She felt Strikes-the-Sky nearby. He had started coming to see her again, though not often. She wondered if he would go away for good, if she were to take another man. The laws of her people allowed her this, of course; she could have put him aside even while he lived. He had teased her about it now and then, when she was angry with him.

Look, he said. Look at Kicking Bird. Would he be a better husband, do you think? Such a small thin man as Kicking Bird, surely he is not so selfish and thoughtless as to eat the last of the red corn soup.

He said that with his arms wrapped around her waist and his mouth at her ear, tickling her with his breath while she struggled, saying ridiculous things until her anger slipped away from her. Then he would take her down to the furs and cover her until she forgot that she had come back to their hearth after working all day among the sick, to find that he had emptied the cooking pot.

Strikes-the-Sky, her husband. Gone now more than two years and still her tongue remembered and craved the taste of him.

As meat craves salt. She said those words aloud and watched them drift off in the white cloud of her breath. In that substance she could see his shape, far off at the edge of the forest. His voice was much closer.

There are other kinds of food in the world, he said to her. Food without salt still fills the belly.

It was true. There were worthwhile things in the world, and many of them were already in her hands. A home, a family, work, people who needed her help. Good things that held her here as surely as a pinned fly. Life here would be safe, and comfortable, and sterile.

Hannah wondered how long she could manage such a delicate balance, and where she might land when she lost it.

That thought was in her head when she stepped out of the woods a hundred feet from her door, candle lit in the dusk, and saw the snowshoe tracks leading up to the door. Many people, come at once, and with them, she knew somehow, the answers to some of the questions that haunted her.

At first, the shock of what Lily and Simon had to tell them took all the air from the world. In Curiosity's crowded kitchen they sat, each of them, robbed of the ability even to breathe.

It reminded Jennet of the day her father died. At the time it had been a revelation to her, that words, insubstantial words that could not be held or touched, could have silenced a whole village. The laird is dead. Four words that first struck the world dumb and then drew a cry from it that must be heard in the heavens.

Hannah said, “Of course I will go to them.”

“I'll take her,” said Nathaniel, and with that the turmoil began. Nathaniel would go; Elizabeth would not have it, nor would Curiosity. Nathaniel had promised his wife never to set foot in Canada again, and she would hold him to that promise.

“And if it means hog-tying you,” Curiosity added with grim conviction.

Elizabeth said, “I will not lose both of you at once.”

And Lily: “He is not dead. No one said that my brother was dead.” That word, spoken for the first time, brought forth weeping: from Elizabeth and Lily and young Gabriel, who sat beside his father as still as stone while the tears ran down his face.

“I will go,” said Runs-from-Bears. His tone was steady and low and in response Elizabeth's tears welled again; in thankfulness, Jennet thought, and shame.

It was Simon Ballentyne who brought some quiet and calm back into the room. When he stood they turned their attention to him, and Jennet saw how much he was like his grandfather. The Ballentyne, they called him, capable and strong and clear-sighted in the face of disaster; her father's right hand for so many years.

Simon said, “The men who know the situation best are your son Sawatis”—he nodded to Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears. “And the sachem Spotted-Fox. They know the island and many of the soldiers. Their faces are familiar but not suspect. They will do everything they can to see that your sons come home again hale. They have asked for Hannah, and she has agreed. Runs-from-Bears knows the territory better than I do, but I know it well. Will you let us take her to them?”

Jennet saw the words do their work. Elizabeth's face, cold and pale, Nathaniel's, alive with frustration and anger. Many-Doves, unreadable as ever to Jennet, and Runs-from-Bears, who stood behind his wife, unable or unwilling to sit.

Then Elizabeth turned to Lily. She said, “What do you think, daughter?”

Lily's hands were knotted in her lap. She studied them for a moment, and when she raised her head Jennet saw how much these months away had changed her. Lily said, “Simon is right.”

“I will travel on my own and leave first,” Runs-from-Bears said to Simon directly. “When will you follow?”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “If you can be ready, Hannah?”

Hannah stood and smoothed her skirts with her hands. Then she managed a smile, a small one but a smile nevertheless. “There is a great deal to do, but yes, I think I can be ready.” And here was the surprise: it had taken such catastrophic news to finally wake Hannah fully out of her long sleep of loss and sorrow. For the first time since she had come home, they saw in her the girl and daughter and sister they had been missing. Because she had been called back to the war she dreaded, to care for young soldiers who needed her.

Nathaniel made a sound, a clicking like a death beetle in the wall, perceptible to nobody but the two of them. She closed her eyes, and summoned the image of her son to her mind's eye.

They worked late into the night to make things ready. Hannah was in the middle of it all. She moved from room to room, giving direction and answering questions. She examined all the surgical instruments and sent most of them to the smithy for Joshua to sharpen, as Richard Todd had trained him to do. She sorted through baskets of linen and set the little girls to tearing what she needed into serviceable pieces. She sent Gabriel and Annie out to borrow every mortar and pestle in Paradise, and then under Many-Doves' watchful eye, dried herbs and roots were ground and mixed and carefully wrapped in greased paper.