Within a few weeks Matthew had told Hannah what had happened so many times that, although she hadn't listened once from beginning to end, she now knew six versions. Each had more weight than the last; when he talked she felt her face flatten.

A film of frostbite scalloped his ear and white spots polka-dotted his cheek. He shone. He stood over there talking, building himself, celebrating the fact of his body as it surrounded him. He found himself gazing at the hills of snow, the silt of his imagination whitening it to an uncommon brilliance, not unlike what he imagined the inside of possibility to be. It seemed to drink his energy in slow deep draughts.

She insisted that they go to the barn dance. 'Everyone's going ... I'm going.'

He remembered how he would follow her anywhere when she was like this, switching her will as if it were a tail, cracking the air. And through the cold, her sharp scent.

It was already dark when they arrived, the shape of the large barn blurred by a rippling edge of steam. For a moment, when the doors opened, the block of human-heated air and the black wall of winter met and shuddered. The dancers hesitated, looking to the newcomers, then brightened in recognition or curiosity. One by one they turned back to their partners.

'... whirl your partner ... allemande left ...'

The air was sweet with cider and laughter. Lamp glow stirred by the dancers swirled in smoke. As it warmed, the women shed their swaddle of extra wraps, which soon draped the posts and rails like moths. Fiddle and flute music ran like an undercurrent tugging on their legs. Mouths softened, a moustache of sweat glistening their upper lips. As the music retreated, chatter rose so that there was always a dear noise.

Mrs Bradley, her placid face holding her hair around like a pink pin cushion was saying, 'Well, I was the first one to know ...' A yeasty smell of well-being rose from her.

Sitting nearby, a woman took off her white gloves and folded them in half before placing one on top of the other in a little sandwich. She slid them into her purse, centred the purse on her lap, and covered it neatly with her two hands. Simultaneously her feet, side by side, toed an imaginary line. Her shoulders trimmed and her head settled slightly, an old house on its foundation.

Hannah handed the baby to childless Evelyn. He was content there, one hand braced on her dry breast as he reached for a pearly cameo nestled in ruffles at her throat. She let him. 'Gently, don't pull on it.' He looked at her face, stretched one arm back, and turned to be sure Hannah was watching. She smiled. She might not have to hold him again until he was ready to go to sleep. With his weight gone she had to consciously straighten up. She plucked her dress away from her skin where it had been glued by his heat.

The music was starting again. Glancing softly, the women wondered if the men were coming back from their corners and secret circles. Each time, they emerged warmer and more forward, expansive even, doing their best to play someone who might surprise or frighten them. As the anticipation grew, a lively flush and flirt of red coloured their cheeks.

'Let's keep things moving, ladies and gentlemen. Old Man Winter is just outside the door, let's not let him in. Come on now, get your partners and form your squares. I'm going to throw an easy one at you, you won't have to be on your toes for this one, so how about trying a new partner this round, that gal you've had your eye on ...' The crowd shifted uneasily. A man shrugged, closed his eyes and reached out one long arm like a scythe catching Hannah around the waist. 'This little gal!' He bowed. As he swept off his hat to toss it up on a hook, she saw that the skull of a rattlesnake was fastened at the centre front of the hat band, a red bandanna, and looked like clotted evil inside the eye sockets. Before she could touch it the man grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the platform-built dance floor. Others moved in quickly. The fiddler was already stomping the boards to establish the beat. Looking around the square, Hannah saw a young man she remembered from harvest time; and that one, the soft unmarried brother of the railway man. The fiddle squirted. 'Honour your partner ...' Hannah felt the wisps of hair swing out away from her head. Tiny flames of her hair burned through the gold in the air and the fine straw dust swirled. She let her body bend over the arms of the men. While they held her she leaned back and looked at the ceiling, the same vault of bat air and blindness as the barn she and Matthew used to hide in, throwing secrets up into the webs that buttressed the huge beams. Just outside it was cold and sad and dark. The secrets had been so enormous she didn't think the world could hold them, or her, but it did.

This, the present she had always worn with “lan, was clutching and riding her. She was feeding everyone, keeping them clean, tending hurts, brooding. This time to dance and dream was more what she had in mind. To throw her skirt over the air so it billowed, and to flick her eyes at a man until he blinked.

He was laughing, 'Switch your partners, give her away, keep the next till a rainy day ...' Another slid his arm around her. And another until she had been with each fellow.

The fiddler smacked the strings quiet. Spirited clapping and cheers burst the sudden silence, and those who'd been dancing and had worked up an appetite rushed to the tables. Hannah saw her biscuits. By now they must have thawed. There was glazed smoked ham scored with diamond cuts framing dark cloves, green bean and corn relish, Johnny Cake, baked chicken, cole slaw, pickles, wild red berry jams, braided breads, yellowed cheeses and more.

Matthew had something in his coffee; she could tell by the way he held it, swirling the liquid up around the inside of the cup. A new crowd had gathered to him. As she looked she saw that it was true, he was different. It there hadn't been this length of time to stare at him, she might have missed him altogether. And whereas to her he had lost substance, to others this translucence shimmered new mystery. No wonder! As she looked around at the winter-tired people, she saw that the sharp stories on Matthew's tongue were better than the old earth-tolling songs retold.