For Nathaniel's sake. Jack Lingo had kept her from her errand, and by that act he may have caused Nathaniel's death. But she knew in her heart that this was not the truth. Perhaps not even a part of the truth.

Lingo had put his hands on her, and it was that, that sin which had fueled her journey, instantaneous, from the woman she had been to the woman she was now. She had raised the rifle and swung it for herself alone, for Nathaniel had not existed at all: in that instant she had been alone in the world with Jack Lingo.

She nodded. "Yes," she said. "It is—it was, Jack Lingo." She sought Otter's gaze. Those final words would not come, and so she let them float between them.

Something flickered in Otter's eyes; he was looking at her, looking hard. Seeing the cuts and the bruises on all of her exposed skin, even to the backs of her hands in a spread of color from yellow—green to indigo. "Tkayeri," he said softly. It's proper so.

Elizabeth took the coin and the panther's tooth from him, held them together in one hand. The tooth was very sharp, and mottled with dried blood. "I should wear these?"

"Why not? It is your right," Otter repeated.

"Why not," Elizabeth echoed. "Yes, why not."

* * *

They camped on the crest of the hill. Otter built a quick lean—to of balsam branches, beginning with a sapling which he rough—stripped and propped against the trunk of an older tree. Elizabeth ate while he worked, forcing herself to swallow corn bread spread liberally with bear fat. It was slick and the taste was overpowering, but with each mouthful she felt her body stir and waken, as if she were a growing thing supplied with water after a long drought.

She felt suddenly very anxious, and wondered if they should have continued walking. When she asked Otter about this, he shrugged diplomatically. Elizabeth sighed and sought a more comfortable position against the beech. There was a bird calling, a plaintive three—note song, and Otter singing softly under his breath while he worked.

Elizabeth fell asleep with the Tory Gold resting between her breasts, warmed by her skin.

* * *

They walked hard the next day. Elizabeth scanned the swamp halfheartedly for Treenie, but saw no trace of her. The swamp itself no longer frightened her; she saw it only as another obstacle between herself and Nathaniel. When they stopped to rest and eat, she could barely sit still, and found herself being addressed like a wayward child by Otter. She snapped at him, and he blinked his disapproval. A trick he had learned from Nathaniel. She sat, finally, and ate.

"If we push hard we could be there just after sunset," she proposed. Knowing even as she said this that she was incapable of such a thing. Walking as hard as she was able, without injuries, she had needed a full day for the stretch before them, and it was midday now. Elizabeth took another mouthful of dried beef, as salty as tears.

Otter did her the courtesy of not replying.

"You will make a good husband someday," she observed grudgingly.

"My mother does not think so." He grinned.

They made camp late, past dark and only three good hours from Nathaniel. Elizabeth could not sleep at first, as tired as she was. Every muscle trembled, and the tips of her fingers were numb. She lay with her leggings rolled to a pillow underneath her head and stared at the sky, the great sweep of stars too bright to ignore.

"You haven't asked about Hannah," Otter pointed out to her, and just that suddenly all of Elizabeth's tension collapsed in on itself. There were other people who missed Nathaniel and worried for him; one of them was his daughter. Her daughter.

"She sent along a message for you. Said, tell her I been keeping the new schoolhouse in order, swept up and dusted."

Her throat suddenly swollen with tears, Elizabeth tried to find Otter's face in the dark. "Tell me about home," she said.

* * *

In the morning Otter had to wake her, her sleep was so deep and absolute. She sat up, disoriented, and accepted the water skin from him. They ate and drank in near darkness. Elizabeth could hardly strap on her pack, her hands shook so.

Otter was as silent and preoccupied as she was. Yesterday he had talked easily and at length about any number of topics that came to him, but now as the sun rose on a day that promised to be hot and clear, his look was dark and uninviting. He insisted on taking the time to clean his gun again, boiling water in a tin cup to purge the barrel, measuring powder carefully, and loading it with what seemed to Elizabeth enough lead to bring down a bear.

It wasn't until they were under way that she was able to breathe again. Her mind kept composing pictures for her: Nathaniel weak but clear—eyed, Nathaniel consumed in fever, Nathaniel lost to her, too deep inside himself to hear her calling. When she thought of Richard, it was reluctantly, unwilling to expend any of her goodwill on him at all. Perhaps he is dead, she thought with no regret, and then colored with shame and defiance, simultaneously. It would be easier, and to deny that would be the worst kind of hypocrisy. Her thoughts went back to Nathaniel, what he would need. Food, and water, and his wounds tended. He would still be coughing, but hopefully not bleeding anymore. Perhaps Otter would know more about herbs than she did, what she should look for, what teas might help. He could hunt and provide for them, and she would look after Nathaniel, until he was well enough to walk.

He would be sleeping when they came in; she imagined this. His face thin with pain and disguised by many days' growth of beard, but when she woke him he would grin at her, and call her Boots, and hold out his hands. She hesitated to think how he might react to her bruises, but she was determined to tell him nothing of Jack Lingo, not at first. Not until necessary. A bad fall would have given her the same injuries, and he had seen her fall before. She thought that this was a reasonable story, and one she would be able to make him believe. If only Otter would cooperate. If only she could keep her voice from giving her away.