It happened like this.

The last time James and Sarah saw each other for a year was at Washington's inauguration. They'd been apart for months before, so it was nothing new, though they did write more letters this time.

James started up his newspaper in New York, hiring one or two journalists who never really got the hang of the medium.

"You're telling a story, Simpson," he said to his newest hire. "Reading this is like swallowing chalk."

And then a few weeks later:

"Look, Barret, the story's well and good, but we're reporters. You have to tell the truth."

He fired them both after several frustrating months. If only they'd thought to work together.

Meanwhile letters from Sarah were getting less and less interesting, however much he craved her words. He never dared to be anything less than optimistic in his own letters—better to hide the ache he'd been feeling for years—until he realized something. She was bored.

He wrote,

Dear Sarah,

I fired my reporters. They were terrible, and they don't hold a candle to you. I don't suppose you'd consider coming to work for me?

A few weeks later, he received her reply.

Dear James,

I assume you meant "work with you?" I planned to come visit anyway in the next month. Shall we discuss it then?

She arrived looking every bit as lovely as he remembered, perhaps lovelier, at home among the high class folk of upstate New York. She visited all over the city before they sat down to a meal together.

They ate in stiff, formal silence for near a half hour. There was something about her demeanor—she looked tense. James felt like a fiddle string himself.

Finally James sighed. Fine lady she may once have been, it's true, but he'd known her now for years. They grew up together. This was stupid.

"Running a newspaper without you—reporting without you—feels like running a race with my arms tied behind my back," he blurted.

"You always did have a gift for metaphor," she quipped.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "Nobody's got a knack for a story like you. And my reporters kept asking me what my opinions were, so they could report on them."

She laughed outright. James let go a breath he didn't know he was holding and smiled.

"And they don't travel." He took a bite of turkey. "Not even for when New Jersey ratified the Bill of Rights. They didn't see why they had to."

She looked suddenly interested. "Did you go?"

He shook his head. "I didn't trust them to watch the shop. I think I trust my paperboy more than I do those two knuckleheads."

"I admit, I have been a bit…restless upstate."

"It's not just that I'd like to have you here as a reporter, either," said James. "I've missed you. Nobody argues with me anymore. I can't tell if my ideas are good or not."

Sarah was taken aback. "I'm sure they're fine, James."

"That's not what I mean, it's…" James took a deep breath. "It's more than that. It feels wrong, to be doing this without you. When you were with me and Henri and Moses it was enough, but now I'm lost. Please stay. I need you."

She was stock still, scarlet, staring.

He cleared his throat. "You can…you can just ignore all that. If you want. I'm sorry."

"No. I—" She swallowed and tried again, using her interview voice. "You—you've felt this way a while?"

James did some quick math. "Er…twelve years? Ever since Sybil Ludington."

"And what brought this on?" She couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth.

"She and I…had a thing."

"A courtship?"

"Not exactly. Just. A thing. I thought about writing to her but everything I thought of writing…it seemed like it was meant for you."

Some of the swirling emotion seeped through Sarah's careful defense. "Why didn't you say anything? For twelve years, James."

He ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know. There was a war on. And you were a fine British lady and you didn't really believe in the revolution and I was just a kid—"

"But now you're not. And I'm not. And I've spent the past few years—" She stopped.

James looked up. "What?"

"I...I…"

"You what?" James pleaded. "Say something."

"I've felt…home was America. It was Moses and Henri and…and you. Especially you. As soon as I straightened out my beliefs I saw you and—oh dear."

James leaned back in his chair. Sarah hid her head in her hands.

James addressed the ceiling. "What do we do now?"

"We've been so foolish," said Sarah, her voice muffled through her hands.

James looked at her, and reached out a hand, gently brushing her shoulder. "Hey."

She looked up.

"Now you know how I feel."

Sarah chuckled and relaxed. "Right. We're doing something."

"Yes."

"Something different."

"I'll send a letter to your parents."

Sarah's head snapped up. "What?"

"If you're coming to work for me, that is."

"Oh." And she had the presence of mind to add, "Work with you."

He grinned. "Right."

The grin did it, melted something small and hard inside her. "You know, I thought you were going to be writing to my parents about something else."

"What was that?" he said, straight-faced.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Really, James."

His brow knitted in honest lack of comprehension. "Oh," he said, and then, "Oh." Now he was red.

"You could," said Sarah. "If you wanted to."

