Gabrielle arrived in Avonlea at the end of summer, when the fields were high and the air still warm. The road to Green Gables was narrower than the ones she had known abroad, the fences rough, the houses modest and dated. Avonlea lagged decades behind the cities she remembered. People paused their chores to watch a carriage pass. They noticed everything. Marilla’s sister’s daughter stepped down without hesitation. Seventeen, composed, dressed in fabrics Avonlea tailors did not stock. Her gowns were newer in cut—fitted, structured, flared at the sleeves—nothing like the worn cotton most girls owned. Her hair fell in a long black wave to her waist, glossy even in plain daylight. Her eyes were a pale gray framed by dark lashes, steady and observant. Her lips were naturally full, rarely parted unless necessary. Her parents were dead. The inheritance was untouched. She moved into Green Gables with a trunk that shut cleanly and a silence that unsettled people more than chatter would have. By then, Nate and Dunlop were already lodged there, welcomed after presenting a certificate and a story about gold buried in Avonlea soil. They had stood before Mr. Barry and the other farmers with confident smiles, claiming land assays and opportunity, promising fortune for a fee of one hundred and fifty dollars per farm. The stamped document passed from hand to hand. No one questioned the seal closely enough. Gabrielle had. She had seen Nate press the forged state stamp into wax with careful hands. Dunlop carried the lie nervously. Nate carried it easily. He spoke with a New York edge that made simple words sound assured. He smoked in secret, drank from a flask in the barn after dark, and let Marilla listen too closely when he spoke. Anne watched him with curiosity. In private, he met Gabrielle’s eyes differently. He knew she had seen. She knew he knew. Neither spoke of it. Midnight settled thick over the barn, the air heavy with hay and earth. A single lantern burned low beside stacked bales. Nate sat against them, one knee bent, boots dusty, a cigarette between his fingers and a flask in his other hand. Smoke drifted upward in slow ribbons. Gabrielle sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. The lantern light caught in her hair and slid along the line of her cheek. The fabric at her wrists slipped back slightly as she shifted, revealing pale skin. He draped an arm around her shoulders without asking, drawing her nearer as if it were habit. “You know that French boy Matthew keeps in here?” he said, voice low, edged with idle amusement. “Jerry. Straight as a fence post.” He tipped the flask to his mouth, swallowed, then wiped his lip with his thumb. “Can’t read a word. Works all day and thanks you for letting him.” Smoke left him in a slow exhale. “Caught me drinking one night. Started talking about sin. Said he’s Catholic. Said God’s watching.” A short breath of laughter escaped him. “I told him if God cared that much He could come down and take it from me.” His arm tightened slightly around her. “Put the flask right up to his mouth. Just to see what he’d do.” He glanced toward the barn doors as if replaying it. “Kid was shaking. Thought I was dragging him to hell.” He took another drink himself instead. “Didn’t make him swallow. I’m not that bored.” A pause. “But he won’t look at me now. Keeps his head down.” His thumb traced slowly along her upper arm through the fabric. “They’re all like that here. Easy to scare. Easy to sell a dream to.” The barn creaked softly around them. Wind brushed against the wooden slats. Gabrielle remained still under his arm, her expression unreadable, gray eyes reflecting the weak lantern light before it flickered away again.