"Hello, Saint Christopher!" called a voice, and I turned from the boy, in conference with a handful of Friendly children, to find Tommy's brother Pete bearing down on me.

"Good morning, Pete," I said, offering my hand. He shook it and then clapped a book into it triumphantly.

"I have books to trade to you," he said, pointing at it. I opened the book – the pages were blank, but the binding was exquisite – soft suede leather, the pages tightly stitched.

"Where did this come from?" I asked. "Your work?"

"Good god no. My son. Keen craftsman, very good fingers. There are twenty in all, more can be made."

"I don't think I could sell more, but I'll buy your lot of twenty. How much are you asking?"

We haggled, of course. With the Friendly one must. On the other hand, as disgusted as I pretended to act over the final price, it wasn't a bad deal. It would take a while – maybe a year or two – to shift twenty leather-bound journals, but Christmas was coming, after all. And I like to do business with the Friendly, especially with Gwen and her family.

"Come have some hospitality," Pete said, gesturing me over to one of the cook-fires. There were beans bubbling in the embers, all-day cooking, and a pot situated over the flame that was just beginning to boil. He dished out two mugs of mildly-alcoholic something-or-other and passed me one.

"Glad to see you in good health," I said, as we stood in the cold and sipped, watching the daily activity of the camp go on around us.

"It's been decent this year. Tight, but not so bad as some."

"So Gwen said," I replied, looking around at the people building low walls from the snow, stirring pots over other fires, taking advantage of the spaciousness of the field to do a little cleaning in their campers.

"You seem well too, though Gwen tells me you've been sick," Pete said. I shook my head.

"I do just fine, Pete."

"Gwen tells me also that you're the guardian of the man up the hill," he added, nodding towards the cottage. "Saw him last night, watching us."

"Did you? I wouldn't credit Lucas with spying from behind the curtains."

"No, nor he did," Pete agreed. "Slunk out late at night and did a little circle – reminded me of an animal looking for handouts but not willing to come close-to. Gwen gave him a chance to make himself known, didn't take it."

"No, he wouldn't."

"Does he need your defending?" Pete asked. "You should know by now that Gwen's a kind woman. Grown woman too," he added, with a sidelong grin.

"Yes, I know."

"It's a shame you're a land-owner. She thinks very highly of you."

I laughed. "Was that a proposition of marriage from a near male relative?"

"You could do worse. Are you really happy here? The same faces, the same trees, the same buildings year after year?"

"One doesn't think about it much, as a land-owner," I said. "Though everyone else apparently thinks of it for me."

"Saint Christopher!" another voice called, and Gwen came running across the camp, hauling the boy after her. "Good morning!"

"Yes, it is," I answered, allowing her to tackle me in a hug and give me a kiss on the cheek. "And how are you?"

"Very good. Looking forward to meeting your mysterious Lucas."

"Ah, that was a hint," I said, amused. "I'm ready to run up to the cottage when you are."

"Just have to summon father. FATHER!" she called, and Tommy put his head out of one of the campers.

"Just coming now," he said, climbing down into the snow. "Good morning, Saint."

"Morning, Tommy. Pete, you coming along?" I asked.

"Fraid not – some chores to mind," Pete said. "Run along with you."

"Running along," I said. Gwen took my hand in hers, Tommy eyeing us suspiciously as we made our way towards the cottage on the hill.

"You have to be nice to Lucas," the boy said.

"I am nice to everyone," Gwen replied loftily.

"But really nice. He's shy."

"I'd never have guessed," Tommy said drily.

"He knows a lot. Like everything about history," the boy continued.

Gwen looked amused. "Whose history?"

The boy opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again with a snap, surprised. I shot Gwen a smile, leaned forward, and knocked on the kitchen door.

There was the scrape of a chair on the floor – Lucas must have been waiting in the kitchen. I could easily picture him vacillating between wanting to sit quietly and wait, or wanting to work to take his mind off things. I heard his slow footsteps before he opened the door.

"Christopher," he said, relieved. "I thought – "