"Are we…are you…sure? Are we ready?"

"You've waited twelve years, James. I should think so."

He stood up. "Well. We can write that letter in a little while."

"Why wait?" asked Sarah, standing also.

"There's a girl who sells flowers on the corner just down the street. I think I need to get some immediately." He held out an arm. "Will you accompany me, Miss Phillips?"

Sarah bypassed the arm and kissed him full on the mouth.

And then it went like this.

The courtship lasted three months—just enough time to get a letter to Henri in France, and then get Henri from France to New York.

"Mes amis!" Henri had grown taller than James, which he emphasized by lifting first Sarah and then James bodily off the ground in embraces, and then peppering their faces with kisses.

"Ugh, stop, you're so French," groaned James, attempting to fight him off.

"How is the Marquis?" asked Sarah.

"He is well! He sends his regards," said Henri.

"How long are you here for?" asked James.

Henri pulled a face. "Gilbert doesn't want me to go back. France has started their own revolution. I wanted to fight, but he thinks it may be too dangerous."

"It's a revolution," said James. "Of course it's dangerous."

"Non, not like that, exactly." Henri hesitated. "You remember when the fighting started here? How much everyone argued before any shots were even fired? It's not like that in France. Things are happening too fast, and no one is stopping to talk about it."

"That sounds like anarchy," said Sarah.

Henri looked uncomfortable. "Anyway, who else can I expect to see while I'm here?"

Sarah looked embarrassed. "Well, it was supposed to be a small affair. You, and my parents, and Moses and Dr. Franklin. But then the Hamiltons got wind of it, and they invited President Washington…"

"The president is coming to your wedding?" Henri was downright gleeful.

"Not just the president…"

"Good on you, James, congrats."

"Joseph Plumb Martin! Good to see you. Thanks."

"We're so happy for you, Sarah."

"Thank you, Mrs. Adams. John Quincy, you've grown so tall!"

"Herzliche Glückwünsche."

"Er…thanks, Baron von Steuben."

"Very happy for you, Miss."

"Why, it's James Armistead! Or James Lafayette now, isn't it?"

"You two have grown up so much! Look at you. I knew it would happen, I knew it would. I told Dawes. Those two will get married. I did."

"Wish you would've told me, Mr. Revere!"

"Glad you two have each other, Sarah. Feels like just yesterday you were trying to sneak into the Constitutional convention."

"Well, we are reporters, Mr. Hamilton. Good to see you Eliza!"

"About time, son."

"I thought so too General—I mean, President Washington. Sir."

"Sarah! Following your bliss, I see. Good on you."

"Deborah Samson! I'm so glad you came."

"Congratulations, Mr. Hiller."

"Ohh, uh. Thank you, Miss Ludington."

"Actually now is Mrs. Ogden."

"Great! Good. Well, congratulations to you too then."

And then it happened like this.

In their quarters above the newspaper—which, three years later, had two new, much better reporters off on assignment and an extra paperboy to handle the load of new readership—Sarah was reading a letter. She lay on a divan, her head in James' lap. James was reading a competitor's newspaper, stroking her hair absently.

"The Evening Post didn't even send a reporter to Kentucky's statehood convention," said James. "A timely brief isn't as good as a full story. Take that, Mr. Hamilton."

Sarah chuckled. "Henri seems to be doing well."

"What's he up to?"

"He says he's quite enjoying New Orleans…and he bought a plantation?"

James looked up from his newspaper. "What?"

"It was in foreclosure, apparently. And he bought all the slaves as well."

"What?"

"And freed them. And…married one!"

James laughed. "That sounds like Henri. What's her name?"

"Marie. He goes on quite some time about her. He apologizes for not inviting us to the wedding, but it was a bit short notice."

"Oh?"

"She is…expecting."

James shook his head. "French."

Sarah laughed again and handed him the letter. "Swap?"

James took the letter and handed her the newspaper. "Can you imagine, another little Henri running around?"

"No New Orleans pie will be safe," she said. "What do you think of this Buttonwood Agreement?"

James didn't answer. She tilted her head back until she could see his chin. "James?"

He was reading the letter, frowning. "I hope they'll be happy."

"I'm sure they will be." He didn't seem to hear her. "James? What are you thinking about?"

He looked down at her. "Little Jameses. Little Sarahs. I wonder why we don't have any children yet."

"Certainly not for lack of trying," said Sarah sweetly. James grinned, and kissed her nose. She went back to her paper, and he back to his letter.

