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banging and then a triumphant shout.
    “English locks ain’t any better’n American,” Belle announced as she came downstairs. “It’s broken now. Go and get your sewing things. I’ll finish up here.”
    When Honor brought her box down, Belle was dragging a rocking chair through the back door. “Let’s set on the back porch, catch the breeze. You want this rocker, or a straight chair?”
    “I will bring out a straight chair.” Honor had seen rocking chairs everywhere she went in America; they were much more common than in England. The sensation reminded her too much of the ship. Besides, she needed solid stillness for sewing.
    As she picked up a chair in the kitchen, she noticed Belle’s plate of food on the sideboard was gone.
    * * *
    The milliner’s was on the end of a row of buildings that included a grocery, a harness shop, a confectionary and a drugstore. The backyards of these establishments were underused, though one had a vegetable garden, and in another there was laundry hanging out. Belle’s yard had nothing in it but a pile of planed wood and a goat tethered in the weeds. “Don’t go near the wood,” Belle warned. “Snakes there. And leave that goat be. It belongs to the neighbors, and it’s evil.” There was also an outhouse, and a lean-to along the side of the house for storing wood, but clearly Belle’s energy went into her shop.
    Honor sat and opened her sewing box to lay out her things. This ritual, at least, was familiar. The sewing box had belonged to her grandmother, who, when her sight began to fail, handed it on to the best stitcher among her granddaughters. Made of walnut wood, it had a padded needlepoint cover of lilies of the valley in green and yellow and white. This was an image Honor had known from an early age; eyes shut, she could perfectly re-create it in her mind, as she had often done to distract herself during her seasickness. The upper tray contained a needlecase Grace had made, embroidered with lilies of the valley similar to the box lid; a wire needle threader; a porcelain thimble her mother had given her, decorated with yellow roses; a beaded pin cushion her friend Biddy had made for her; packets of pins wrapped in green paper; a small tin holding a lump of beeswax she used on her quilting thread; and her grandmother’s pair of small sewing scissors with green and yellow enameled handles, sheathed in a soft leather case.
    Belle Mills leaned forward to inspect. “Nice. What are these?” She picked up pieces of metal cut into different shapes: hexagons, diamonds, squares, triangles.
    “Templates for cutting patchwork. My father had them made for me.”
    “Quilter, eh?”
    Honor nodded.
    “What’s underneath?”
    Honor lifted the tray to reveal spools of different colored thread, each slotted into its place.
    Belle nodded her approval, then reached between the spools to pick out a small silver thimble. “Don’t you want this in the top section with the other things?”
    “No.” Samuel had given her the thimble when their feelings for each other were ripe. She would not use it now, but could not quite give it up.
    Belle raised her eyebrows. When Honor did not elaborate, she dropped the thimble back into the spools to ruin their perfect order. “All right, Honor Bright,” she chuckled, “everybody’s entitled to their secrets. Now, let’s get you started. You sewed much on straw before?”
    Honor shook her head. “I have not made hats, only bonnets.”
    “Bet you only got two bonnets—winter and summer. You Quakers don’t go in for fancy clothes, do you? Well, then, let’s start you on cloth. I got a sun bonnet for Mrs. Bradley needs finishing. That’s easy—no straw structure, just corded. Most women make their own, but Mrs. Bradley’s got a fancy notion she don’t ever need to pick up a needle. Think you can manage this? Here’s the thread. I been using a size six needle.” She handed Honor a soft bonnet that had been cut and tacked together