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are.”
    “I’m Thaddeus Novak, Mr. Winslow. They call me Thad.”
    “Where are you from, Novak?”
    “New York, sir.”
    “Bad time to be coming south, Thad,” the doctor remarked. “Where are you headed?”
    Thad hesitated. “Well, I was trying to get west—but I got sick.”
    Winslow asked, “Who are your people, Thad?”
    “Ain’t got no people.”
    “You must have someone,” Pet said quickly.
    “No, ma’am.”
    Winslow saw the stubborn line in the boy’s jaw. “You know there’s going to be a war, don’t you, Thad?”
    “Heard some talk. Don’t know nothin’ about it, though.”
    Winslow studied him for a minute. “Dooley Young said he met you in town. He told me you asked for the Winslow place.”
    A sudden flush touched Novak’s cheeks, but he shook his head. “I was outta my head, I reckon. Don’t remember nobody named Dooley.”
    It was obvious to Winslow and to the doctor that the boy was lying, but there was nothing to be gained by pressuring him.
    “Guess if you’ll give me my clothes, I’ll be heading out,” Thad said.
    “You wouldn’t go far, boy. You better stay here until Mr. Winslow gets some meat on your bones.” He saw the boy frame a protest, so he added roughly, “Go to sleep, boy! I got too much invested in you to bury you now! ”
    They left the cabin and went back to the kitchen. Wright settled himself in a chair and said, “Pet, you wouldn’t happen to have baked any more of that pie, would you?” He waited while she brought him a slice; then he lifted a huge forkfull to his lips. “Ahhhh! This is the best pie this side of Richmond, Sky!”
    “I’m suspicious of that boy, Doc,” Sky frowned. “He’s not telling the truth.”
    “Well, who in blazes is, Winslow?” Wright demanded. “You’ve been caught up in this abolitionist scare. You reckon the boy is a Yankee spy?”
    “Well, no—but who is he?”
    “He’s only a boy, Papa,” Pet said.
    “I don’t think he’s dangerous—but he’s hiding something,” Winslow insisted. “How long do you think we’ll have to keep him—before he’s well enough to make it on his own?”
    “How should I know?” Wright asked sleepily. “Go ask them fancy doctors in Richmond. They claim to know everything.”
    “He’ll be well pretty soon, Papa,” Pet nodded. “He’s just weak.”
    “You take care of him, Pet,” Wright said, then turned to Sky. “Tell Toby to hitch up the wagon, will you? I’m going home to get drunk.”
    Sky shrugged. “I’ll tell Toby.”
    Thad spent the next three days eating and sleeping, getting out of bed only for short periods as his strength returned. Much of this time he listened to Pet Winslow, for she had taken Dr. Wright’s suggestion and had assumed the responsibility of preparing and bringing Thad his food. At first he was tense, but she never referred to his past or asked any questions about his personal life. From these conversations he learned a great deal about Belle Maison. Pet would sit nearby and tell him about the servants, the work, her family, the neighbors—all the things that made up her world. It was, however, a strange and foreign world to Thad! His life had been iron-hard, bone-deep in poverty, and a direct contrast to Belle Maison—the luxury of the food, the dress of the family, even of the house servants, was obvious.
    Late one Thursday afternoon Mr. Winslow came to visit Thad and found him sitting outside on a rock planter, enjoying the fresh air. Thad grew tense, but there was nothing threatening about the expression on Winslow’s face. “Well, you’re looking much better, Thad.”
    “Oh, I’m fine, Mr. Winslow—and I sure do thank you for helping me out.”
    “Well, I guess you’ll have to give most of the credit to Toby. You’d have died in that snowstorm if he hadn’t pulled you out.” Winslow looked at Thad carefully, noting that the boy looked healthy. Thin, of course, but one day that frame would fill out. His hands were hard and