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BIGAIL A DAMS TO HER COUSIN J OHN T HAXTER
    W E MADE OUR WAY THROUGH the woods, keeping the river close enough that we could follow its course. As sun set, we fell into our customary rhythm of night-walking. I’d walk in front for a while, then he would. People accustomed to cities require the aid of a lantern to walk in the countryside at night. Their eyes have been burned by the light of too many candles. Not us. Our eyes became sharper in the dark.
    I’d expected to be even more alert than usual because we were in the midst of shifting armies and roving militia. But it was Curzon who halted our progress twice, when groups of wagons rattled by on the road. I hadn’t noticed, which shocked me.
    â€œHas your fever returned?” he asked, before we started walking again.
    â€œI’m fine,” I answered.
    â€™Twas a falsehood. The bees of my melancholy, which had rarely troubled me since we escaped that foul man Bellingham at Valley Forge, were buzzing inside my brainpan, fast overcoming my customary caution.
    I tried to hold tight to the notion of finding Ruth, for that was my true compass heading. I strained to see her in my remembery: the little girl who slept with a doll tucked in her arms, her thumb in her mouth. The grievous truth was that the details of her face had started to fade. Was she missing a tooth from the top or the bottom jaw when she was stolen? Was her chin pointed like Momma’s or broad like Poppa’s?
    What manner of sister was I that I could not remember her face?
    Â Â *  *  *  
    Hours later Curzon touched my elbow. “Look thataway,” he whispered, pointing through the trees.
    The house lay at the end of the lane of live oaks, though the distance and the still-thick cover of night made it impossible to see anything more than a dim shape of the building. Beyond it the river curved hard.
    â€œWe’re here,” he added.
    My heart was thumping so loud, I expected every person for miles could hear it. A ghost image of myself ran all the way down the lane and burst in through the front door, ready to tear the house down to its foundations until I found my sister. The rest of me stood fixed to the ground, shaking.
    â€œDon’t do anything foolish,” Curzon warned. He pointed to the darker shadow of the woods at a remove to our left. “We’ll head over there, so the wind will keep our scent from the dogs.”
    I nodded.
    â€œSwear to me,” he said. “Give me your oath that we shall wait and watch until we understand where we might safely approach.”
    Our habit was to study any house or barn for a full day and night before we drew close and inquired about food, work, or directions. This caution had saved us many times. I pressed my lips together and fought to rein in my frustration. It did no good to let desire and dream race ahead of common sense.
    â€œI swear that if we don’t hurry, the sun will rise and expose us,” I said.
    We walked silently through the woods until we found an ancient sycamore possessed of branches that offered an easy climb. By the time we’d settled in a crook high above the ground, the first robins and mourning doves had begun to sing. From our perch we had a good view of the side of the main house and a hint of smaller buildings behind it. Their muddied shapes slowly took proper form as night faded: rooflines, doorways, chimneys.
    A lone rooster called.
    â€œSomething’s amiss,” I murmured. “A place this size ought have more than one rooster.”
    â€œMayhaps the others are asleep.” Curzon shifted uncomfortably, his form too large for our crowded perch. “Mayhaps these roosters post one fellow to guard, and the rest stay warm in their beds, until feeding time.”
    â€œBeds?” I asked.
    â€œRooster berths.” He drew up his knees to his chin, wincing. “That’s what I need, a better berth.”
    â€œâ€™Tis called a