“Goddamn it, Judge. Tell him to hold his tongue." Nathaniel's face hardened into the mask she knew so well, the one that meant he was just barely keeping control of his temper.

"I am taking no one's side." The judge raised his voice slightly. "But I can see where this is headed, and I see no reason to ruin the evening for the whole village."

This drew Moses up short. He glanced around himself for the first time and saw the audience he had drawn. With a mumbled curse, he turned away and stamped off in the direction of a group of men gathered on the far side of the fire.

At the same time, Liam Kirby started toward them, convulsively twisting his cap in his hands. He stopped in front of Elizabeth.

"I'm sorry," he said, his gaze fixed firmly on his own feet.

"It's not your fault, Liam." Elizabeth tried for an encouraging smile.

"No, I'm sorry I can't come to school." He would not meet her eye, but even so she could see the bruise that covered a good part of his left cheek.

"I see," she said softly.

"Will you tell Hannah I'm sorry to miss the games?" His voice was so low that Elizabeth thought at first she had misheard him. His blush told her that she had not.

"I will tell her."

The boy nodded jerkily and then turned away, walking back to the group of men where his brother waited for him.

"Won't you come eat?" Anna called from the fire, gesturing to them. "More than enough to go around."

Her students, their faces turned toward her hopefully, fingers and mouths shiny with grease; the Camerons, the Smythes, the McGarritys, all of them willing to welcome her. John Glove came forward, speaking sensible words in a kind tone.

"Don't be chased off, now, if you'd care to stay and eat with us. He won't bother you anymore." He was a wealthy man, the owner of the mill, the owner of slaves; his children sat in her classroom.

Chingachgook stood on the shore, his expression unreadable. Behind her Nathaniel and Hawkeye were silent, waiting for her to make this decision. Elizabeth felt suddenly very weary, and unbearably sad.

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Glove," she said. "But I think we should be away home, don't you, Nathaniel?" She turned, seeking out Hawkeye's eye. He nodded at her silently.

There was not one bird or duck on the water, not as far as she could see: a new kind of wilderness. As the canoe moved into the new darkness of the evening, Chingachgook's song rose again, strong enough to be heard all around. On shore there was sudden silence. She thought, she hoped, that they were hearing the song of appeasing words to the spirit of the lake. Other words ran through her head: In the day shalt thou make thy plant to grow, and in the morning shalt thou make thy seed to flourish: but the harvest shall be a heap in the day of grief and of desperate sorrow. These words Elizabeth kept to herself, for the song said the same thing to anyone who would listen.

There was a screech of high laughter from the shore, and a splash as the boys tossed one of their unfortunate own into the water. The judge stood apart from the crowd, watching with his hands crossed on his back and his chin on his chest.

The breeze rose cool. Elizabeth turned her face to the sky, and out of the darkness a single mottled brown feather came twirling to brush against her cheek. She caught it in her fingers and examined it for a long minute. With hands slightly trembling, Elizabeth tucked it carefully into her bodice.

"A keepsake?" Nathaniel asked behind her.

"A reminder."

"Wasn't the most pleasant evening of your life, I'll wager."

"No," she agreed. "But perhaps it was one of the most instructive."

"Don't judge them too harsh," Nathaniel said softly. "Or yourself, either. It's going to take some time."

Chingachgook's song trailed away into the night sky, as light and soft as a feather on the cold night breeze.

* * *

Nathaniel lit a torch and they went down to the waterfall. The slick stone steps were familiar to him even in the dark, but she moved cautiously, digging with her toes into the deep green moss. Wedged between rocks to extend over the water, the torch threw a bright, rippling flower onto its dark surface.

In the sticky heat of the July night, she waited for him to go first. He submerged himself and welcomed the cold. When he surfaced she had un plaited her hair so that it swept around her hips. Her skin glowed in the faint light, whiter than the reluctant moon. Below her ribs there was the hint of a newly sloping curve to her belly, there where the child grew; between the rounded weight of her breasts a glistening of sweat.

He held out his arms and she came to him. She drew in her breath at the cold, her nipples hardening against his chest.

They swam to the falls and then dived under the rushing water to the cool darkness behind. On the other side of the flowing curtain the torch wavered and blinked like a benevolent spirit, the only light in the world. He showed her the footholds, guiding her hand to them one after the other. Then he climbed first and, reaching down, lifted her over the edge into the cave where they had first come together.

He lit another torch and made a new nest of furs against the cool damp. Wound together they shivered, and then they stopped shivering. Near sleep, she suddenly stiffened in his arms, all her focus and attention turned inward. She took his hand and put it on her belly, hushed him when he tried to speak. He felt it then: the soft tumbling that was the child announcing itself, a swimmer in a quiet sea.

She fell asleep with her hair drying into curls around her face. Nathaniel listened to the rhythm of her breathing, but he lay awake himself for a long time, thinking about her. Her pleasure in the children she taught; her endless patience with them. Her disappointment and impatience with the parents of those children. She had the knack of righteous indignation without bitterness, but for how long? Nathaniel wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger to tie her to him and wondered how long she could tolerate living in Paradise.