we? Shutter on the lakeside is loose. Another good wind, And Olive will come back to find it halfway across the lake. Olive would consider that. Very careless of us. She would write a letter. A very long one. With underlinings. Valancy smiled and lowered the flame beneath the pot. By mid-morning, The sun had climbed high enough to loosen the frost from the branches, Sending down little showers of droplets whenever the wind stirred them. Balancy wrapped herself warmly and followed Barney along the path through the trees, Carrying a basket with a few clean cloths and a bundle of dried lavender that she had decided Windward might as well have. The little cabin looked strangely withdrawn beneath the thinning branches. The cedar sign still hung above the doorway in Valancy's lettering, Windwood, Though it was a little crooked. Barney reached up automatically and straightened it. He set his tools down beneath the lakeside window and crouched to inspect the loose shutter. Valancy pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room smelled of cold wood and the faintest lingering trace of olive's face powder. Nothing had really changed. The narrow bed stood neatly made beneath its embroidered pillow. The two bird prints still hung on the wall. Olive's little striped rug lay crooked beside the bed. It was odd. How unmistakably olive the place remained. There were no dresses hanging from the peg, No sketchbook lying open on the chair, No orderly row of hairpins on the sill, Yet. Valancy could still picture Olive. Everywhere. Sitting primly on the bed, Complaining of mosquitoes, Bent over a drawing with charcoal on her fingers, Appearing at the door in the morning with her hair escaping its pins and pretending she had slept perfectly well. Outside came the scrape of Barney's screwdriver and a muttered remark, Apparently intended for the shutter. Balancy smiled to herself. And set about making the place tidy. She folded a loose blanket at the foot of the bed, Brushed a few pine needles from the sill, She then bent to straighten the rug and found the movement unexpectedly awkward now. Her newly rounding middle making itself known. She straightened with a little laugh. What happened? Barney called through the window. Your child is beginning to interfere with my housekeeping. Sensible child. She looked round once more. There was really very little else to do. The bed was made, The bird prints hung straight. The little rug was back in place. Empty though it was, Windward looked less abandoned than merely waiting between visits. Valancy set the lavender on the shelf beside the bed and loosened the string around it. She drew the curtains across the windows and stood for another moment in the softened light. Then she stepped outside. Barney was packing his tools away. Finished? She asked. Unless the North Wind has developed engineering ambitions. I suppose we shall find out. He tucked the screwdriver into his bag and held out his hand to her as they stepped away from the cabin. Behind them, Windward settled back into the autumnal quiet, Its curtains drawn, Its little cedar sign stirring faintly above the door. They started home through the thinning trees. By the time they reached the house, Valancy was ravenous. This new hunger still amused her. For weeks, Eating had felt like a real struggle. A little toast. A spoonful of broth. An apple if she was fortunate. Now, She seemed hardly to finish one meal before beginning to wonder about the next. She stood in the kitchen cutting thick slices of bread while Barney heated the soup. I could eat twice this much, " she said. Barney glanced at the growing pile of bread slices. Good, Said Barney. Making up for lost time, Valancy reached for the butter. There was something deeply satisfying about being hungry again. Soup tasted richer than she remembered soup having any right to taste. Bread seemed almost miraculous. And the last of the apple pie. Disappeared with remarkably little assistance from Barney. Afterwards, She sat back with a contented sigh. That, She said, Was excellent. It was the same soup we had yesterday. I know. Later, He took up his tools and went outside. For a while, Valancy heard the rasp of a plane and the light tap of a hammer as she washed the dishes. Presently, He came to the door. Come and look. But Lancey followed him out. The crib. Was really beginning to look like a crib now. Its little frame stood firm, The pale wood newly smoothed, One side still incomplete. Barney ran his hand along the upper rail, Feeling for roughness. Valancy touched it too. So smooth, She said. It had better be. One