In a minute she'd put the paper down. "James."

"Hmm?"

"My mother had trouble conceiving. Quite a lot of trouble, in fact."

James looked away from the letter, frowning. "What do you mean?"

She sat up. "She always said it was a miracle she'd ever had me. She and my father had been married for fifteen years."

James went pale. "Sarah."

"What if…what if we…"

"Don't." He took her hands. "It'll be all right. Right?"

"Yes. Of course."

"We will be fine." He pulled her into an embrace. "We'll figure it out."

Sarah started to cry. In a moment, so did James.

And then this happened.

It was early in the morning, and James had been up all night wrestling with the printing press. Sarah was off reporting on Connecticut's new temperance league. It occurred to him that if she was here, she would have made him sleep. As it was, bleary-eyed, James wrenched a bolt back into place. There. Fixed.

"Mr. Hiller, sir?"

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Yes, Timothy? I've got your load of papers by the door."

"Yes, sir. I'm here to talk to you about that, sir."

James nodded and stood up, yawning. Timothy was a great paperboy—James had never heard a more convincing sales pitch on a street corner. He claimed to be eleven, but he'd been claiming to be eleven since James hired him two years ago, and was small even so. But James liked him. He was honest, and though his constant chatter could grow old, he was so optimistic that it was hard to be annoyed.

"Sir, I request a day off."

"What for?"

"To bury my mother, sir. Please don't fire me, sir. I'll be right back again tomorrow, and I'll sell twice as many papers."

"One day won't kill us," muttered James. "Have a day off."

"Thank you sir. Much obliged, sir. See you tomorrow, sir."

"Mmmm."

James spent a good twenty seconds looking at the wall, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, before he quietly whispered to himself, "Idiot."

He grabbed his coat and his hat and ran out the door.

It was a bit of a paltry affair, one step up from a pauper's grave. James and Sarah long had noticed that Timothy's clothes were more patches than anything, but he always brought a full lunch pail to work. Poor, maybe, but getting by, Sarah thought. Few were in attendance—neighbors, mostly, James guessed—though there was one woman in black that caught his attention. She stared at the funeral as if she disapproved of things like graves and sadness.

Timothy, meanwhile, bore up stoically, and only cried a bit when the reverend mentioned "eternal rest in heaven."

Once the ceremony was over, James nudged Timothy. "Where's your father, lad?"

Timothy pointed to a gravestone directly next to his mother's. "He died when I was small."

"Any other kin?"

Now he pointed to the woman in black. "My aunt Temperance. But she didn't like my father much. She lives in New Hampshire." Timothy made a face. "She wants me to go back with her. But I don't want to go, sir. I can do fine here."

The woman in black was approaching. She held out a hand. "Temperance Woolrich. You'll be this newspaper man Timothy's mentioned?"

James shook her hand and nodded. "James Hiller, ma'am."

"Right." She sniffed. "A shame about all this. But I knew she shouldn't have married that Scottish hooligan. Let that be a lesson to you, Timothy."

Timothy had a puzzled frown, but said, "Yes, Aunt Temperance."

"All the best that you came, Mr. Hiller," she said. "You can say goodbye. Timothy will be leaving with me tomorrow. The poor boy can have no kind of life here. I mean to get him apprenticed."

This woman is a Puritan if I've ever met one, thought James. "What do you propose to apprentice him in?"

"Clerking or accounting, perhaps. Something respectable."

Timothy, locked up in a dim room, trying to read tiny columns of numbers by candlelight—the thought broke James' heart.

"Or perhaps the church would take him."

Timothy, for his part, looked as though he was going to throw up.

"It's funny you should mention it, Mrs. Woolrich," said James. "I was just saying to my wife that we could use an apprentice about the place."

"He's such a talkative child," said Mrs. Woolrich. "He will be quite the handful."

"On the contrary, Mrs. Woolrich. In my business, gabbing is a gift." James shot Timothy a smile. "I think he could have a real talent for the newspaper."

"I'd like that very much, Mr. Hiller!" said Timothy.

Mrs. Woolrich sniffed again. "I suppose it saves me the trouble of finding an apprenticeship for him. Will you write me, Timothy, to ensure you're treated properly?"

"Yes, Aunt Temperance," said Timothy.

"I will be able to tell if he is lying," said Mrs. Woolrich. She gave James a stern look, Timothy a stiff pat on the head, and left the churchyard.

