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accept. Not yet. “Does he have to go?” she asked, pointing at Ducoed.
    The general steepled his hands and looked at her. “You have both served me well in the past. I have no doubt that you will both serve me well in this. And I can think of no safer way to send the girls than in the company of two members of the 101st Pistoleers.”
    Rose could think of many, but she realized that the general would not agree. Damn Ducoed and his distinguished service and honorable discharge.
    “And he –” she pointed at Ducoed again, still refusing to look at him–”requested that I be a part of … of this?”
    General Tendring shook his head. “No, the Leftenant was surprised to discover that I knew of your whereabouts, and that you were so near at hand. Or were, last I had heard. I suggested that you might need …” He paused. “That you might be willing to assist, and Leftenant Ducoed agreed immediately. He assured me that when you knew the full nature of my request that you would not hesitate to offer your gun and your knowledge of the bayuk. So I sent for you.”
    Rose kept her face impassive and resisted the urge to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked at the general, then at Janett and Margaret. “Right.” Bloody hell , was what she wanted to say. She would not denounce Ducoed. She never had, despite what he had done. But she would not let him take the girls through the bayuk by himself. She said, “I’ll do it. But only as a civilian. I’m not rejoining the Army.”
    “Thank you thank you thank you,” Margaret said, bouncing in her seat.
    Janett gave her a smiling nod. “Thank you, Miss Bainbridge.”
    The general also gave her a nod, his face as impassive as Rose’s.
    “I knew you would,” Ducoed said.
    Rose refused to look at him. If she looked at him, if she saw his smirk, she was not sure she would not shoot him, right there in front of the general and the girls, consequences be damned. “You don’t know me,” she said. “Not at all.”

Chapter 2
    Rosalind
     
    Phillips on the Birchwood
    1718 A.D.
     
    Rosalind Bainbridge gathered the hem of her skirt with her left hand and pulled it to her knees so she could climb the fence. She reached the top using an awkward one-hand-two-leg gait and found that her skirt still prevented her from lifting her leg high enough. So she pulled the skirt up even further, exposing her legs and her underclothes. The late spring wind brushed against her legs from behind, giving her gooseflesh.
    “Rosalind!” Elizabeth cried out behind her, scandalized.
    “Hush!” Rosalind said, and hooked her right leg over. She pulled herself up so she straddled the top of the fence, skirt now bunched around her hips, pale legs down either side. The world looked so different from up here. Only six feet up, scarcely taller than a grown man, but it was like a mountaintop to her. From here she could see more of the village of Phillips on the Birchwood and the surrounding countryside than from anywhere else. Already fourteen, almost a woman–almost a spinster according to some–Rosalind had seen nothing of the world. Her small life, the small lives of the entire population of Phillips on the Birchwood, made the world seem tiny. But the world was huge. She had no doubt about that. And she wanted to see much more of it than one village.
    “Rosalind!” Elizabeth said again. “Get down. Someone will see you.”
    “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Rosalind said, “if they would let me wear pants.”
    She smiled at Elizabeth’s shocked look. Her sister was twelve, nearly thirteen. Elizabeth, at least, would be easy to marry off, and had already been the subject of queries by the village’s other notable families. Rosalind’s prospects, though, despite starting strong even in the face of her tomboy tendencies, had dried up quickly. England no longer burned witches. But the rumors about her had been enough to cancel one betrothal and push the dowry demands of the few