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the one last year.’’
    Why a woman her age fluttered her eyelashes at every person in pants was beyond him, but he kept a smile in place no matter. ‘‘You’ll have to ask the boss here. After all, it is his paper.’’
    ‘‘Oh, you silly boy, of course Phillip will run another story if you but write it.’’ She tapped her fan on the top of Phillip’s hand lying on the counter.
    Thorliff could feel the laughter rising both within himself and the man next to him. ‘‘We’ll do our best, ma’am.’’
    ‘‘That we will.’’ Phillip Rogers pushed a receipt across the counter. ‘‘Thank you for your advertisement. I’m sure the town will support your ladies’ social. Anything to help our more unfortunate brothers.’’
    ‘‘And sisters.’’ She turned to leave, but her hat bobbled and flopped, so she had to grab it with one hand. ‘‘Good day, gentlemen.’’ With that, she sailed out the door.
    Phillip turned to Thorliff. ‘‘You better get crackin’ on that story. Miss Simpson has spoken.’’
    ‘‘Strange, but that’s the second one today. Old Mr. Stromme hailed me—’’
    ‘‘From his front porch?’’
    Thorliff nodded.
    ‘‘From whence he rules Northfield?’’
    Another nod. ‘‘I guess. But he insisted we need another Christmas contest this year—along with another serialized story.’’
    ‘‘If I had a dollar for each request . . .’’ Phillip shook his head. ‘‘You’re king in Northfield, young Bjorklund. You better enjoy it while it lasts.’’

C HAPTER F OUR

    ‘‘I’m done!’’
    ‘‘Me too!’’
    Meeting on the front steps of Old Main, Thorliff and Elizabeth stared at each other, both noting the circles under eyes, the sag of weary shoulders. The broad lawn lay like a smooth skirt around the distinctive mansard-roofed brick building.
    ‘‘I want to sleep for a week.’’
    ‘‘I’d take one good night. I have to start writing the new story tomorrow.’’ Thorliff reached for her bag, and Elizabeth was too tired to even protest. They walked down to the shaded path that led to town, grateful for the breeze that rustled the leaves above them. Rainwater from showers the night before still lay in puddles in the hollows, but soon the heat would drink them dry. Thorliff inhaled the fragrance of rain-washed leaves and grass. Daisies nodded where the sun poked through the covering. Blue and purple violets peeked out from under the bushes, too shy to push their way forward like the sun-loving daisies.
    ‘‘It surely does smell good, doesn’t it?’’ Elizabeth followed his lead, only stopping to sniff again where a particularly delightful perfume caught her nose. ‘‘Ah, honeysuckle.’’ She turned her head, following the scent like a hunting dog on point. ‘‘See, over there.’’ She pointed to a shrub polka-dotted with the fragile white blossoms blinking in the dancing shade.
    ‘‘You want one?’’
    ‘‘Of course.’’ She started forward, but Thorliff stopped her with a cautionary hand.
    ‘‘Might be poison ivy in there.’’ Keeping an eye out for the attractive leaves, he picked a sprig of honeysuckle and brought it to her.
    Her thank-you wore a well-washed gown of grudge. Frequently sniffing the fragrant offering, she strolled down the path, forcing Thorliff to keep his pace sedate or be rude and go on ahead. There was more than one feminine way to get even. ‘‘So do you have your new story all figured out?’’
    ‘‘No, but I’m working on it.’’
    ‘‘What’s the general idea?’’
    ‘‘A continuation of The Switchmen with Douglas now head of his own company and seeing things from the other side. A sort of Horatio Alger’s story.’’
    ‘‘I think you need more female characters to draw in more women readers.’’
    ‘‘Hmm.’’ Thorliff rubbed his chin, an unconscious imitation of Haakan in deep thought. ‘‘Makes good sense.’’
    ‘‘Well, can you believe that? Mr. Bjorklund can take a suggestion