"You have bound him to you with his child," said Splitting—Moon. "Your spirit is stronger than mine, stronger than Yewennahnotha's was. Neither of us could hold on to his children."

Elizabeth jerked with surprise; she felt her heartbeat leap and then settle again. Yewennahnotha'. Sarah. She heard herself laugh, a startled sound.

"Where do you get such an idea?" she asked, and then in response to Splitting—Moon's blank look, she realized she had said this in English. In her agitation, the Mohawk would not come to her and so she repeated herself in French.

Splitting—Moon's puzzlement cleared. She walked the small distance to her grandmother's hearth to look through a large basket, and returned with a broken shard of mirror, only as big as Elizabeth's palm. "You wear the mask," she said, holding it up to her.

"I am not with child," Elizabeth whispered, but even as she said this, her mind raced. She was seeing herself for the first time in weeks, her face unfamiliar with its sharper angles. Her skin was simply brown from long days out of doors, she told herself, even as she saw the faintly darker glimmering circling her eyes.

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and willed herself to recall the last time she had bled. She realized that she did not know the day of the week, or even what month it was. The days and weeks slipped away from her as she tried to count them. Five weeks? Six?

"I do not think I am with child," Elizabeth corrected herself, and with the realization that this thing might be so, she knew it to be true. She sat back on her heels, and wrapped her arms around herself, bent forward in an arch. Her whole body flushed with terror and joy, and an overwhelming sense of the power and simple wonder: that she should be capable of this thing that made her, once and for all time, Nathaniel's wife.

"You did not know," Splitting—Moon said.

"No," said Elizabeth, bringing up her head to meet Splitting—Moon's gaze. "I did not realize." In the younger woman's eyes she found sympathy and joy, and for those gifts she knew she would always be thankful.

"He will be pleased."

There was a shout from the crowd outside, voices raised in a wild cheer. "Yes," Elizabeth said, drawing a shaky breath. "He will be very pleased."

Splitting—Moon nodded at her, and turned away.

With nowhere to be alone, Elizabeth lay down with her face to the wall, and put one palm flat on her lower belly. How could she have not noticed, how could she have overlooked what her own body tried to tell her? It was not the Kahnyen’keháka food to blame for her upset stomach. She blushed at her own dull wits. Splitting—Moon, who had never borne a child, had seen what she should have known for herself.

What she had to make known to Nathaniel.

* * *

Nathaniel had looked in on Elizabeth, and finding her asleep, he had gone to watch the game. He stood on a rise not too close to the field, where he could keep one eye on the long house waiting for her to appear. His injury did not hurt him especially, except for the fact that it kept him out of the game. He liked the challenge of baggataway, the way it pushed him to his limits.

He drew a deep breath into his lungs. The tissues expanded creakily, but with less reluctance than had been the case even yesterday.

On the far side of the village the river ran south to join the great lake the French called Champlain. On its bank, a flash of movement caught Nathaniel's eye. A single canoe pulling up. Visitors were not surprising: Kahnyen’keháka would come from far away for the Strawberry Festival and there would be many more canoes before the afternoon was out. But Stone—Splitter was a cautious leader, and the sentry was already on his way to intercept the new arrivals.

Two men. By his size and shape, Nathaniel recognized one of them as Stands—Crooked, the scout who had first brought the news of Elizabeth's approach. He had been gone from the village ever since, Nathaniel realized.

The other man was Kahnyen’keháka from his dress, and bearing, and walk. Kahnyen’keháka in the way he looked around himself, and the way he wore the musket slung on his back. Kahnyen’keháka in everything except that he stood a head taller than any of them, and the scalp lock on his tattooed skull was not black, but red—gold.

Elizabeth at his elbow. Nathaniel turned to her.

"What is it?" she asked, seeing the look on his face. "Trouble?"

"Maybe," he said. "I'm not sure." He jerked his head in the direction of the river.

Her eyes were good, and her powers of observation better.

"He looks like Richard," she said, her voice faltering.

The two men were approaching the playing field at a quick pace. There was a cry of welcome, and then another. Nathaniel heard the name being called out: Inon—Yahoti'.

"Who is that, Nathaniel?"

"Throws—Far," he said. "I doubt he answers to Samuel Todd anymore."

"Richard's brother?" Elizabeth's hand on his forearm, pressing hard. "His brother? I thought— Mr. Bennett said—"

"That he was dead? Died in battle? Well, that's what they think down on the Mohawk."

"You knew."

"Of course I knew he was alive. The Kahnyen’keháka keep track of each other, you see. He fought for the British during the war, and moved up farther north when things went bad."

"My God," said Elizabeth. "Richard's brother. Does he know?"