Not that she had any real interest to be included in that brotherhood, she told herself. She saw the results of their work in the number of graves that were dug, and that was more information than she cared for already.

The prisoners were almost more than Hannah could handle, even with Jennet's good help and Mr. Whistler there to handle the heavy work. There had been no deaths in the stockade for two weeks, which must of course please her, but every day brought two or three new men, mostly militia, mostly young, all hungry and worn down to cartilage and bitterness.

It was true that Hannah could count on basic provisions now: the men were not well fed, but neither did they lie awake at night with cramps in their empty bellies. There was a steady flow of the essential medicines and other supplies that Luke sent around various corners. The worst of it now was the heat, the flies, and the crowding. For the first there was no cure at all; for the second, a limited amount of relief in bear grease and ointment; and for the last nothing except the hope of escape or, for some, death.

In the evenings, after a long day in the stockade, Hannah and Jennet sat down to eat a simple meal with Runs-from-Bears and Sawatis. Every day she felt them watching her closely, waiting for her to say the words they needed to hear: Daniel was well enough now to travel. Except she couldn't say that, and could not say when that day might come with any certainty.

It was not her uncle's way to worry about what could not be changed; instead he went off in his canoe and came back with bundles of herbs and roots and tobacco, all put together by Many-Doves who was in a well-hidden camp two miles downriver.

The truth was, Blue-Jay was strong enough to travel, and if not for Daniel, they would have spirited him away weeks ago. When she was very tired, the part of Hannah that was more Bonner than Kahnyen'kehàka worried about that, about the sacrifice her Mohawk family was making for her white half brother. The other, stronger part of her always stopped her before she suggested to Runs-from-Bears that he should take his son and leave this place.

It was her job to heal Daniel, and she must put all her powers of concentration in that alone; there was no time for guilt, Hannah reminded herself, and even less for self-doubt.

On a morning so damp and warm that it made her think of steaming bread, Hannah went to the stockade before first light, leaving Jennet asleep on her pallet. Over the weeks they had worked out which of the men were willing to let her in before the rest of the camp followers, in exchange for a few coins—another one of Luke's many contributions. When she was too tired to stop herself, Hannah wondered what would become of her brother if it ever became public knowledge that the grandson of the erstwhile lieutenant governor of Lower Canada was pouring so much money and effort into the care of the American invaders.

Hannah rose from her pallet and walked to the fort in quiet desperation, as a sister but mostly as a doctor, perplexed and undone by her own failure. She went to sit next to Daniel in the crowded pungent dark of the stockade and listen to his breathing, in the hope that somehow he would reveal to her the one thing she wanted most to know: how to save his life.

For all her life, Jennet had been a sound sleeper and possessive of that state. She could not be depended on to rouse herself; that Hannah did, most mornings, by shaking her or, when that failed, by flicking cold water on her face.

Now that Hannah had got in the habit of rising before first light to go to the stockade, Runs-from-Bears had taken over the job of waking Jennet, which he did by the simple expedient of sticking his head into the shack and letting out a shriek that made her jump to her feet.

In some part of her sleeping mind Jennet, struggling reluctantly toward a waking state, realized that Runs-from-Bears had forgotten about her. The piece of stretched doeskin that covered the single small window was glowing with sunlight, which meant that she had opened her eyes and was lying on her side; which meant that she was awake, and without prodding.

Hannah's pallet was empty, and more than that: someone was crouched behind her. Jennet held herself very still and closed her eyes.

It was not Runs-from-Bears or his son or any other Indian; the bear grease that they used to protect themselves from the flies was far too distinctive to miss. Jennet's heart kicked into a rapid gallop while her mind raced. A dry clicking in her throat she swallowed down only with great difficulty, and her ears ringing in alarm. She opened her eyes because she could not bear the dark.

A man's shadow passed the window and then another, and with them voices. Runs-from-Bears and Sawatis, talking easily together. She wondered if she could call an alarm quickly enough to save herself from whatever or whoever it was—a man, she told herself, no wolf, no dog—who had found his way here. A soldier, most likely; for weeks Hannah had been warning her that she flirted too much with them all, made light of the moon eyes they threw her way. A soldier would have a weapon. And if he did, why was he waiting?

Runs-from-Bears was talking again, something about the river and the wind. Mohawk was a fearfully difficult language but Jennet recognized some words, now, and was trying to learn more. Andiatarocté, she heard: tail of the lake, their name for Lake George. They had no idea that she was here, or that she was not alone.

She forced herself to breathe normally and, in one quick movement, made ready to roll away from the pallet.

A hand stopped her, clamped firmly on her waist; before she could scream another hand covered her mouth and without thinking she put her teeth to work even as she opened her eyes and saw Luke's face.

“Christ Almighty!” he hissed, and jerked his hand away. “That's a fine welcome, girl.”