“Ask Jem,” I suggested. “Bree says he’s read to Mandy since she was a baby, and he has an excellent memory.” I laughed, thinking of some of the Seuss illustrations. “Ask Bree if she can draw Horton the Elephant or Yertle the Turtle for you, from memory.”

“Yertle?” His face lighted with humor. “That’s no a real name, is it?”

“No, but it rhymes with ‘turtle.’” I cracked another nut and tossed the bits of shell into the grass.

“So does Myrtle,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but Yertle is a boy. No female turtle would have done what he did.”

Jamie was diverted; he paused with his hand in the basin.

“What did he do?”

“Made all of the turtles in Sala-ma-Sond build themselves into a tower so he could be King of all that he saw by sitting on top of them. It’s an allegory about arrogance and pride. Not that females aren’t capable of those emotions—just that they wouldn’t do anything so easily illustrated.”

Jamie picked up a handful of peanuts and crushed them absentmindedly, nodding.

“Aye? And what sort of allegory is yon Green Eggs and Ham?” he demanded.

“I think it’s intended to urge children not to be fussy about what they eat,” I said dubiously. “Or not to be afraid of trying new th— What are you doing?” For he’d dropped his handful of crushed peanuts into the basin, shells and all.

“Helping you,” he said, taking another handful. “You’ll be about that all day, Sassenach, doing it one at a time.” He crushed the second handful and dropped it, debris and all, into the basin.

“But picking all the shells out of there will—”

“We’ll winnow them,” he interrupted, turning and pointing with his chin toward the distant flank of Roan Mountain. “See the wind walkin’ down through the trees? There’s a storm a-boil.”

He was right: clouds were gathering behind the peak; the patches of pale aspen on the slope flickered as the rising wind touched their leaves, and the pines rippled in deep-green waves. I nodded and picked up several nuts to crush between my palms.

“Frank,” Jamie said abruptly, and I stopped dead. “Speakin’ of books …”

“What?” I said, not at all sure I’d just heard him say “Frank.” He had, though, and a small sense of unease coiled up at the base of my spine.

“I need ye to tell me something about him.” His attention was fixed on the basin of peanuts, but he wasn’t being casual about it.

“What?” I said again, but in an entirely different tone. I brushed peanut skins slowly off my skirts, my eyes on his face. He still wasn’t looking at me, but his mouth compressed briefly as he crushed a fresh handful.

“The picture of him on his book—the photograph. I was only wondering, how old was he when that likeness was made?”

I was surprised, but considered.