As soon as she was gone, Timothy bowled into James and wrapped his short arms as far around him as they would go. "Thank you, Mr. Hiller, thank you, thank you!"

"Well we have to check with Mrs. Hiller first. We actually haven't talked about apprentices."

"She'll say yes, I know she will, sir," said Timothy cheerfully, unwrapping himself from James' waist. "She's awfully nice. Will I eat with you? Will I get a room in your house? At the newspaper? Do I get to learn to use the press? I like the press. Will I be a reporter or a printer, or both, like you sir? Will I get to travel all over? Can I read all your books?"

James laughed. "I don't know! I don't know anything yet." He ruffled Timothy's hair. "But we're going to get some apple fritters. Because I'm hungry. And then…" he yawned. "And then I'm going to sleep."

"I think I can still get some papers sold today, sir!" said Timothy.

"Nope. You're going to eat fritters. I did say you could take the day."

The grin on Timothy's face was infectious.

"Of course we should hire a cook, James." Sarah placed the next sheet of paper under the press.

"Why can't we just keep cooking for ourselves?" On the other side of the press, James cranked the handle. K-Chunk.

"Because neither of us know how to cook for three. For that matter, we don't know how to cook for two. I suspect we're spending more money than we have to." Sarah pulled out the paper and handed it to Timothy, who flapped it dry and folded it.

"Also, dear, it would be nice to have something other than camp food. You can only take so much pork and beans." She slid another piece of paper in.

"I thought you liked my pork and beans." K-Chunk.

"I do, dear, but—" Sarah stopped short. She pulled out the paper. "Anyway."

James' head appeared around the press. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing." She handed off the paper to Timothy.

"It's you!" said James, pointing at the boy. "You don't like them!"

"They give me a stomach ache, sir!" Timothy flapped dry the paper. "Sorry, sir."

"Now you don't have to call us sir and ma'am anymore, Timothy, you know that," said Sarah.

"Sorry m—Mrs. Hiller."

James face softened. He struck a dramatic pose. "Betrayed in my own house!"

Timothy burst into giggles.

There was a knock at the door. Sarah wiped her hands on her apron, succeeding only in spreading out the odd streak of ink, and opened it.

"Moses!"

"Moses?" James wiped off his face with a hanky. It was Moses, indeed, going gray, but still filling the doorframe.

"James! Sarah!"

"Do come in!" Sarah opened wide the door. "Forgive the state of things, we weren't expecting you. Timothy, come here and meet Moses!"

Moses removed his hat and entered. "Sorry for the intrusion, but something rather pressing came up."

"You know you're always welcome here," said James.

Moses smiled, and half-turned to say over his shoulder, "Come on in, Beatrice."

Behind Moses entered a plump, dark-complected girl with a sour expression and more freckles than Sarah had ever seen on one face.

"Who's this now?" said Sarah.

"She's a long story," said Moses. "Why don't we sit down?"

"Of course. Timothy, would you fetch Moses and Miss Beatrice some water?"

Timothy ran off, and James and Sarah settled with Moses at a table, but Beatrice elected to stand, arms crossed, in a corner.

"How is your school running these days?" asked James.

"Those children impress me every day," said Moses. "We have three school rooms, all filled with children of all colors—Negro, white—we have twelve Indian students as well!"

"That's wonderful," said James, a little wistfully.

"Have you heard from Cato recently?" asked Sarah.

"Got a letter two weeks ago," said Moses. "He's well, but he and Janet lost a little one to scarlet fever."

"What a shame!" said Sarah.

"I think they'll be all right," said Moses. "It's a hard life in Nova Scotia, but they're getting along just fine. Heard from Henri lately?"

"He and Marie have baby number three on the way," said James. "He's putting all that printing knowledge to good use, selling ink and paper."

"Good lad," laughed Moses. "Now. About Beatrice here."

"I want to be a journalist." It was the first time she'd spoken; she had a curious lilt to her speech.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "That's quite an unusual goal. Why?"

Beatrice dug into her pocket and plucked out a faded piece of newspaper. "Are you Sarah Phillips?"

"I was, before I was married."

The girl slapped the newspaper to the table. "I want to write like this."

Sarah picked it up and read a piece. "Why, it's my story on John Paul Jones!"

James grinned. "I remember that story! It was some of your best work."

