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emotions were just like the ones of those heroines. Even now, thinking of Mr. Hamilton’s handsome auburn hair, her heart pattered in her breast, making her breathless.
    He had spoken to her so seriously and earnestly about Viking history, as if she was quite grown up and intellectual. Not like she was a child, as almost everyone else did!
    Why, now that she was of an age to marry, did he have to go off and wed someone else?
    The thought made her eyes itch with tears again, but really she was rather tired of crying. She tried to behave as the tragically romantic Minerva Press heroines did, delicate and brave, though sometimes it was dashed hard.
    She peered at Sarah over the top of her book, and saw that her sister appeared quite absorbed in her own thoughts, as well. In fact, if Mary Ann did not know her sensible sister so well, she would almost have said Sarah had a secret infatuation of her own.
    Yet who could it be? The only men Mary Ann ever saw Sarah with were dusty old scholars like Sir John. And surely Sarah was far too old to be infatuated with anyone! Why, she was a widow.
    What, then, accounted for the unaccustomed soft expression in Sarah’s eyes? Glad of the distraction from thoughts of the lost Mr. Hamilton, Mary Ann settled down to ponder this mystery.

Chapter Five
    Sarah dug her trowel carefully into the soft earth, prying until she loosened the glistening object. It was a tiny, broken fragment of some metal, hooked and twisted. She wiped it on her already dusty apron, and took out her quizzing glass to study it closer.
    It was a warm day. The sun beat down on her head, even through the loose weave of her wide-brimmed straw hat, and tiny, itchy rivulets of sweat ran between her shoulder blades. The other people working on the village, digging and hauling artifacts away to the old stable that was their temporary home, moved slowly, stopping often to wipe at their damp brows. Sarah noticed none of this, though. She was too absorbed in the tiny piece of metal, and in the other objects scattered around her.
    This had assuredly been the village smithy, she thought, glancing at the objects laid out on old sheets. There were the blades of knives and swords, a half of an iron cauldron, and even a scamasax in such fine condition she could have used it right now, if she had such a violent inclination. The charcoal kiln she had just uncovered this morning confirmed that this was a smithy.
    But what was this new object? She would have to take it back to the hunting box that night and look for something like it in one of her books. It would be so much easier if she knew what it was now, though! If only John, or even Mr. Hamilton, were here. They knew what everything was on sight, where she was still a student.
    Mary Ann, who was sitting on a low stool behind her, sketching the charcoal kiln, suddenly stood up. She shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun, and announced, “Someone is coming!”
    Sarah reluctantly tore her attention from the fragment, and looked to where her sister was pointing. A horse and rider were slowly making their way into the small valley where the village was situated. She couldn’t tell from this distance exactly who it was, but, judging from the figure’s upright, military posture, and the golden hair gleaming in the sun, she had a good idea.
    “Blast!” she cursed under her breath. Why did he have to come today, of all days? When she was hot and dirty, wearing her oldest and plainest gray muslin dress and a stained apron! Her face was probably pink from the sun, and she no doubt smelled less than pristine.
    When they had met last week, she might have looked like a fool getting stuck in the stream, but at least she had been well dressed doing it. Every day since then, she had remembered his promise to come to see the village, so she had dressed in her best day gowns, and even used rice powder on the freckles across her nose. This morning, she had decided he would surely write before