She gave him a sharp look and he shrugged; the faintest of reds was rising on his tanned cheeks and moving toward the gray hair of his sideburns. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Who wants to do this?”

“His name is Seaver. A doctor. But he likes to write histories. Someone else is behind him: Daniel Bannister, a lawyer and publisher. Dr. Seaver proposed that I ask you if you would come to talk with him; the meeting could be at the Whaley house.”

“Jennet Whaley’s? In Castile?”

“Yes.”

“I see. I also see that their plan is far advanced. Odd, that it is so far advanced at the same time the subject of their proposed history knows nothing about it. When did they come to you about this?”

Richard cast his eyes down. “Two weeks ago.”

“Be careful, Richard. The hay you have stacked is about to fall on you.”

She turned and spoke to her dog. Tilting her head toward Richard, she said, “Molly.” Then she said, “Bite him, Molly.”

Molly looked from Mary to Richard and half wagged her tail.

When on the next day he came again, this time to share a meal with Mary, he said, “I told Bannister and Seaver ‘no.’ ”

She was in the process of serving him spoon bread with rosemary in it and bits of ham and fried apples: she set his plate down with a thud and then put one hand on her hip. He took it as reflexive of gratitude and said, “I should have told them that in the first place. You’ve never wanted to talk in public about what happened to you. I know that. I’m sorry.”

“Richard,” she said, “why did you answer them for me? The day before yesterday, which was Friday, I may not have been ready to speak out. Would that mean that yesterday, which was Saturday, would find me still not ready?”

SHE ENTERED the stand of white oak that stood along the creek. Beyond it and beyond the next clearing, if she went just south of some shrubby overgrowth, she would look down on the small cluster of houses that was known as Castile.

“Mary,” her father had said.

SHE PASSED through the trees and stepped up on one end of the log which bridged the stream.

He had said, “Open your eyes. Watch where you are being led.”

SHE BEGAN her crossing, taking short steps. Her poor eyesight led her to be careful. She looked down at her feet.

Look at your feet, I thought. Moccasins.

OFTEN in the past she and Hiokatoo had crossed this rushing water together. Only in the last decade of his life had she avoided going in this direction, because he lurched a little when he strode, and wherever he went, no matter what she said, he would do nothing but stride; she feared he would lose his footing on the damp log.

She was to spend three days or so talking with James Seaver at Jennet Whaley’s. She set her face toward the stone house.