corner still needed fitting, And several pieces lay waiting nearby. She stood for another moment, Looking at it with quiet wonder. It's beautiful Barney. You're really making it, " Barney glanced at her. Trying to. Later, When the lamps were lit and the frost had begun to whiten the grass again, Barney went off to Bluebeard's chamber, With his pages tucked beneath one arm. Valancy settled near the fire with her sewing, While Banjo sprawled extravagantly across the warmest part of the rug. Good luck was curled snugly against her side, Purring contentedly. The kettle began its small, Cheerful murmur on the stove. From Bluebeard's chamber came the occasional scrape of Barney's chair, The opening and shutting of a drawer, And presently the steady scratch of his pen. Once he called, Moonlight? Yes? Do we have any more pencils? Second draw. Arrgh. A moment later, Scratching resumed. Valancy smiled. Her hand rested for a moment over the small swell of her middle. There was bread to make in the morning. Barney meant to finish another piece for the crib. There was the last basket of apples to deal with. And that tear in the kitchen curtain to mend before it grew any worse. She had promised herself she would begin the little knitted jacket tomorrow too. The fire settled comfortably in the grate. Banjo twitched in his sleep. Somewhere outside, Something small rustled through the fallen leaves. For Lancey. Threaded her needle again. Tomorrow would be busy. Chapter 28 Moonlight at Mystalis. By November, Miss Starwyce had lost nearly all its colour. The maples stood bare against a pale November sky, And the lake had taken on a cold metallic sheen. Frost silvered the dock most mornings now, And the last stubborn leaves went skittering across the paths whenever the wind rose. The lancy had grown rounder too. There was no mistaking it now. Even beneath her warm dresses, The new curve of her body showed plainly. And she had lately developed the habit of resting one hand there without noticing she was doing it. That morning, She was sitting near the window with the cream-coloured knitting spread across her lap. The little jacket had progressed. Unfortunately, It had progressed in several directions Valancy did not entirely understand. She held it up and regarded one sleeve suspiciously. That cannot possibly be right. Good luck, Curled beside her, Opened one eye. Well. . . You needn't look superior, You don't even have sleeves. Good luck. Closed the eye again. Valancy turned the knitting, Sorry. Well, Once he turned the knitting around, Somewhere outside came the measured knock of Barney's hammer, Followed by silence, Then another knock. She counted the stitches again. 31. There ought to have been 34. The lancy frowned. Three of you have escaped. Banjo appeared at that moment and jumped onto the table. And I know exactly whom to suspect. She lifted him down before he could sit on the pattern again. A few minutes later, Barney came in, Bringing a gust of cold air with him. He shut the door quickly and rubbed his hands together. Valancy held up the jacket. Does this look like a sleeve to you? Barney studied it. Which part? She lowered it. Never mind. He bent and kissed the top of her head as he passed. Valancy smiled and went back to counting. 31. Still 31. By the afternoon, The wind had risen. It moved around the house in long, Low breaths and bent the bare branches occasionally to tap against the roof. Barney had come in from his work and was sitting across from her with a mug between his hands, His hair still carrying a faint dusting of wood shavings. Balancy set the knitting aside and stretched her fingers. I think the child will have to be satisfied with one sleeve. Could be economical. She gave him a look. For a while, They sat without speaking. The room was warm, The windows beginning to mist faintly at the edges. Valancy glanced down at the little jacket. We shall have to call it something, Eventually. Barney looked up. The jacket? The baby. Awww. She waited. He appeared to consider the matter. Which names do you like? Barney leaned back in his chair. That is a dangerous question! Why? Because somewhere in the world there is undoubtedly a perfectly innocent person bearing every name. I am about to insult. For Lancey Laugh. All right. We shall be discreet. He thought for another moment. If it's a boy, Absolutely not Clarence. The lancy laughed again. Why Clarence? I knew a Clarence once, Barney said, As if that cleared the matter up. Well, That seems a little unfair to all the others. You didn't know this one. Valancy smiled. The wind rattled briefly at