The Friendly are one of the few traveling clans that don't find a place to settle for the coldest winter months, but of course that gives them an advantage: they can sell their goods all summer and all winter too. And if sometimes the wind howled against the thin walls and the snow piled dangerously high against the wheels, that was only the way their life was. As charming as a road-bound existence might seem to land-owners, it takes a certain sort of mind to live the way they do.

That night there were fires and blankets to keep out the chill, stories told around the circle and plenty of good food – chicken and potatoes but also cheese and fresh bread, ginger cookies with jam, coffee and chocolate. Lucas seemed to enjoy himself, and I had no complaints. When we left, him for the cottage and me to walk the boy back to Low Ferry, he was as happy as I think I'd ever seen him.

***

Thanksgiving was not far off, and I wasn't surprised when the pastor of the Low Ferry congregation appeared in my shop the next day, with a handbill for the church's holiday dinner. What did surprise me was what else was on the program.

"Prayer meeting, Richard?" I said, looking down at it. "For the Harrisons?"

"I thought I'd tell you first," he confided. "I know you speak to everyone, Christopher, so I hope you'll spread the word about that, too."

"What, like an exorcism?" I asked, looking up at him. He looked uncomfortable.

"Well, no, just some praying, and maybe a few hymns. And the baptism, naturally."

"That's probably good," I said. "You're a nice guy and all but you don't strike me as someone who's very experienced at wrestling demons for the souls of men."

He laughed. "You've got me there. It wasn't my idea, actually – some of the elders thought it'd settle her mind, not to mention her husband's."

"Did you ask them about it first?"

"Steve thought it would be a good idea. She's too tired to think much of anything, I imagine."

"What do you think about it?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. Doctrinally, of course, possessed babies are absurd. But there's a fine line between religion and sociology sometimes. Whether some malignant spirit has hold of them doesn't matter so much in the face of whether their parents believe it's true."

"You'd have made a good atheist," I said. He laughed.

"You'd have made a fine preacher. But I think we're both better where we are," he added. "Don't forget to spread the word."

"Got it all right here," I said, holding up the handbill. "See you on Thanksgiving."

Most of Low Ferry, if you ask them to remember that winter, will remember a few isolated incidents. My collapse on Halloween, unfortunately, is one of them. Another is the prayer meeting for the Harrisons, although a significant minority will remember that it was also the winter that Charles and Richard decided, in their infinite wisdom, to deep-fry the Thanksgiving turkeys for the church dinner.

"How bad do you suppose this is going to be?" Lucas whispered to me, as most of the village stood around the church parking lot in the cold, hands tucked in our armpits, stomping our feet to keep warm. In the middle of the throng stood two enormous metal drums with electric burners glowing bright red beneath them.

"Oh, no, there's no way this is going to be bad," I said. "Either we're going to be eating fried turkey for dinner or we're going to watch two grown men set themselves on fire. It's really win-win, if you ask me."

"I heard that if you try to fry a frozen turkey it can explode," the boy said placidly, standing next to Lucas. In front of us, Richard and Charles had each picked up their turkey by the thick bailing wire tied around their legs.

"Ready?" Charles said cheerfully. "On three!"

Several parents pulled their children further back, and the edges of the crowd withdrew slightly. Paula, standing behind me, grabbed the back of my shirt and tried to pull me away.

"Don't faint again!" she hissed.

"I'm not going to faint!" I retorted.

"One! Two! Three!"

They lowered the turkeys in unison into the oil, which immediately began to spit and hiss. There was an ungratifying lack of fire, however, and once both Charles and Richard had released the wire and stepped back from the frying drums we all decided that watching turkeys fry was a lot less entertaining than watching them explode. Nearly everyone wandered back into the church fairly quickly.

Fried turkey is actually very good.

We were in joyful spirits that evening, between the successful turkeys and the rest of the meal. Even Lucas smiled at the jokes running around our portion of the communal table, and actually spoke to Carmen long enough to ask for the mashed potatoes and agree that the gravy was good. Technically there shouldn't have been any alcohol, but several battered flasks circulated under the tables while the good Pastor Richard turned an indulgently blind eye.

"So," Carmen said to Sara, a middle-aged woman who ran a dairy outside of town. "What are we thankful for?"

"Safe cattle and good milk," Sara replied.

"No major repairs to the industrial dishwasher," Carmen agreed.

"Snow days!" the boy insisted, and glanced at me.

I shrugged. "Good company and good health? Lucas?"