From the small window under the eaves, she saw that the sky was crowded with stars. Somewhere in the night Hawkeye was moving north on foot by their light alone.

"The winter is coming," Hannah said. "He will be cold, and lonely."

Elizabeth wondered if she would ever grow used to having her thoughts read so easily. "I expect that your grandfather will spend some time trapping with Robbie," she said, although she only could hope that this was true.

"If I were a boy, I could go with him to look for Otter."

She thought she had shed her share of tears for the day, and now Elizabeth found that she was wrong. And how senseless it was to cry for little girls just because they could not go to the places that little boys went so freely.

She said, "When I was eight, I stole some of my cousin Merriweather's clothes. I thought I could dress as a boy, and run away to do as I pleased."

"Did it work?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "They did not fit. You know," she said thoughtfully. "I have never told anyone else about that little adventure of mine."

Hannah smiled. It was a small gift, but perhaps enough to sleep on. Elizabeth kissed her cheek and then she picked up the lantern to make her way down from the sleeping loft.

Nathaniel and Runs-from-Bears were waiting in the shadows of the cold hearth, slumped in chairs. Bears was deeply asleep, his head turned hard to one side, but Nathaniel's eyes followed her as she moved toward him.

"You're as tired as he is."

"True," Nathaniel agreed, squinting up at her with one eye closed. "But I ain't quite so drunk."

He had not slept for two days; the slightly slurred quality to his words might have been nothing more than exhaustion. But the smell on him said something else. Elizabeth stepped back.

"You've been drinking?" she asked, incredulous.

"Aye," Nathaniel said. "That I have." Bears stirred slightly, as if he might have something to add.

Torn between unease and compassion, Elizabeth pushed out her breath audibly. "We'll have to get Bears home somehow."

"They wouldn't let him in. Or if they did, he'd regret it. Falling—Day won't tolerate any man when he's been drinking."

It was true that Elizabeth had never seen any liquor at Lake in the Clouds, but neither had she seen wheaten bread, or sugar, or coffee. It had not occurred to her that the absence of hard drink was significant.

"Never mind, Boots. We'll sleep in the barn," Nathaniel said, rising awkwardly.

"You'll sleep in your bed," Elizabeth said shortly. "But I fear Bears must stay where he is. He'll have a sore neck in the morning."

"That will be the least of it." He paused. "You ain't mad at me?"

She turned away from him to spread the hearth blanket over Bears. With her back to him, she said: "It is a strange way to remember your grandfather or to say goodbye to your father, and I do not see the sense of it, Nathaniel. But I also see no sense in adding insult to injury. Go to bed."

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Come with me."

"I will sleep with Hannah tonight."

With a jerk, he turned her toward him. "No." And seeing her face, he dropped his hand and his head, but not before she saw how his eyes glistened in the lamplight.

"No," he said, just as firmly. "Don't leave me alone."

Silently, Elizabeth nodded. She picked up the lantern and went ahead of him to their room.

* * *

He slept uneasily, tossing and muttering in Kahnyen’keháka. Skimming on the surface of sleep, Elizabeth started awake more than once. There was enough light from the night sky to show her his face, deeply shadowed and outlined with worry. She wanted to touch him, to smooth the lines from his face, but she feared waking him. With a sigh, she turned away to curl on her side.

Behind her Nathaniel stilled suddenly, and she knew he was awake. He pressed his length against her back, his breath warm and harsh at her ear. He smelled of whisky and the council fire. His hands were on her hips, and then he was with her, in a smooth gliding motion. Even as she arched back against him with a soft sound of surprise, he stilled and his grip loosened, and he fell away into a true sleep.

She lay in his arms, half dreaming of Oakmere, of aunt Merriweather at the tea table with her married daughters around her. There had been much talk of husbands at these teas when the men were absent: inexcusable habits, vagaries and moods, strange affinities, male needs—unspecified, incomprehensible needs—that must be seen to. Beyond these necessities, the hearts of men had never seemed to interest her aunt, as if satisfying their stomachs and other bodily demands were sufficient evil unto the day. As if men had no hearts to speak of.

Elizabeth felt Nathaniel's heart beating against her back; her hair was wet with his tears.

Aunt Merriweather. With a care not to wake him again, Elizabeth unwound herself from Nathaniel's embrace. She found a candle and slipped into the main room to light it from the banked embers in the hearth. Bears was gone, the blanket folded haphazardly over the arm of the chair. She hoped he had found a more comfortable bed.

She stood considering the pile of goods, still unpacked, that had come with them from Albany. After a moment's rumbling, she found it wedged between the packet of new quills and the bill of sale for the schoolhouse: her aunt Merriweather's letter, the green wax seal still intact. Elizabeth sat down in the chair and smoothed her hands over the gentle curve of her stomach, considering the square of paper on her knees. Beyond the muffled rush of the waterfall, the world was silent, and the seal cracked open like a shot.