the window. All right, She said, No Clarence then. Barney nodded gravely. That's one decided. What would you call her if it's a girl? What about. . . Amelia. Polonies suggested. Valancy stared at him. Amelia. A fine. . . Dignified name. Barney. Very proper. And surely. . . A daughter ought to be named after her dear. . . Beloved. Grandmother? Valancy narrowed her eyes. I'm only thinking of family tradition. You have never thought of family tradition in your life. Wow. There's a first time for everything. Valancy tried not to laugh and failed. No, Amelia. Barney side. Your mother will be crushed Mother will survive. I dare say she will. What about something from our travels? Valancy suggested instead. A name that reminds us of somewhere. He considered this. Jean-Yves. Valancy looked at him. France. I do rather like Jean Vievre. So do I. They sat with it for a moment. Then Barney shook his head. No. No I shall always think of that little hotel in Rouen where the pipes screamed all night. Valancy laughed. That was not Geneviève's fault. It would become associated. All right, Then. No Jean-Yves. She picked up the jacket again and wound the wool once around her finger. Another small silence. Wellancy bent over the knitting. There was that child in Venice, She said, After a moment. Barney groaned. Oh no. What was his name? "'I have deliberately forgotten, ' replied Barney solemnly. "'No, You haven't. '" I have tried very hard. Valancy began to laugh. Alessandro! Barney squeezed his eyes closed as if wincing. Alessandro He was sweet. He threw an orange at me. You were teasing his dog! You called it a badly made footstool. It was shaped like one. Valancy laughed harder. Barney pointed a warning finger at her. We are not naming a child Alessandro. I wasn't suggesting it. Good. Nor after that little girl in Spain who followed us for half a mile asking for your hat. Barney frowned. Wasn't she called Pilar? I think so. She had excellent taste in hats. She stole it. Borrowed. Well, We never saw it again. Barney looked thoughtful. Perhaps Pilar is out. Valancy set down the knitting. What about something simpler? Such as. . . She hesitated. And Barney's expression softened slightly. And it's nice. Or Margaret Also nice. Elizabeth. Very respectable. Too respectable. Possibly. They went on like that for some time. Trying names on and setting them aside again. Some belonged too strongly to people they had known. Others sounded wrong the moment they were spoken aloud. Few lasted several minutes before One of them found some objection. No name. Seemed quite ready to belong to the small unseen person. Who had already rearranged so much of their lives. At last, Valancy gathered the knitting back into her lap. We have plenty of time. Barney nodded. That, He said, Is an excellent thing to have. Balancy looked at him. For a moment, Neither of them said anything. Then she picked up her needles again. 34 stitches, She said. Valancy had scarcely begun the next row when she stopped. Her hand went instinctively to her middle. Barney noticed. What is it? Nothing. Of me. She waited. There it was again. Not the faint, Uncertain flutter she had been noticing now and then for the past few weeks, Which might almost have been imagined, But a definite little movement from somewhere deep inside. For Lancey's face changed. He was beside her at once. She caught his hand and pressed it against the curve beneath her dress. They waited. Nothing happened. Barney looked at her. Typical for Lancey Mermaid. Already contrary apparently. She kept his hand where it was. For several seconds there was only the ticking of the clock and the wind brushing softly around the house. Then Barney's fingers moved. Was that. . . ? Balansi laughed. Yes! His whole expression altered. Do it again, He said loudly to her stomach. Bonnie! What? I'm asking politely. They waited again. But the baby had evidently lost its willingness to perform. Barney left his hand there a moment longer anyway. Wow. He said at last, Very quietly. Lancy looked at him with wonder it's strange isn't it? Very. Sometimes it still seems impossible. Barney nodded. Then he bent and kissed her forehead. Before returning to his own chair. But Lancey picked up her knitting again. Though it took her some time to remember which row she had been on. Towards evening, The wind dropped. The clouds that had hung low over the lake all afternoon seemed to break apart, Leaving long, Pale openings in the western sky. Barney went out to bring in another armful of wood, And Valancy stood for a while at the window, Watching him cross the yard. Mastawis