“You’ve been so quiet. You don’t even talk to Jefferson much.”

I bend down to pick up a pinecone that has rolled into the grass from the tree line. It’s perfect and pristine, untouched by jay or squirrel.

“Still thinking about your uncle?”

“Yes.” I reach between grooves with a forefinger and snag a pine nut. “Hiram will find me. Somehow, he will.”

“Men can be relentless,” she agrees, “when they think a woman belongs to them.”

I don’t have a chance to ask what she means, because Olive calls for her, and Becky excuses herself. I stare after her, wishing I could tell her more. Wishing I could tell someone. It turns out that a girl with all the friends in the world is still lonely when she’s keeping secrets.

My gold sense is a tiny tickle on the eastern slopes, but once we cross the divide it swells, becoming ever-present, almost uncomfortable. I tell myself to pay it no mind, that there will be plenty of time for gold later. But once in a while, when no one is looking, I can’t help crouching down and sifting through stream gravel until I find the thing that sings so clear to me. By the time the mountains give way to rolling golden hills dotted with oak trees, I have almost seventy dollars’ worth in my pockets.

One afternoon while we’re resting the oxen, I catch Jefferson scowling at me. He’s right to be angry. I’ve been avoiding him. Having him near reminds me that I’m keeping secrets, that even though I wear Lucie’s skirt most days, I’m still a liar.

The scowl on his face darkens when he notices me staring, becomes something deep and sorrowful. My chest squeezes with the realization: I’m hurting him.

My feet stride toward him even before my mind registers my decision. I grab his arm and pull him aside under the cover of a giant sprawling oak. It’s time. It’s past time.

“Lee—?”

“There’s something I have to tell you. A secret.”

His face goes blank. “I’m listening.”

Trust someone, Mama said.

My heart races. In my whole life, I haven’t told a single soul. Jefferson is a good person to try it out on. The best person.

“Lee?”

I inhale deeply and say, “Remember how I saved those ugly candlesticks?”

“Sure.”

I reach into the right pocket of my trousers. I pull out my hand and open my palm so Jefferson can see the fistful of tiny gold nuggets and flecks I’ve gathered. “Those candlesticks are made of gold. Just like this. And—”

“I know.” His mouth quirks.

“You do? Did Mr. Hoffman tell—”

“I mean I know that you’re . . . magical.”

I stare at him, mouth agape.