"She was alone after her parents died," said Moses. "She came to the address printed in the newspaper, thinking she'd like to get a job at the Gazette. I tried to tell her where they were now, but she was determined to meet you, Sarah."

Sarah felt flattered, but was careful not to show it. "We might think about hiring another reporter. Have you written anything yet?"

Beatrice frowned at the floor. "No."

"How old are you, Beatrice?" asked James.

"And remember, journalists must never lie," added Sarah.

Beatrice glowered at Sarah, and mumbled, "Twelve."

Sarah glanced at James. There was a twinkle in his eye. Sarah took it as encouragement. "Well, I was not much older than you when I started reporting for Dr. Franklin. However, I was an apprentice, and had many years of education before that."

"I didn't," James jumped in. "But Dr. Franklin made me write and write and write before he ever published anything I wrote."

Beatrice's frown deepened. "I came all this way so you could tell me no?"

"We haven't said no," said Sarah tartly.

Timothy reentered the room with two glasses of water. "I put a little ice in them. I hope that was okay, Mrs. Hiller?"

"Yes, of course, Timothy. Moses, you remember we wrote you about Timothy?"

"I remember. Glad to meet you, lad."

"I'm very glad to meet you too, sir," gushed Timothy. "Did you really come all the way from Africa? Did you really dig trenches at the battle of Yorktown? Did you really smuggle Mr. Lefevbre off a ship in a crate full of printing press parts?"

Moses laughed. "I certainly did. Here, why don't we go to the kitchen so Mr. and Mrs. Hiller can talk to Beatrice?"

When they had gone, Sarah gestured to Moses' seat. "Sit down, Beatrice."

The girl looked uneasy, but did as she was told. "If not no, then what?"

"Mr. Hiller and I already have an apprentice, but we might be willing to take on another one," she said.

"It'll be hard work," warned James. "You won't be a journalist for many years. You may not even appear in the paper for a long time."

"Are you willing to put in the effort, Beatrice?"

Beatrice's frown went away. She set her jaw. "Yes."

"I believe you," said Sarah.

"Only…Miss Phillips—or Mrs. Hiller—"

"Yes?"

"It's Beatriz. Beatriz Casales."

"Spanish?" said James in surprise.

Her frown came back. "Mestiza."

"Not important." Sarah stood up. "You're one of us, now. Are you hungry, Beatriz?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"'Mrs. Hiller' will do. Come. I suspect we're having pork and beans."

Beatriz went ahead of them through the back doorway. James slipped his hand into Sarah's and said, so just she could hear, "A sort of a family anyway, huh?"

The Hillers visited New Orleans a couple years later.

Sarah and Marie walked a ways ahead, Marie holding the newest Lefevbre, baby Henri. Behind them, Timothy played with Adrienne and Gilbert and little Marie, entertaining them with silly faces. Beatriz watched them closely with the eye of a professional school marm. Last of all came James and Henri.

"She had four younger siblings," said James quietly to Henri. "Smallpox got her whole family. She came to New York all the way from St. Augustine."

"The girl has some spirit," observed Henri.

"Her and Timothy both. They're resourceful, clever—"

"You sound as proud as any parent."

"I guess I am."

"You still have none of your own, though?"

"No." James kicked a rock.

Henri waggled his eyebrows. "I bet I could help you out."

James held up a hand. "You are going to say something very French."

Henri grinned. "You know me well, mon ami."

"Anyway, we've tried…a lot of things."

Henri shrugged. "If it makes you feel better, our midwife thinks it could be dangerous for Marie to have any more."

"Why would you telling me that make me feel better?"

"It makes me feel better."

After a moment of silence, James put his arm around his friend.

"She almost died, you know," said Henri. "We had gathered the children around to say goodbye."

James looked up at Marie. She was saying something to Sarah. The baby's bright black eyes were fixed his mother. James could see why—Marie looked like art.

Sarah burst out laughing.

"I can't imagine," James said.

Suddenly Gilbert, a slight lad of four with a mass of curly hair, tumbled to the ground with a wail. James made to rush forward, but Henri held out arm and approached slowly. He crouched beside his son.

"Quel est le problème?"

Gilbert proceeded to spill out both tears and a jumble of French and English that James couldn't make sense of. He caught the name "Adrienne."

"I did not!" squeaked Adrienne, a girl of six who took after her mother.

"Perhaps you knocked him down and did not notice?" asked Henri.

"Mr. Lefevbre, sir?" Timothy spoke up. "Actually Gilbert slipped."