looked so different now from the island they had returned to in spring. The lush green had vanished. Windward showed plainly through the bare trees, Its little roof dark against the fading light. The paths were thick with leaves and the garden had mostly given itself over to winter. Here and there, A stubborn stalk still stood upright, Rattling dryly whenever the breeze touched it. Yet Valanci did not find it melancholy. She lied. Being able to see farther through the trees. Barney came back with the wood piled almost to his chin and nudged the door open with his shoulder. You might have made two journeys. Now, Where would be the glory in that? They stacked the wood beside the hearth together. When they had finished, Barney glanced towards the window. It's clearing. Balancy followed his gaze. The first star had appeared above the dark line of the pines. So it is. She looked down at the knitting, Still lying abandoned on the chair. Gladly. Bani fetched Balansi's heaviest coat. She wound the blue scarf from Istanbul twice around her throat and then they stepped outside. The cold met them at once. Clean and sharp. The leaves along the path had stiffened with frost and crunched beneath their boots. Barney took Valancy's hand. They walked without any particular destination. Past the garden. Past the place where the summer herbs had gone brown and brittle, Past Windward, Quiet now among the trees with its curtains drawn. Balancy glanced towards it. I wonder what Olive would say if she could see it now. Probably that we have allowed the standards to decline. Valancy smiled and squeezed his hand. They walked on. The trees thinned gradually as they neared the shore. Through the branches, The lake showed broad and dim beneath the darkening sky, The last light lying pale across its surface. Valancy slowed a little over the uneven ground. Barney noticed and offered his arm without comment. She took it. They went on towards the water. The shore was quiet in the fading light. The lake laid dark before them, With a faint wash of silver beginning to gather across its surface. Lancey leaned into him and looked out across the lake. For a while. They said nothing. Then. She felt that small, Unmistakable movement beneath her coat again. She caught Barney's hand. There! He looked down. And this time the baby obliged almost at once. Barney's face changed in that quiet way she loved. Wow. He said softly. Valancy laughed under her breath. Above the trees, The moon had begun to rise. It came slowly. Pale at first behind the bare branches, Then clearer as it climbed. A long path of light now stretched across the lake. Barney's hand remained against the curve of her belly. We've watched the moon come up in some extraordinary places. Valancy said. We have. She said softly. You did show me the moon there, After all. Rising through the cypresses. Barney smiled. Said I would. And I still don't think it was lovelier than Miss Starwess. He said. Only different. Remember that little in. High in the Alps. The one with the wooden balcony and the enormous feather bed. And the goat underneath our window. That goat was very fond of you. Naturally. And that village in Provence where our room was over the bakery. We could smell bread half the night. And we ate half the bakery by mid-morning. She laughed softly. For a moment, They watched the silver widen across the water. I'm so glad we came home, Valancy said. Barney looked out over Misdalwyth. Me too. Beneath his palm, The baby gave another small kick. His eyebrows lifted. And apparently we have another vote. The lancy laughed and covered his hand with hers for a moment. The moon was well above the trees now. Somewhere behind them, The house waited, Warm and familiar. The little woolen jacket lay unfinished near the hearth, And Barney's pages were scattered across the desk in Bluebeard's chamber. The crib still needed work. Before long there would be another letter from her. Olive or Georgiana. Or perhaps one of the grey children. The Lancey. Looked across the water. Bani shifted beside her. You're cold. I'm not. You are. And little. He smiled. Come on Moonlight. This time. She did not argue. Together, They turned back towards the house. Through the trees. The windows of her blue castle shone warm against the dark. The path beneath her feet was pale with frost. And Barney kept her hand tucked securely through his arm as they walked. Behind them. Moonlight. Lay quietly. Over Miss Darwis. The end.

Reviews

I absolutely adore this! You really kept the cadence and feel… and it is a lovely peaceful listen! Feel free to keep going😹🥰💐✨💐