What a terribly awkward thing it is to be English, Elizabeth thought, watching a young Kahnyen’keháka woman heavy with child advancing with the shuffling step of the dance. All at once she realized how many others there were with a child on the way or one straddling a hip and another at the breast. She could manage this. She would have a child, Nathaniel's child, and a life with him, and her work—Stone—Splitter's voice drifted through her head and she answered it firmly. She would have her work, even if it was not what she had imagined it to be. She could be happy.

I am happy. It was true, in spite of all that had happened. She was content, and suddenly she was not so worried about how to tell Nathaniel. The words would come, when the time and setting were appropriate. Perhaps tonight when they retired, or perhaps tomorrow. When she had grown used to the idea herself and made herself acquainted with the child, who appeared in her thoughts already as an infant; she could almost feel the weight of it in her arms. She tried again to count days, and failed. As best she understood these things, this child would come early in the new year. If all went well.

She was jerked out of her daydream by Robbie, who materialized behind her.

"Have ye need of a translator?" he asked quietly. "I thoucht ye might like tae ken what He—Who—Dreams has tae say."

Elizabeth nodded, glancing up and behind at Robbie. "Did you see—" she whispered, and he nodded.

"I did."

He—Who—Dreams raised his voice, putting an end to their discussion.

The lines of dancers kept time with the drum, a hundred feet in soft moccasins moving back and forth. There was the swoosh of long fringe and the clinking of beads and shells and silver ornaments. Many of the men wore knee bands sewn over and over with rattles made from deer hooves, and these set a steady pace.

The sun had fallen to the horizon and hesitated there, the curve of its great belly resting on the edge of the world, bedded in a sky that melded from deep indigo to a pale lavender.

"Welcome, Throws—Far," He—Who—Dreams called, raising the ceremonial stick in his hand. "We welcome our brother who comes to us from the Caughnawaga—" He gestured. "He asks us in his brother's name to offer up our songs so that Cat—Eater might heal and walk among us again.

The crowd parted and Throws—Far appeared, carrying a basket. A huge man, broad and layered with muscle, he bore more than the usual share of battle scars. Elizabeth was close enough to see the details of the tat toning on his face and head. He had painted his face in yellow and blue, four stripes to a cheek. But no manner of dress and no amount of ornament could hide his coloring, the pale skin that resisted tanning, the coppery hair and vivid blue eyes. Those eyes met hers and she saw his attention narrow to a hard focus. Elizabeth stepped involuntarily backward and closer to Robbie.

The dancers were moving again. Spotted—Fox, Splitting—Moon, Otter, and then Nathaniel. As he passed, Elizabeth saw his attention was someplace far away.

The singing grew louder and then stopped abruptly. She watched as He—Who—Dreams reached into the basket of gifts Throws—Far had brought, finding a highly decorated pouch, closed by a drawstring. He opened it and poured what was inside into his palm.

"Great Spirit who gave us the night," he chanted, as the last rays of the sun trembled and then were lost. On the other side of the sky, the moon rose, the color of an overripe peach.

"Great Spirit who gave us the darkness in which to rest. In that darkness we send our words to you."

The tobacco crackled when he scattered it on the fire, smoke rising with a great whirl of sparks in a sweet, pungent eddy to the sky. The musicians song swelled, and receded, swelled again, hovered above the fire like a living thing, and fell silent.

He—Who—Dreams thumped the ground with his stick.

"Cat—Eater!" he summoned. And again, "Cat—Eater!"

There was a rustling, a soft murmuring. Throws—Far watched, the firelight lending his face an animation which was not his own.

Elizabeth swayed with a new wave of nausea, catching Robbie's arm for support. Sweat broke out on her brow and trickled down her face. Her mouth filled with sour saliva.

"Wha' is it, lass?" Robbie whispered. "Are ye ill?"

Richard came. He stood across the fire from his brother. Pale, so pale, slightly bent with one arm held at an awkward angle, supporting his weight on a stick. Behind him was She—Remembers, the clan mother of the Bear long house and the woman who had been nursing his injuries.

The two men stood across from each other looking through the flames, like images in a distorted mirror.

There was a fist high in her gut, forcing itself up into her gullet. Elizabeth turned away from the fire, stumbled out of the crowd, through the milling children, with both Robbie and Treenie behind her, making anxious noises. Past the place where Made—of—Bones' great—granddaughters liked to grind corn in the mornings, past a skin stretched out on a frame, half scraped. The stink of the urine in which it had been cured struck her physically, and Elizabeth stumbled into the shadows beside the long house where she paused, and let it happen. And happen again. And again. She braced herself with one arm against the long house wall and hung there, as miserable as she could ever remember being. Robbie had disappeared, but Treenie sat patiently, as if she had seen such behavior before, and expected to see it again. When Elizabeth looked at her, she thumped her tail sympathetically and offered a doglike shrug.