"I thank you for your help and your hospitality," Elizabeth said, seeking the Kahnyen’keháka words slowly. "I thank you for my husband's health."

The old woman blinked at her. Elizabeth saw that she had not gained her trust, or her respect. But then none of that mattered, not at this moment.

The singing and drums had begun again, so that inside the long house there was an underlying rhythm to the sounds of the night like a muted heartbeat. It was a warm evening, and only a few fires were lit in the long central aisle, casting enough light to see the raised platforms at the rear of each living area. Each of them was piled with bear pelts and furs of various kinds and on many of these there were sleeping children, their naked skin glowing softly. In the deep shadows, Elizabeth saw a young woman with a newborn child at her breast, its tiny fists curling into the soft flesh. The woman watched her with hooded eyes, as if she were nothing more than a dream.

Then the old woman came to a stop, and gestured with her chin. Elizabeth was almost afraid to look. She thought that her fear would be obvious, but Ohstyen'tohskon stood impassively, with her eyes averted. As Elizabeth turned, she disappeared into the shadows.

He was asleep, as she had sometimes imagined him to be. And thin, his face so terribly thin. They had shaved his face. Behind his head and shoulders was a rolled bearskin, lifting him very slightly. His face was turned toward her, his arms crossed on his belly. The wound was hidden in shadow, and Elizabeth was glad of it.

Carefully, quietly, she went down on both knees beside the sleeping platform. Putting her face next to his, she inhaled his smells, all healthy: clean sweat tinged with something herbal, something she almost recognized. Elizabeth leaned closer to feel his heat, and kept herself suspended just so, her face within inches of his. Every muscle in her ached with it, but she stayed, breathing in the breath that he exhaled, until the trembling of her arms threatened to wake him. She sat back on her heels.

He opened his eyes then. A smile flitted across his face, and he closed them again.

"Boots," he said softly. "I see you."

His voice, and the pleasure of it.

"Sleep," she said, touching one fingertip to the corner of his mouth. His hand came up and caught her wrist, and she inhaled sharply.

"Come," he said, and drew her up onto the platform beside him.

She hesitated. "Your wound," she whispered.

But he hushed her, pulling gently until she had slid over him and he could tuck her between himself and the wall. He had broken out in a sweat, but then so had she. She put her face into the curve of his throat.

"I thought I would never see you again." Her fingers curled around his arm, pressing with new strength, pressing hard. Hard enough to make him flinch; hard enough to mark him with five small angry—blue moons.

"I never doubted you," he whispered, holding her as tightly as he dared. "Never for a moment.

Chapter 40

He did not sleep well. Coasting on the tide of his dreams, sometimes frantic, sometimes resigned, Nathaniel rose and fell and rose again to assure himself that she was there. Whole, and healthy, if not unmarked. She slept with her mouth slightly open, and her brow creased in concentration, as if this were another task set before her to prove her worth.

The sun rose and found its way through the smoke vents into the high, arched ceiling of the long house and with it he could see more of her. Old bruises, faded to the yellow—green of a cyclone sky. Overlapping, they arched across her cheekbones in the shape of a hand. Nathaniel counted the livid center of each bruise, and was overcome with a numbing anger, more disabling and deeper than any he had ever known. This she had endured for him. This and more, for he could see the healing cuts high on her chest.

There were not many men in the bush, and he knew them all. It was not unknown for a man to go out of his head with loneliness, or vicious with greed. But the man who had put his hands on Elizabeth had not been lonely; he had just liked his work. There was only one person who could be responsible, and Nathaniel groaned inwardly to think that he had sent her off on her own, worried about every danger except the one that she had met, and somehow, escaped. There was a story here, and one that would be hard for her to tell. And harder to listen to. Give me a tenth of her strength, he thought.

At his back, the sounds of the long house rose gradually. Women's voices, coaxing, impatient, amused. Hungry children, men murmuring in half—sleep. The scraping of the mortar as the daylong task of grinding corn began. Nathaniel liked the long house in the early mornings, the routine and comfort of it, but right now he wished for the most rudimentary shelter in the bush, where he would have his wife to himself, and he could talk to her free of curious ears and eyes. Where he could really look at her, and learn what he feared: the full extent of what she had suffered.

He heard a shuffling behind him, and saw from the corner of his eye that He—Who—Dreams stood there, watching them. The weight of the faith keeper's gaze was not so heavy that Nathaniel had to turn, and after a while he went away. Nathaniel felt a twinge of regret, for he liked the old man and owed him many favors, but now there was Elizabeth. Elizabeth with her bruised face and the shuddering that shook her even in her sleep. The faith keeper's curiosity would have to wait.

There was a harsh clearing of a throat behind him: the clan mother, with her bitter tea, and her hard black eyes that were beginning to fail her. Now he did turn, for there was no denying her. This was Falling—Day's mother and his own daughter's great—grandmother, and in her face he saw what his first wife might have become with old age. She cleared her throat again, and he sat up, knowing that he could not escape her vigilance, or her tongue.