"Aha, good to know." Henri turned his attention back to his children. "It was an accident, Gilbert, eh? No one meant you harm. But Adrienne, when someone is in pain, best to think of them first, and not yourself."

Adrienne sighed a tiny sigh. "Oui, father."

Henri smiled at his daughter, then turned to Gilbert. "Come, we should make sure you do not fall again today." He swung his son up onto his shoulders, and Gilbert's snifflings turned into hoarse giggles.

Little Marie, who'd been watching all of this with the utmost gravity, strode toward her father, tugged his trouser leg and said, "Up."

"I can't hold both of you at once," said Henri. "Later, mon petit."

Marie considered this, then tugged James' trouser leg. "Up?"

James grinned and lifted the little girl onto his shoulders.

They left for New York on a late ship that night, with all the little Lefevbres, minus the baby, yawning and calling goodbye to Uncle James and Aunt Sarah and Timothy and Bea, which was easier for them to pronounce than Beatriz. Timothy was bleary-eyed, nearly asleep on his feet. Sarah steered him with one hand on his back. Beatriz seemed to manage walking about with her eyes closed.

The group of four dawdled up the gangplank, waving goodbye to their friends, and then made for the passengers' quarters below. Just as they were about to descend the ladder, Bea stumbled. James caught her before she hit the ground.

"Thank you, papa," she mumbled.

Sarah felt she was going to cry, and James looked about the same. Timothy' head rotated toward them in a stare. Beatriz' eyes went from almost shut to dinner-plate, and her ears started to turn pink.

James acted like nothing had happened and helped her and then Sarah down the ladder.

When they were settled below, as comfortable as they could be in a corner of a lower deck, Beatriz tapped James on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hiller."

James looked supremely uncomfortable. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Beatriz."

Her ears started to turn red again. Sarah cleared her throat.

"Beatriz? And Timothy, too." Timothy, for his part, had not stopped staring alternately at James and Beatriz, but now turned his attention on Sarah. "We know we can't replace the family that you've lost. But we love you. You two are clever and brave and everything we could want for children of our own. If you'd like to call us Mother and Father, then we'd consider it an honor."

Beatriz was still avoiding anyone's gaze, but she stopped blushing. Timothy was considering this very carefully.

"Can I call you Ma and Pa?" he said, finally.

James laughed and ruffled his hair. "Absolutely."

Timothy snuggled into his blanket. "Thanks, Pa."

The ship set off with a few shouts and a barely perceptible increase in rocking. The gentle motion soon put Timothy and Beatriz to sleep. Sarah saw that James was nodding off.

"James," she whispered.

"Yes, my dear?" he said.

"I wanted to wait to tell you, perhaps until we got home."

"Tell me what?"

Sarah smiled. "It's just…with Timothy and Beatriz. I have to tell you that they won't be the only ones calling you papa, in a few months."

He stared at her without comprehension for four seconds before his mouth turned into a small o. "How…long have you known?"

"I didn't until I started complaining to Marie. She thinks I'm about two months along."

"I—"

"Ssh, you'll wake them."

James covered his mouth with his hand and his eyes filled with tears. Sarah started laughing without sound, the kind of laugh that would end in crying, happy crying. They shushed each other, gleefully.

Punchy and sleepy and soon, sleeping, the Hillers sailed home.

And it happened like this.

Years passed—Anne Abigail Hiller was born and grew up. She had a brother and sister who watched over her and taught her all sorts of things. She had a mother and father who took her on adventures and a grandmother and a grandfather who told her stories about what it was like in England. She had a friend in Philadelphia who was an old man and a teacher and who was very kind. She had an aunt and uncle in New Orleans and four older cousins who were loud and joked a lot and played with her. The world was exciting and new.

Things still surprised her, though. When, for example, she was eight years old, and it was a busy day at the newspaper, and she was the only one available to answer the door, and her cousins were on the other side.

"Hi!" she said brightly.

"Hi," said Adrienne, and her voice was weary. Now that Anne thought about it, they all looked dirty and tired, not the bouncing bundles of energy and fun they usually were. Henri looked as though he hadn't slept in days. Marie was leaning on Gilbert—she looked sick. Adrienne had her jaw set, but there was something wild in her eyes. Anne looked behind them, but Uncle Henri and Aunt Marie were nowhere to be seen.

"What are you doing here?" asked Anne.

"We didn't know where else to go," said Adrienne.

