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his own age,
in a gown of dull green poplin and a countrified bonnet tied with
primrose ribbons, nodded at him and gestured imperiously.
    Jed heaved a sigh, thrust his hands into the pockets
of his old frieze coat, and walked across the square with dragging
feet and a dim hope that some distraction might present itself and
claim the young lady’s attention before he reached the
carriage.
    The hope was a vain one, as Jedidiah might have
known. Sera Vorder’s fingers were doing a brisk, impatient dance on
the side of the carriage when Jed finally arrived.
    “Fine morning for a drive,” he said, ducking his head
sheepishly, and studiously avoiding the gaze of Elsie, who looked
prettier and more fragile than ever, in a big leghorn hat and a
gown of white muslin figured with cabbage roses. “You ladies lost
your coachman? Why don’t I scout around and see if I can find
him?”
    To his relief, Sera’s frown vanished and she burst
out laughing. “Don’t be nonsensical, Jed—and don’t you bow and
scrape to me! Our ‘coachman’ is Jarl Skogsrå, and he and Cousin
Clothilde are inside the shop. I expect they will return at any
moment, so don’t be difficult—just offer me a hand down, because I
have something particular to discuss with you and I won’t tolerate
interruptions.”
    Jed heaved another sigh. Sera had such a decided way
of making a request, it was difficult to resist her. He opened the
door of the carriage and helped her to alight. But he could not
resist a sidelong glance at her companion. Catching Elsie looking
back at him, he blushed to the roots of his hair.
    “I hope you know I don’t put her up to this, Miss
Elsie.”
    Elsie smiled at him. To Jed’s mind, she was the
prettiest girl in Thornburg, with her fair, almost translucent
skin, and her soft golden curls, but there was always a tentative
quality to her beauty, a kind of delicate expectancy in her smile,
that brought a lump to Jed’s throat.
    “I know you don’t, Jed,” said Elsie. “But when did
Sera require encouragement to stand by old friends?”
    Sera took his arm and shook it impatiently. “Come
along, Jed, before Cousin Clothilde returns. I’m in no temper for
another lecture on the impropriety of being seen in low
company—either from her or from you. I’ve heard it all too many
times before.”
    Even as she spoke, the shop door opened, and Mistress
Vorder stepped out into the street, accompanied by a limping,
foreign-looking dandy in high boots. From the grim look on
Clothilde Vorder’s face as she approached the carriage, it was
plain that Sera was in for a scolding and that Jed himself would
likely come in for more than his share of the blame. Wishing to
avoid a scene (and reckoning that Mistress Vorder, in her grotesque
curled wig and her outsized hoop, was a sight too unwieldy to
effectively pursue them), he turned tail and ran, dragging Sera
with him: around a corner, down a long alley, and into another open
square.
    When he thought it was safe, he released her arm.
Pulling off his cap, he used his sleeve to wipe his forehead. “I
ain’t accustomed to all this running about in the heat of the day,”
he said, leaning up against a cool brick wall.
    “Really, Jedidiah.” Sera righted her straw hat,
smoothed her skirts, and readjusted the drape of her flowered silk
shawl. “Cousin Clothilde will suspect the worst now. And what of
Jarl Skogsrå? They will imagine an elopement at the very least. I
hope you are prepared to do the honorable thing and make an honest
woman of me.”
    Jedidiah glared at her. “When I do marry, she won’t
be a sharp-tongued piece like you, that I promise you. She’ll be
someone sweet and gentle, someone like . . .”
    But now Sera was laughing at him again, which brought
such an irresistible alteration to her dark-browed face that Jed
could not help laughing along with her. And over her shoulder he
spotted a canted signpost whose weathered lettering read: Cairngorm
Court / Antimony Lane. If