"She'll explain the options."
Lydia looked toward the window.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, "I thought being widowed meant I was free."
Gideon's expression softened.
She turned toward him.
"What if I have to stand in front of Everett again?"
Gideon took her hand.
"You won't stand alone."
Lydia looked down.
Then shook her head.
"That's not enough."
He frowned.
She looked into his eyes.
"I need to be able to stand even if you're not beside me."
Gideon stared.
Then he smiled slowly.
"Then we'll make certain you can."
During the next several weeks, Lydia prepared.
She practiced explaining the records in her sewing book.
She organized dates.
Copied names.
Separated entries she remembered clearly from those she could only partially identify.
Gideon helped where he could.
But he did not take control of the work.
He understood that Lydia knew the figures better than he did.
She could explain the shorthand.
Identify Everett's handwriting.
Remember which accounts had been copied on particular evenings.
And describe the circumstances surrounding the suspicious transactions.
Sometimes she became frustrated.
A number would appear familiar, but she could not remember why she had recorded it.
A company name would remind her of a conversation, but the details remained blurred.
One afternoon, she slammed the book shut.
"I'm useless."
Gideon looked up from the harness he was repairing.
"What?"
She pressed both hands against her forehead.
"I can't remember half of this."
He set down his tools.
"Lydia."
She shook her head.
"Miss Mercer needs precise information, and all I've got are old scraps of memory."
Gideon approached.
"May I sit?"
She nodded.
He pulled out a chair.
Then opened the book gently.
"Do you remember what these marks mean?"
She looked.
"Yes."
"And these?"
"Yes."
"And you know which pages you copied yourself?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He looked at her.
"Then you've already got more than scraps."
Her eyes filled.
"But it's not enough."
"It may not be enough to prove every claim."
She stared at him.
He continued.
"That doesn't mean it's useless."
Lydia looked toward the window.
Gideon placed the book between them.
"My brother used to say a survey wasn't worthless just because you hadn't measured the whole mountain."
She turned toward him.
He smiled.
"You start with what you've got. Then you measure the rest."
Lydia laughed softly.
"That sounds like him."
"It does."
She took a breath.
Then opened the book again.
"All right."
Gideon picked up his harness.
Lydia returned to the figures.
The room became quiet.
After a while, she looked toward him.