The wound itself, a dark red dimple in the plane of the oblique muscle, had made a bed for itself as angry and threatening as a wasp's nest. One she must disturb.

In the light of the candles Hannah traced the bed of infection first with her eyes and then, gently probing, with her fingers.

Sleepily Daniel said, “Don't you be a coward, sister, and neither will I.”

Across from Hannah Jennet said nothing, but she was pale and sweat had broken out on her forehead.

With a quick, neat movement, she made a curved incision. A thick river of pus and blood welled up in the track of the scalpel. There was a tensing in the muscles, and Daniel made a small sound: relief more than pain.

All through the room men had gone very quiet. Cards and dominoes and dice were forgotten, arguments faded away as Hannah worked.

“Christ, what a stench,” said one of the redcoats. Then he turned away and vomited onto his boots. The smell of porridge and ale joined the miasma that hung around the table: laudanum, sweat, blood, infection.

“Just a little put-ri-fi-cation,” sang Mr. Whistler, rolling each syllable. “Just a spot of corruption to be washed away.”

Hannah heard her own voice clear and sharp and far away, asking for the things she needed. When it came time to dig into the muscle, Jennet handed her the probe with a hand that shook only a little.

“Shall I give him more laudanum?” asked Mr. Whistler, and got a negative grunt from Daniel in reply. In the minute it took Hannah to find the bullet and extract it, that was the only sound he made.

“Well, look there,” Mr. Whistler said in a conversational tone. “There it is, the devil. I suppose that was a bullet once, but it don't look like much now at all.”

Hannah was pulling something from the wound: thin and ragged and bloody, it unwound itself endlessly from its cave, and then fell with a wet plop to the table.

“Christ above,” said Mr. Whistler. “What is that?”

“A piece of shirting,” said Hannah.

“Well, no wonder then,” Jennet said, gently scolding. “You're meant to wear clothes on the outside, man.”

Soft laughter echoed through the room. From Daniel there was nothing at all, for he had finally fainted.

“It took him long enough,” said Mr. Whistler, and even Hannah must smile at that.

“Now you've done it,” Jennet said quietly. “Now you've gone and saved your brother's life. You'll never hear the end of it, my dear.”

Chapter 27

Dear family,

Simon Ballentyne has stopped here on his way back to Paradise and must be soon away. I write in my own hand so you will see and understand the full truth of my words. Runs-from-Bears sends his own message to my aunt and cousins with news of Blue-Jay, and so here I will write only of Daniel.

Just today I removed a bullet from my brother's side. It was bedded deep in the muscle and did not come out willingly, but the wound is clean now and drains as it should.

The damage to his left arm is more troubling, and about it I can say only that there was some unknown injury to muscles and nerves in the shoulder. He is in some considerable pain, but he bears it without complaint. Please tell my aunt Many-Doves and Curiosity that he drinks the tea they sent every day, as they would approve.

Jennet and I are very busy caring for the prisoners, but we are well. Outside the garrison my uncle and cousin look after our needs, and inside the garrison we have the colonel's promise of safe-passage. For Simon's good help we are especially thankful.

In all haste,

Your loving daughter

Hannah, also called Walks-Ahead by the Kahnyen'kehàka, her mother's people, and Walking-Woman by her husband's. Written in her own hand the first day of March 1813.

Chapter 28

With the news of the misfortune that had befallen Daniel and Blue-Jay, the gossiping quieted for as much as a full day, and then flared back to life with a roar: Lily Bonner had come home, after all, to find her lover married. Whatever disappointment the villagers might have felt about the loss of Jennet and her stories was offset by the idea that sooner or later Lily would have to speak up and put an end to all the rumors.

Given her choice, Lily would have pretended that she had never been away, had never seen or heard of the city of Montreal, and most certainly had never known anyone who went by the name of Nicholas Wilde or Simon Ballentyne.

During the day she kept busy enough with the sugaring, which had always been one of her favorite things. She spent her days with Gabriel and Annie, checking the sap buckets and pouring them into the cauldron Many-Doves watched over. It was work Gabriel disliked but he knew better than to complain to his aunt or father, who would have scolded him or, worse, laughed at him. He satisfied himself with saving his complaints for Lily and Annie.

“I don't hear you complaining in the morning when my mother turns out the cakes,” Annie pointed out to him now and then, and he had the good grace to duck his head and grin. Like the rest of the men at Lake in the Clouds, Gabriel had a weakness for maple sugar in all its forms.

The nights were harder. Sometimes, alone in the chamber she had last shared with her sister and cousin, Lily lay awake and wondered what was worse about going into the village: the questions about Simon, or the stories about Nicholas and his new wife. Stories so awful that she did not want to believe them, no matter how many times she was told.

Everyone had their own ideas about Jemima and Nicholas, and everyone was sure that Lily must share their conclusions, if only they could try to explain it one more time.