“That’s a fine idea,” Jacob said, in his resonant bass. “A fine name, too.”

“It’s almost as nice as Hortense,” Abigail agreed.

It was late when they put out the lanterns and retired, Scully to the icy lean-to room, Abigail and Evangeline to the bed, Jacob to his improvised pallet in front of the hearth.

When she awakened the next morning, Jacob had already left for home, and Evangeline was sorry for it. She would have liked to say good-bye, and pass on some word of high regard to Miss June-bug. This time, there had been no exchange of letters, but Evangeline didn’t mind that so much. The pleasure of Jacob’s visit would linger for a while, and there was Christmas to think about, that holiday being only a month away.

She busied herself with sewing and chores, cooking and cleaning, teaching Abigail’s lessons, and began venturing farther and farther afield of the house, when the weather allowed. She didn’t think twice about going to the spring for water anymore, even though Scully often warned her to be careful, lest she meet up with a wolf or an unfriendly stranger.

She was humming to herself, that day in late November, Abigail trundling along at her side, when they reached the spring. The overflow had formed a little pond, which was frozen solid, or at least appeared to be. Abigail immediately started toward it, but Evangeline stopped her, taking a firm hold on the hood of her cloak.

“Don’t you dare step on that ice, young lady,” she scolded. “You don’t know if it will hold your weight. Suppose you fell through?”

“You worry too much, Mama.”

“Be that as it may, I want you to stay at my side or next time I’ll leave you behind at the cabin.”

Abigail looked mildly exasperated, but the expression passed quickly. She was like that, changeable as spring weather, clouding up one moment, spilling sunshine the next. “Do you think Elisabeth will come to visit us?”

Evangeline went to the edge of the spring and chipped through a thin, brittle layer of ice with the heel of her boot before crouching to fill one bucket with water, then the other. They were heavy, those buckets, but she’d formed callouses on her palms and the insides of her fingers, so the handles didn’t chafe her skin like before.

It was a while before she worked out who Elisabeth was, being distracted by the task of fetching water. It came to her a moment later, though—Elisabeth was Abigail’s name for Trey Hargreaves’s little girl. The child referred to her every day, almost as though they were already acquainted. I wonder if Elisabeth knows how to make paper dolls? Elisabeth will like Hortense very much, don’t you think? Perhaps Elisabeth likes to ride horses, like I do.

Evangeline was smiling as they turned away, a full bucket in either hand. She was about to answer that they were bound to encounter “Elisabeth” at some point, but the words lodged in her throat, and she and Abigail both stopped where they were. The buckets slipped to the ground and spilled.