At the top of the ridge, Elizabeth turned to look down on the forest, and stopped in wonder. It was as if they were alone in the world; there was no sign of Lake in the Clouds, or the village, or of anything having to do with human beings. Just the mountains and their spotty canopy of evergreens filling in with the tender first green of oaks and maple and beech, thousands upon thousands of them, as far as she could see.

Hannah was moving on, and Elizabeth followed her through forests, all red and white pine now, circumventing a marshy spot where a spring came to the surface. They came out of the wood onto a rocky plateau. A hawk passed overhead with a bit of moss trailing from her beak. The wind picked up, blowing Elizabeth's skirts around her legs.

Silently, Hannah gestured with her chin. Elizabeth saw now where they were: below them was Lake in the Clouds, the gorge pointing in a crooked finger away from the mountain. With its weathered square—cut logs, the cabin looked like something grown out of stone. Under her boots, Elizabeth could feel the pulse of the water in the rock as it rushed to that point in the cliff face where it would explode in a waterfall. From here they could not see it fall, but they could hear it, muted.

There was a three—note trilled birdsong which Elizabeth would not have noticed, but Hannah raised her head and trilled back.

"Runs-from-Bears," Hannah murmured in explanation.

There was no sign of him. Elizabeth realized that this was meant to be so: he had followed them at a distance. They would not have let Hannah walk through the forest by herself otherwise. Not given the events of the past few days.

Another call, from below. In response, Hannah pointed down the cliff. The incline was fairly steep, rock and scrabble and boulders. There was no visible path.

Elizabeth looked at the path and back at Hannah. "You want me to go down there?"

The little girl nodded as if this were nothing so terribly unusual.

"Aren't you coming?"

Hannah shook her head. "Take off your boots," she said practically. "It'll be easier barefoot."

Her nerves humming, Elizabeth complied. After a moment's thought she took off her stockings, folding them neatly.

"Go on," Hannah said, smiling now. "He's waiting for you."

* * *

It was strange to feel the ground under her bare feet and she went slowly at first, testing each foothold. Twice she grabbed at a shrub growing from the rock face, so that her hands were sticky and pungent with evergreen sap. Pausing to catch her breath, Elizabeth wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. She wished for something to drink. She wished herself on level ground. She wished herself back in England, at aunt Merriweather's whist table with a book hidden on her lap. She wished for all these things, and none of them.

She hadn't known that fear could be intoxicating.

He was waiting for her. She tried to gather her thoughts, but they slipped away in a flurry of images, all of them Nathaniel.

Elizabeth worked her way down another thirty yards in stops and starts to a little plateau like a pocket torn in the cliff face. She wondered where she should possibly go from here, and then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement.

Nathaniel was standing behind her. He had materialized out of rock, it seemed, and now without a word gestured for her to follow him. He put his hand on her shoulder to guide her up; she felt its heat through the layers of her cape and clothing. Nathaniel pointed to the first foothold and then the next, and she moved as he directed her. Then he scrambled past her to pull himself up into a crack in the rock face. He turned back and reached down a hand.

He stood poised there, his face composed, his eyes flashing something she could not quite name, but which was familiar to her, and offered his hand. Elizabeth looked at Nathaniel's hand, the broad expanse of it, the long, hard curve of his fingers. She gave him her own hand and let him pull her into the side of the mountain.

* * *

She realized it was a cave even as she came through, but it confused her to see sunlight refracting on the walls. Coming from the dark into the glare, she blinked for a moment until she could make sense of the light and noise. The outermost face was not rock, but moving water: they were behind the waterfall, not a hundred yards from Lake in the Clouds. The rush of falls produced a breeze which caught the loose hair at her nape and temples and set it dancing. A fine mist swirled through the small cave. It felt good on her flushed cheeks.

Nathaniel was standing before the wall of water, sun on his hair and shoulders. From the back he was a stranger, a wild frontiersman with his loose hair and buckskin shirt and beaded leggings. There was a knife at his waist, and his rifle leaned against the wall within arm's reach. Then he turned and his strong profile came into view. Distracted, the rush of her own blood as loud in her ears as the falling water, Elizabeth saw the wolves' skulls which had been wedged into a long crack in the wall. While Nathaniel walked toward her she counted them: seven. There were seven.

He stopped before her, his eyes moving over her face. She saw that his brow was beaded with sweat although it was cool here. He's as nervous as I am, she thought thankfully. She was glad it was too loud to talk; it gave her an excuse to look at him, to remind herself of the things she knew but had begun to doubt: the way his jaw curved, the straight line of his eyebrows, the way he looked at her. She hadn't been imagining it: it was there, his wanting her. Nathaniel caught her hand and drew it up between them and then turned to lead her back farther into the cave, through a narrowing and then into another room.