"He did that," Richard said darkly, out of the sleigh now and checking the harnesses, locating the reins. "He did that on purpose."

Elizabeth's heart had begun to slow its pace, but now it picked up again. Richard was looking at her with such a dark scowl, his brow drawn down in a sharp vee. He knows, she thought numbly. He knows. She looked into the woods where Nathaniel had disappeared and wished him back. She had not been afraid of Richard when he seemed intent on kissing her, but she was afraid now.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," she said, finally.

But Richard wasn't looking at Elizabeth; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten her. "Of course he did it, of course. He'd do anything to keep me from getting to Hidden Wolf."

Elizabeth shut her mouth and focused her gaze on her own hands, folded into a tight knot in her lap.

"You must be mistaken," she said again.

"Let me tell you this," Richard said, snapping the reins sharply, too sharply, thought Elizabeth, given the agitation which was still evident in the way the horses jerked. "He'll have to kill me to do it, because I won't let any man stand between me and Hidden Wolf."

Elizabeth's fear dissipated suddenly in a cool wave of anger. No man will stand between you and Hidden Wolf she agreed silently. But you haven't reckoned with me.

Chapter 18

Elizabeth looked down at the small notebook in front of her and closed her eyes in concentration.

"Skennen'ko:was ken," she said finally and then, unsure of herself, she looked up at Many-Doves for confirmation.

"Skennen'kowa," replied Many-Doves . I am well.

Many-Doves was a demanding teacher of the Kahnyen’keháka language, and not given to premature praise of her student. In the dim early morning light Elizabeth found it hard to read approval or dissatisfaction from her face.

Hannah, on the other hand, grinned at Elizabeth broadly from her post at Many-Doves ' shoulder when she did well, or shook her head sadly when she erred.

"Shiá:ton!" said Many-Doves , nodding almost imperceptibly toward the notebook.

Elizabeth dipped her quill and carefully sounded out the phrase. Then she looked with some satisfaction on the growing list of words and phrases she had collected thus far in her early morning lessons. It struck her, suddenly, that there were no p or b sounds, or any l sounds, either, which explained, perhaps, Falling—Day's discomfort with Elizabeth's own name. When she put this question to Many-Doves , the younger woman shrugged. "It seems we have no need of them," she said. "Our stories are still worth listening to."

This was an idea that would require some contemplation, but her teacher was not quite finished with her for the day.

"What do you say when someone is at your door?" Many-Doves asked, holding up a hand to forestall Hannah's help.

"Let her think."

"Tasatáweia't," suggested Elizabeth. "Come in.

Many-Doves smiled, finally, and Elizabeth bent to sound out the complicated word, wondering what symbol she should use for the little hiccup of air that Many-Doves insisted on, as if a sound were swallowed whole. She settled on an apostrophe, but wished for something better. She worried too about her t's and d's; Many-Doves used something that fell between the two sounds. But because there was no model for her to use, Elizabeth had to settle for depending on her own ear.

She showed Many-Doves her work. "Is this correct?"

"Kahnyen'keha tewatati," came the gentle response. We should speak Kahnyen'keháka.

Elizabeth bit her lower lip. "Tohske' wahi?"

"Tohske' wahi." Many-Doves nodded.

When they had worked their way through three more phrases, Many-Doves rose and opened the shutters. The spring morning came in, half light and a breeze still cold, but with an undercurrent of warmth. Elizabeth put the cork in her ink bottle and closed her notebook. By the time she had secured it safely away where curious eyes would not stumble on it, Hannah had taken her place with her primer open in front of her, and Many-Doves had begun copying out the day's bible verse on the chalkboard. Elizabeth had just time to note to herself what an innocent scene they made when the first students arrived at the door.

They came in wet and noisy, their dinner buckets clattering and their boots thumping, voices raised in arguments and stories and silliness. Elizabeth found herself in the middle of them before she knew it, surrounded by their smells: cedar smoke, evergreen, bear grease, damp wool tangy with a full winter's wear, sweat. She wiped noses and peeled off coats and hung up soggy mittens, answered questions and directed them toward their places, until she found herself in front of the room and ready to begin, with their eyes—blues and grays and greens and every kind of brown—fixed on her.

The children were seated at two tables: the younger ones in the first row and the older in a row behind them. Many-Doves sat at a small table in the corner under the window, watching quietly as the children bent to their horn tablets to begin work on their daily penmanship assignment. "Put not your trust in princes," Many-Doves had written in her careful hand.

Elizabeth sent Liam Kirby back to study with Many-Doves while she heard the littlest students read. When she looked up from her charges, Elizabeth noted how Many-Doves ' and Liam's heads were bent together over the tablet. Two human beings couldn't look less alike, thought Elizabeth: slender and self—contained, Many-Doves ' whole quiet energy was focused on the work before her while Liam's riotous ginger hair and his substantial size were as hard to overlook as his excesses of energy and enthusiasm. He jiggled, he thumped, he whistled between his teeth; he could not sit still, although he meant to. At thirteen, Liam was her oldest student and there he sat stumbling good—naturedly over the first primer. Many-Doves ' gentle suggestions worked like a persistent rhythm to his starts and stops.