“Then here it is,” Dora said, her hoarse voice raised above the cries of her daughter. “As you're so eager to know. You remember last May, when the letter come from Johnstown saying Mrs. Greber had run off from her husband and wasn't coming back?”

In Missy Parker's round, full face her eyes darted from side to side. One corner of her mouth jerked.

“Yes. Yes, I remember. Mr. Littlejohn brought the letter and Mr. Greber asked Mrs. Bonner to read it for him, right there at the trading post. And all those people right nearby.”

She seemed to relish the memory.

“I need another push,” Hannah interrupted. “Not too hard. For the afterbirth.”

Dora's face knotted while she gave Hannah what she had asked for. When it cleared again, she blinked the sweat from her eyes and looked at Missy Parker.

“You remember it was Jonas Littlejohn who rode post that day.”

Missy drew back. “Well, of course. Yes. What does he have to do with Mrs. Greber and her letter?”

“Listen and I'll tell you. Jonas Littlejohn left more than bad news behind him when he rode off the next morning. Say hello to his daughter.”

Missy Parker clutched fists to her bosom, her mouth working wordlessly. A great rash of color had broken out on her face and neck. “You're lying.” She turned on her heel and marched to the door, where she fumbled with the latch, and then out into the cold.

The fire in the hearth roused at the sudden draft and then settled again. In the quiet the new mother and grandmother giggled softly.

“You gave her a shock,” Hannah said, handing the swaddled newborn to her mother. “But what does Mrs. Parker have against Jonas Littlejohn?”

“He's married to Missy's youngest, her Thea,” said Goody.

“Oh, dear,” said Hannah. “I fear you'll have a hard time getting any help out of Mr. Littlejohn, then.”

“Never thought I would,” said Dora. “Never would have said his name, except—” Her chin trembled and she let out a squawk of laughter, rocking the mewling baby to her breast. “It was worth it though, wasn't it? Here she was hoping to get a new club to hit Horace Greber over the head with, and instead— Wasn't it worth it, to see the look on her face?”

On the way home, smiling to herself at nothing in particular, a series of sudden and unsettling realizations stopped Hannah in the snowy woods.

On her way home. She had a place that she thought of as home. Not her father's house or her grandmother's longhouse or her husband's village, but the house that was as much her home as Curiosity's. People had called it the doctor's place while Richard was alive and they called it that still, except that now she was the doctor. They gave her that title, some of them at least. In a village of whites, she was the doctor. She lived in a brick house with ten rooms, and fine furniture, and china, and beeswax candles. A library. A dispensary, filled with all the instruments a doctor might need. A laboratory, to experiment with whatever interested her by way of new herbs or medicines. A microscope.

Paradise had accepted her, because Richard Todd had made it clear that he found her worthy.

Hannah shook herself, and thought it through again.

The people of Paradise accepted her because they had known her all her life, as a girl and then as a young woman, at first carrying a basket for her grandmother or Curiosity, and later to bind their wounds and treat their fevers and to comfort their dying children. Nowhere else in the white world would such a thing be possible.

And then this idea, more surprising still: she was comfortable here, against all hope and expectation, and with that comfort came a new peacefulness and a quickening of the mind.

Sometimes when Hannah was looking at a sore ear or a gash or a listless child that needed worming, she thought of her journals and notes with regret, an emotion she had almost forgotten. Now and then she took down one of the books she had been left, an anatomy or a treatise on fevers, and found herself drawn in by the formal language of medicine. She understood that her native curiosity was coming back to life. The part of her that was a doctor approved; the rest of her, when occupied too long with these thoughts, began to hum with panic.

At times she saw glimpses of what life might be, here. With family around her, and girls to look after who were of an age to be her own daughters. She could live out her life like this or she could force herself back, all the way back, and live a woman's life.

Well nourished, her body had woken at a pace with her mind. At the last moon she had bled again, though it had been a year or more. To remind her: she could bear more children of her own, and raise them in the fine brick house. She could marry again; as strange as the idea might be, it had presented itself. In theory, she could marry again.

Or she could follow Dora Cunningham's example, and take pleasure and release where and when she pleased. It would be easier than finding the right husband in this white world.

There were trappers and backwoodsmen who would be glad of her, men who cared little what others might think of them. Such men often took Indian wives. Some of them helped themselves to more than one such woman at once.

It would shock her stepmother to hear such a thing said, but some part of Hannah did not dislike the idea. Such a husband would leave her with most of her freedom. He would spend a few weeks with her in the fall and spring; he would satisfy himself and her too, if she was lucky or demanding enough, and give her a child every year. Children three-quarters white, who would be accepted here in Paradise, begrudgingly, because they were Nathaniel Bonner's grandchildren.