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already got his mouth open, ready to scream. Quickly, at the last possible moment before he stops drawing air in and starts sending out his loudest bellow, I reach down and clamp my hand over his mouth.
    “Shh! It’s me, Cecilia. Don’t wake your mam. I have to tell you something,” I whisper into his ear.
    He’s still flailing about, uncomprehending. The watchman’s light is getting brighter behind me. I have only a few seconds left.
    “It’s Eelsy!” I hiss a little louder. Harper stops flailing and nods. I take my hand off his mouth, grab his hand, and pull him out the door, then yank the door shut with my other hand. “The watchman’s coming! This way!”
    I jerk Harper around the corner of his cottage, but the light reaches even there. I’m debating the pros and cons of diving into the bushes at the edge of the woods—the dangers of bumps and scratches versus the value of a good hiding place—when Harper tugs on my hand.
    “No, this way! Into the cowshed!”
    I decide his idea’s better than mine. Seconds later we’re inside the shed, crouching in clumps of straw—rather strong-smelling straw.
    “Ugh! Don’t you ever clean out this place?” I demand of Harper.
    “Never have time,” he says. “Harp practice, remember?”
    I try to forget that it’s not just mud squishing between my toes now. Poor Glissando.
    “Anyhow,” I say, “what were you doing, sleeping right on top of the door, practically?”
    At the same time Harper asks me, “What are you doing, waking me up in the middle of the night?”
    We’re both silent for a moment, then Harper answers first.
    “It’s what soldiers do. Like guard duty. It’s so I could protect my mam, if I had to.”
    In the dark I can hear the huskiness in Harper’s voice, the mix of embarrassment and pride. I don’t say, “That is so silly, Harper,” even though it is. I just say, “Oh.”
    “Your turn,” Harper prods. From his tone of voice I can’t tell if he’s still mad at me or not. I panic at the thought of telling my whole story in the darkness, without once being able to see his face, to judge his reaction.
    “Do you think it’s safe to light a candle in here?” I ask. “I mean, that the watchman won’t notice . . . ?”
    “I guess so,” Harper says. “And you know, that’s one good thing about the straw being kind of wet and mushy. There’s no danger that we’d start a fire.”
    I sense, rather than see, that he’s standing up, rummaging around on a shelf nearby. Then a tiny flame leaps to life at the top of a candle. Glissando moos softly in surprised protest, then seems to fall back to sleep, settling into a position that makes it easy for me to lean againsther side. Harper sits down too, his hand cupped around the flame.
    “Well?” he says.
    The candle doesn’t help much. I can’t see Harper’s freckles very well. I can’t see his sticking-out ears. What I can see—his nightshirt—seems odd. Harper isn’t a nightshirt type of person. He belongs in the daylight, in pants with ripped knees, with his fishing pole over his shoulder.
    I remind myself that this may be my last chance to tell Harper the truth. I gulp.
    “I came to apologize,” I begin.
    “For what?” Harper asks.
    Boys!
I think.
    “For insulting you this morning,” I say. “On our way to the pond. When you said you’d protect me and I made fun of you. About your harp.”
    “Oh. That,” Harper says, and I can hear the edge in his voice again.
    “And for not waiting for you when it was time to get Dancer and Grease from the pasture,” I add. “I knew it just made you madder, but I had my reasons. I did. I’m sorry.”
    I lower my head, humbly, contritely. And also, so that I don’t have to look Harper straight in the eye.
    “That’s all?” Harper says. “You woke me up in the middle of the night just to tell me that?”
    I could say yes, I realize. I could let Harper think I wasjust conscience-stricken and a little crazy, and now that