The new year began much the same way as the old one had ended. The only difference was the slightly better mood of occupants of the small house next to the manor in Davenport. A few weeks after our argument, Connor apologized for his irrational behavior. Though he didn't open up to me about his feelings on his best friend's death, he accepted the events and began to move on. He spoke to Abby and explained the situation with her grandfather as best he could. She asked him many questions, most of which he declined to answer. But he told her what he could in as polite a way as possible. After that, her inquiries about Haytham waned, and she began to focus more on her hobbies.

Connor kept his promise to let Abby start ridding solo after her fifth birthday. That thrilled her to no end, but my rule that she needed company if she left the yard irritated her. It was my daughter's intention to visit her friends whenever she felt like it. I just didn't feel safe letting her travel very far alone. It surprised me when Connor backed me on this sentiment. He usually argued with me about Abby's independence. He was convinced she could take care of herself in any situation given how intelligent she was. I think he only took my side to gain favor with me. Things had been tense with us for so long I think he just wanted things to go back to normal. Since that's what I wanted too, I didn't question his choice. I accepted it with a smile of gratitude.

As spring became summer, everyone began to wish for the harsh, sudden rains they had cursed the previous season. The air was hot and dry; the creeks receding to nothing but shallow muddy trenches as the drought wore on. Though most everyone on the homestead was careful with what fires were needed during the arid weather, that didn't stop a few stray sparks from igniting the woods surrounding the settlement.

The largest of the brush fires happened in July. It took all of us working together two days to extinguish all the flames. Connor worked nonstop with the rest of the men, hauling barrels of sea water from the harbor to the site in every available cart. I tried to help as best I could, but Connor insisted I stay with Abby and the rest of the women. He told me it wasn't my place to help. Those words–spoken with authority and maybe a tiny dash of concern–angered me. I wanted nothing more than to argue with my husband for his closed-minded ideals on our duties. The only thing that stopped me from doing just that was the expression of warning Achilles favored me with as he noticed my scowl. That one look made me hold my tongue, walk silently back home and go about my chores with a short temper.

It was the next afternoon when Connor finally got back to the house. His skin and clothes were blacked from soot and smoke, his hair was matted with sweat and dirt. He looked dead on his feet. I had no doubt he was tired. In an attempt to be a good wife, I fixed him lunch and fetched a bucket of water so that he could wash up before going to bed. I did all this grudgingly and silently, not even asking how he was or what he wanted. I assumed it was my role to follow orders quietly, even the unspoken ones.

I'm not sure if Connor sensed that I was mad or if he was just exhausted, but he didn't say a word while he ate. I busied myself with sewing while I waited for him to finish. I had intentions of confronting him afterwords. Yet, before I could, Abby came running into the house calling for me.

"May I go swimming, Ista?"

"With who?" I asked in a tight voice.

"Maria and the boys."

I didn't see a problem with the request, but in the interest of being fair, I told her to ask her father. She ran into the dinning room and began speaking to Connor in Mohawk. I didn't understand much of their exchange. Only enough to know that Connor consented to Abby's desire.

"Nia:we, Rake:ni!"

I barely caught a glimpse of my daughter as she bolted out the front door in excitement.

"Be careful!" I yelled, knowing she didn't hear me.

I went back to my sewing. A few minutes later, Connor came into the living room. I didn't look up as he sat down beside me on the couch. There was a heavy silence between us for a few breaths as I waited for him to speak. After a while, he did.

"Would you like to talk?"

I gritted my teeth in frustration. I felt certain he had no idea of what was bothering me. He only sensed that I was upset and was attempting to rectify it as quickly as possible. The fact that he didn't care enough to understand my reason for being angry made me more irate that I had already been.

"About what?" I challenged.

"You being mad at me for dismissing you," Connor stated.

Feeling equal parts foolish and irritated that my husband did know what was bothering me, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Connor caught my gaze, and I looked away quickly. But not before I noticed the slight grin on his lips.

"I don't like it when you do that," I told him.

"Do what?"

I didn't even bother answering. The question was meant to bait me. He wanted me to admit that I was unhappy he knew me better than I thought. If I said I was referring to how he had treated me yesterday, he would think I was being dishonest. Considering I wasn't even sure if that's what I was talking about myself, I felt it best not to respond at all.

Connor placed his hand on my wrist. I paused in my sewing and looked at him. The solemness of his expression caused most of my anger to dissipate. His eyes searched mine pleadingly.

"I do not want to argue anymore, Faith."

The inflection with which he spoke reminded me that I was also tired of all the tension. There had been a friction between us for a year. We had ignored it, accepted it, done nothing to rectify it. It had grown into a tumor that threatened to destroy our family. It was a miracle it hadn't already. Deep inside, I knew I was ready to let it go. I was ready to move on to the next phase in our life together.

"Connor, I-"

A collective scream of horror cut me off before I could forgive my husband. The both of us reacted to the noise. We stood quickly and ran out of the house. I noticed Maria running toward us. She was traveling as fast as her legs would carry her. As she drew closer, I noticed the wide-eyed expression of fear on her adolescent face. I felt my chest constrict painfully. I knew something bad had happened. And I knew it had happened to Abby.