“Thank God for that. Do you remember the time you slipped that medicine in my tea and my bowels were water for a day and a half?”

“I didn’t think it would last so long. Stop, James, this isn’t proper!”

“Oh, now that’s rich. It isn’t proper, you say? I’ve been saddled with you all your blessed life. I remember seeing your skinny little backside when you were swimming in Trenton’s pond. All the rest of you as well.”

“I was eight years old!”

“You don’t act much older now. This, Corrie, is long overdue discipline. Just consider me acting in your Uncle Simon’s place.”

James stopped. He just couldn’t wallop her again, despite the overflowing memories of atrocious things she’d done to him over the years. He started to roll her off his lap, then saw the rocks on the ground. “Oh damnation, brat,” he said, and lifted her off his legs to set her on her feet. She stood there, rubbing her bottom, staring at him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead at her feet. He rose and shook a finger at her, much in the same manner as a long-ago tutor, Mr. Boniface. “Don’t be such a pitiful little sissy. Your bottom smarts a little, nothing more.” He looked fixedly at his boots a moment, then said, “How old are you, Corrie? I forget.”

She sniveled, wiped her hand across her running nose, stuck her chin up, and said, “I’m eighteen.”

He whipped his head up, appalled. “No, no, that’s impossible. Just look at you, a hairless young man who just happens to have a round butt beneath those ridiculous britches that no self-respecting young man would ever want. Well, I didn’t mean to say it exactly like that.”

“I am eighteen years old. Do you hear me, James Sherbrooke? What’s so impossible about that? And do you know what else?”

He stared down at her, slowly shaking his head.

“I’ve had a round backside for at least three years now! And do you know what else?”