Nathaniel had not yet seen the twins smile. He had not seen them since they were three days old.

It was against the rule she had set for herself, but Elizabeth could not help counting the days since he had started north. Soon it would be eight weeks --far too long, much longer than he had anticipated. There was no way to know if he was on the road home, or had ever arrived in Montréal, but her faith in his ability to do what must be done was firm, just as he trusted her to see to their children's welfare. And still, with every passing day she grew more unsettled, and recently she had begun to dream.

The babies slept now for longer periods in the night, and Elizabeth slept, too. She dreamt of snow. The Windigo of the endless forests visited her dreams, their pelts crackling white, stone men with eyes like wet raspberries. In her dreams there was always a winding ice road that gleamed silver and black, but no trace of Nathaniel. And that terrified her most of all.

Blue-Jay began to squirm, and she shook herself out of the daydream. He was working his face into the thoughtful expression that meant he wanted feeding. Elizabeth would have put him to her own breast--just as Many-Doves sometimes nursed Lily or Daniel so that Elizabeth could sleep for another hour--but the first real squawk brought his mother to the door.

He squeaked and chirped with impatience while she put aside the mending she had in her hands and settled on the edge of the bed with him.

"You are well named, my son." Many-Doves spoke Kahnyen'kehâka, as she always did when English could be avoided. She gathered the boy closer to her and loosened her overblouse.

The two women sat in companionable silence for some time, listening to Blue-Jay's contented gulping. There was the sound of new snow scouring the roof, and outside the thud of an axe. It reminded Elizabeth that there were still men on Hidden Wolf, although Falling-Day had banished Liam and Runs-from-Bears to the other cabin so that the women had complete reign in this one.

Daniel was looking decidedly sleepy, and Elizabeth shifted him to a more comfortable position, stifling a yawn of her own.

Doves stroked her son's cheek thoughtfully. "Runs-from-Bears wants to start north," she said, seeking out Elizabeth's eye.

"Ah," Elizabeth said, relief and fear fluttering together under her blouse. "What does Falling-Day think?"

"My mother dreams of the ice road, but there is no sign of our men on it."

In another time, in the life she once lived, Elizabeth would have been unnerved by this news that she and Falling-Day were having such similar dreams. But in the past year she had learned that reason and logic had boundaries.

Many-Doves was watching her closely.

"When does Bears want to leave?"

"Soon," Doves said. "Perhaps tomorrow."

Just after dawn Elizabeth woke to the sound of a step on the porch and Falling-Day rising hastily from her sleeping platform under Hannah's loft. Elizabeth's heart gave a tremendous leap, and she ran, barefoot, her nightdress streaming behind her, into the other room.

In the open door stood Otter, healthy and whole, although his face was drawn and thin. Alone. Elizabeth pushed past him into the gray early morning, unable and unwilling to believe what her eyes told her. There was nothing but the March winter waiting for her, the snow burning cold under her bare feet.

Nathaniel's rifle was slung across Otter's back. She reached out to take the sling from his shoulder and he let it go without a word.

She would know it anywhere, even without the name carved in the stock. Deerkiller. How many times had she seen it in his hands? She herself had fired it once, and that simple act had sent her alone into the wilderness on a desperate race. Nathaniel would no more leave this rifle behind than he would give up his sight or hearing.

Otter was talking to her, but she could make no sense of it. Her blood was thundering in her ears. Elizabeth shook her head, forcing herself to focus. She needed to hear him; she wanted to run away.

He took her by the arm and drew her into the cabin. "I bring you word from your husband, my brother," he said. "Listen to me. He is alive, he is well."

"Grandfather?" asked Hannah, pulling on Otter's arm. "What of my grandfather?"

"He is well, too, and sends his greetings."

From the cradle in the other room came the howling of the twins, and with that Elizabeth found her voice. "Why are they not here with you? Why do you have Nathaniel's rifle?" But even without the expression on his face, she could see for herself what must have happened. "He went to get you out of gaol, you and Hawkeye. It went wrong, didn't it?"

Otter nodded.

"How long?"

"Somerville arrested them on the first night of the full moon."

Three weeks. Elizabeth swallowed hard. Nathaniel had been sitting in the garrison gaol for three weeks; Hawkeye for much longer. They are alive, she reminded herself, rubbing her cheek on the cold metal of the rifle barrel. Nathaniel is alive.

Otter began to speak, but his mother interrupted him.

"First you will eat," said Falling-Day. "And then you will talk."

While Elizabeth and Many-Doves went about the business of seeing to the children's needs, Otter submitted to his mother's care. Falling-Day put a bowl of red corn soup in his hands and watched him eat until it was empty. Then she stood Otter before the hearth and stripped him down to the breechclout as if he were a boy of six rather than a well-grown man of seventeen. Her examination was thorough, less than gentle, and accompanied by detailed commentary on his behavior. Otter bore it all without protest, perhaps because he was in pain, or perhaps simply because he was glad to be home, at any price.