“Nom de guerre?” I suggested dryly. “I shouldn’t wonder. Does ‘po’ mean a chamber pot, these days?”

“Pot de chambre?” he asked in surprise. “Of course it does.”

“Of course it does,” I murmured. “Putting that aside—if Pocock wasn’t her real last name, do you think Fanny—er, Frances—knows what the real one is?”

He shook his head, looking slightly troubled.

“I dinna like to ask her,” he said. “She hasna spoken again about—whatever it was that happened to her parents, has she?”

“Not to me. And if she’d told anyone else, I think they’d have mentioned it to you or me.”

“D’ye think she’s forgotten?”

“I think she doesn’t want to remember—which may not be the same thing.”

He nodded at that, and we walked in silence for a bit, letting the peace of the wood settle with the slow rain of falling leaves. I could hear the children’s voices under and over the rustle of the chestnut trees, like the calling of distant birds.

“Besides,” Jamie said, “William called her Frances. When he gave her to me.”

WE WALKED ON slowly, pausing now and then as I spotted something edible, medicinal, or fascinating, which required a stop every few feet.

“Oo!” I said, heading for a slash of deep, bloody red at the foot of a tree. “Look at that!”

“It looks like a slice of fresh deer’s liver,” Jamie said, peering over my shoulder. “But it doesna smell like blood, so I’m guessing it’s one of the things ye call shelf funguses?”

“Very astute of you. Fistulina hepatica,” I said, whipping out my knife. “Here, hold this, would you?”

He accepted my basket with no more than a slight roll of the eyes and stood patiently while I cut the fleshy chunks—for there was a whole nest of them hidden under the drifted leaves, like a set of crimson lily pads—free of the tree. I left the smaller ones to grow, but still had at least two pounds of the meaty mushroom. I packed them in layers of damp leaves, but broke off a small piece and offered it to Jamie.

“One side makes you taller, and one side makes you small,” I said, smiling.

“What?”

“Alice in Wonderland—the Caterpillar. I’ll tell you later. It’s said to taste rather like raw beef,” I said.

Muttering “Caterpillar” under his breath, he accepted the bit, turned it from side to side, inspecting it critically to be sure it harbored no insidious legs, then popped it in his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He swallowed, and I relaxed a little.

“Maybe like verra old beef that’s been hung a long time,” he allowed. “But aye, a man could stomach it.”

“That’s actually a very good commendation for a raw mushroom,” I said, pleased. “If I had a few anchovies to hand, I’d make you a nice tartare sauce to go with it.”

“Anchovies,” he said thoughtfully. “I havena had an anchovy in years.” He licked his lower lip in memory. “I might find some, next time I go to Wilmington.”