The Hakim came every few hours. He brought tisanes, compresses soaking in bowls of scented water, and leeches for Nathaniel's thigh, which was bruised from knee to hip. Together he and Curiosity cleaned and disinfected the shoulder wound once again and left it open to the air. Hannah watched, her dark eyes unreadable. Elizabeth held Nathaniel's hand, flinching at the heat of him, like a fire laid too well, one that threatened to overwhelm the hearth that contained it.

The maids brought a steady stream of hot food, tea, and clean winding cloths for the babies. Elizabeth nursed them when they were hungry, handed them over to Curiosity or Hannah, and went back to Nathaniel's bedside.

The second night, and still his fever would not break. Elizabeth made no pretense of sleeping.

Sitting beside him, she read through the little journal they had written together on the Isis, but no amount of examination turned up any word about this Frenchman whom Hannah and Curiosity had met in the garden. From their description it sounded as if it must be the same man she had seen with the Hakim. In her mind's eye she watched him draw a cross in the air in front of the maid who had curtsied so deeply before him. The sign of the cross.

When the Hakim next came to see Nathaniel, she asked him about this Dupuis, and got little satisfaction.

"A business associate of the earl's--a permanent guest," he said. "Ill unto death."

It should have put her vague uneasiness to rest-- the earl's business associates would be merchants like himself. But if the man was a permanent fixture, why had none of the sailors who came from Carryck or Carryckton ever mentioned him in Hannah's hearing?

Neither was there any mention of Mrs. Hope, Elizabeth reminded herself. And still she could not help thinking of a summer night just a year ago at Lake in the Clouds. A night so calm and hot that they could not sleep, a moth fluttering in the light of a single candle, its shadow dancing frantically on the timbered ceiling. Nathaniel, stretched out on the bed in nothing more than a breechclout, telling her stories of the Kahnyen'kehâka at Good Pasture: There was a priest living in the village then, a Frenchman who went by the name Father Dupuis. We called him Iron-Dog.

Dupuis was a common name. Nathaniel's Father Dupuis and the earl's Monsieur Dupuis need have nothing to do with one another. Canada was full of French trappers who traded with the Kahnyen'kehâka. Nathaniel seemed to know every man who ever sold a fur from Québec to New-York, and this Monsieur Dupuis would be one of them. It made so much more sense than the idea of a French priest spending his last days at Carryckcastle.

When Nathaniel was himself again--tomorrow, she was sure of it--he would tell her exactly that, and she could put this Monsieur Dupuis away, another detail of the earl's life to be set aside with his tulips and Lady Isabel's unhappy alliance.

Somewhere in the depths of the house a clock chimed midnight. She checked on the babies, asleep in a cradle that had been put in the dressing room, and stood for a moment listening to them breathe before she wandered back through the bedchamber to the window.

The casement opened silently, and she wrapped her arms around herself in pleasure as the cool air touched her face. There was a waxing moon and a breeze that brought the scent of fresh hay with it. An imprudent whim, this fondness she had for the night air; she could hear Aunt Merriweather sniffing in disgust--but it was a comfort to her.

A lantern cast a puddle of light at the courtyard gate where a guard leaned up against the wall, supporting his weight with one hand. Elizabeth could not see the person in the shadows, but it must be a woman, to judge by the tilt of his head. A young woman, one he was hoping to bed, or perhaps they were both too much in a hurry to wait.

The earl was awake too. The windows of his chamber--Jennet had pointed them out to her--were still lit. It was almost a comfort, to know that he slept no more soundly than did his unwilling guests.

A figure passed the window, but one too small and finely made to be the earl. Elizabeth stilled her breath and watched. And again: a woman in white at the window, and there was something about her bearing that spoke of ease and familiarity.

And what does it matter if someone shares the earl's bed? she asked herself sternly, and had no answer.

"Boots. What are you looking at?"

She pressed a fist to her heart to calm it. "Just the courtyard."

"Come here."

His eyes were clear, and when he took her hand his skin was cool to the touch.

"Your fever has broken," she said, her knees buckling with relief.

"Did you think I was going to die on you?"

She climbed up to sit beside him. "Of course not."

"Liar." A drop of blood appeared on his lower lip, fever-cracked.

"You would not dare," she said indignantly, wiping it away with her thumb.

It won her a weak smile. "You're sounding more like yourself, Boots."

"Peevish? Impatient?"

"Now you're fishing for compliments."

"But of course," she said, making an effort to tidy the bedclothes. "For what else do I live and breathe?"

He squeezed her wrist. "I won't die on you. Not for another forty years or so."

She nodded, because she did not trust her voice.

Nathaniel flexed his arm gingerly, and made an attempt to bend his knee. "I feel like somebody took a war club to me. How long have I been out, anyway?" His fingers rasped over his beard stubble. "A while, I guess."

"Almost two days."