"Anne? Who's at the door?" Her mother appeared with an armful of newspapers. "Oh! What a surprise! Where are your mother and father?"

Adrienne's face crumpled. "Blackwater fever got them."

Sarah covered her mouth. "Good heavens. Come in, please, children, come in."

That night, Anne crept out of her room—which was now housing a wheezing Marie and a dead-to-the-world Adrienne as well—to get a glass of water, and heard voices from the parlor. She hid in the dark hall, just out of reach of the gold candlelight spilling from the doorway, and listened.

"I looked over her papers. All the legal issues seem to be resolved." That was her mother.

"She's incredibly brave." And her father.

"Yes. She managed to hold on to most of their money, too."

"How is Marie?"

"She has the ague. She may be sickly for some time, but the doctor said she'll likely recover."

"I hope so. They don't need more heartbreak."

They were silent for a moment, then her mother said, "I was just thinking we should visit them, too. If we'd gone, maybe we could have seen them or—"

"You can't think like that. You'll go mad."

"We're going to have to write to Moses about this. He'll be devastated."

"We can do that tomorrow."

They were quiet again.

"What are we going to do with them?" said her father finally.

"What do you mean? We're taking them in."

"Of course, darling, but we only have a few rooms. I suppose we could put Gilbert and Henri with Timothy, and Adrienne and Marie could share with Beatriz and Anne—"

"I could move out, if it will help," said the sudden voice of Beatriz, who was old enough to be in on these discussions now.

"And live by yourself? I won't have it," said her father. "Not in this city."

"I'm not afraid of my reputation," said Bea.

"I'm not either. I just don't want you alone."

"Please trust your father," said her mother.

"All right, so the three of us share a room with someone who has the ague?"

Her mother sighed. "She's right."

"What, then?" said her father.

"We won't abandon them."

"I'm not suggesting we do. But we need to do something." He heard him shift in his seat. "Maybe if we put Marie in here."

"It gets very cold in this room."

"Put the boys in here then, and Marie in their room."

"I'm not sure I want to put anyone in there, what with the leaky roof. And we'll soon get all that rain."

"I'm sure we'll think of something."

Anne heard the defeat in her parents' voices and stepped into the light. "Papa? Mama?"

They looked up. "What are you doing up, darling?" said her mother. "Go back to bed."

"I will, only I thought that you should know there's a house on sale three blocks away. On Oak Street."

Her father frowned. "I'm sure I would have remembered reading about that in the newspaper."

Anne shook her head. "Mr. Green hasn't put it in the newspaper yet. His mother died and that's where she lived and I heard him say he needs to sell it quick."

"Marietta Green's old place?" asked her mother.

"It's big enough," said her father. "Can we afford it?"

"If Mr. Green wants to sell it quickly, perhaps," said her mother.

"If you move there, you can rent out this space," said Beatriz. "Mr. Wolcott mentioned he wanted a better place for his family." This was Abraham Wolcott, one of her father's reporters.

"I have two dollars," Anne volunteered.

"You saved up two dollars?" said Bea incredulously.

James laughed. "That shouldn't be necessary, Anne, but thank you."

Anne was secretly relieved—she was hoping to buy a set of paints and an easel—but she accepted the praise anyway.

"Why don't you go back to bed, dearest?" said her mother, standing and leading her out of the room. "We'll talk more in the morning."

And this is how it ended.

With a Sunday sun in June shining down on an old house that was in the process of being whitewashed.

With luncheon in the garden, complete with an argument on whether it was right for the United States to refuse to pay debts to the French Republic, which ended in a friendly wrestling match between Timothy and Gilbert.

With Beatriz begging to be the reporter sent to the inauguration next year.

With Marie, enfeebled but earnest, explaining to a wide-eyed Anne how Indiana Territory might become a state.

With Henri and Beatriz discussing the differences between Cajun French and Mestizo Spanish, trying out phrases, teasing each other's accents.

With Adrienne trying to convince Timothy to dance with her, and Timothy looking uncharacteristically worried by the prospect.

With Anne and Henri chasing each other through the garden, shrieking, collapsing in a mess of giggles.

With Adrienne reading out loud from the paper in the quiet of the afternoon in a strong, steady voice, pausing occasionally for commentary from her audience.

With Sarah and James hand in hand, watching their family. Tomorrow there will be work to do, but today is a day of rest.

This is how it ended, but it is not over yet.