Nathaniel pulled back, his eyes narrowing into slits. He ran a hand through his hair as he turned away, his shoulders rising hard against the fabric of his shirt. With his back still turned to her he said, "I'm going up on deck for a while. I need to think some things through."

Hannah had a game she played with the twins when they were put down for the night. She would lean over their crib, and in turn she would put a hand on each baby's chest to croon to them in Kahnyen'kehâka.

"You are Two-Sparrows, daughter of Bone-in-Her-Back, who took Wolf-Running-Fast as her husband. Your sister Squirrel is daughter of Sings-from-Books, daughter of Falling-Day, daughter of Made-of-Bones, who is clan mother of the Wolf longhouse of the Kahnyen'kehâka people who live at Good Pasture. Sleep well, my little sister."

By the time she finished, Lily's eyelids had fluttered closed. Even Daniel, who fought sleep as a matter of course, quieted when Hannah began to sing to him. She called him Little-Fox, the infant name that Falling-Day had given him when she came to them through the winter storm. The baby listened with his brow furrowed in such a comical way that Elizabeth might have laughed out loud.

Elizabeth wondered where they would be when they put the children down tomorrow night. She glanced again over her shoulder into the main cabin where Curiosity sat staring blankly at a book in her lap while Charlie cleared the last of their meal away. He was red-eyed still, and there was a vacant look about him. Elizabeth wanted to speak to him, to offer some comfort; she knew very well what it was to lose a brother. But in her current state of agitation she thought she would do him little good.

Nathaniel had still not returned from his walk on deck; the little rosewood clock ticked on resolutely toward morning.

She did not think she would be able to sleep, but Elizabeth slipped away immediately and dreamed of Margreit MacKay. Mrs. MacKay paced the cabin, rocking her lost child against her breast and murmuring to herself, the same words over and over again: Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in praelio.

What danger? Elizabeth asked her. What battle?

But there was no answer, only the prayer said over the silent form of the child: Archangel Michael, defend us.

Elizabeth snapped up out of sleep, sweat running down her face.

"Boots," Nathaniel said from the dark. "You were weeping in your sleep."

She touched her face, and found it wet.

"Just a dream," she said, wiping her cheeks with her fingers. "Just a dream. Why don't you come to bed?"

She could barely make out his shape as he came to sit beside her. He smelled of salt air, and of himself.

"You've got a neck cramp again."

Elizabeth had to smile. "I do not know if I like the fact that you can see so well in the dark."

His fingers were strong and cold on her shoulder, his breathing was even and steady at her ear. She shuddered a little as he sought out the coiled muscles and began to knead them.

He said, "I shouldn't have left angry. I'm sorry for it."

Elizabeth leaned back harder against him, dropping her head to one side so that he could work the knot of muscle behind her ear.

"We are all on edge," she said softly.

He was still angry. She felt it in his hands and heard it too in the way he pushed out what he had to say.

"I guess you're right about Carryck, but I wish to God you weren't."

She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. "So do I."

Nathaniel's fingers dug hard into her sore shoulder and she struggled a little against him.

"Easy, Boots," he said gruffly. "Let me work."

Her nightdress had slipped down over her shoulder and her skin rose to the cool night air, but a drop of sweat trickled down her hairline. Nathaniel's hands coaxed and prodded, and little by little the knotty muscles began to relax.

"You're wound up like a clock."

"Oh, am I? And there's the pot calling the kettle black."

He snorted softly through his nose and dug his thumbs deeper into the muscles at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

Elizabeth squeaked. "You might just beat me, and get it over with."

He laughed. She reached behind herself to swat him, only half in jest. Nathaniel caught her wrist and in one movement he turned so that she was caught beneath him. He was breathing heavily.

"It's not a beating I've got in mind, Boots."

He pressed his mouth against her neck just below her ear, his tongue flickering. Elizabeth drew in a hard breath and buried her fingers in his hair, held his head as his mouth moved down. He set his teeth in the curve of her shoulder and she cried out a little, in pain and something more.

Suddenly he stilled and pressed his face to her skin. "Oh, Christ," he whispered. "God help us."

Frightened now as she had not been before, Elizabeth clutched at his shoulders.

"Nathaniel--"

"They might as well put me in chains, for all the good I am to you."

There was a swelling in her throat, things she wanted to say and could not, should not. Instead she rocked him while his tears wet her nightdress, hot enough to scald skin and bone. Too tenderhearted, he had called her, and he was right.

When the worst was over, he let out a terrible sigh. "I swear I'll get us out of this."

"I know that, Nathaniel. I know that as well as I know how to breathe."

He nodded absently, rubbing his eyes. "There's still no sign of the Jackdaw."

"Perhaps tomorrow," she said. "I suppose Mr. Moncrieff must be very ill at ease."