"I'd be surprised if he didn't know his brother was alive. But on the other hand, I doubt he's expecting him to show up." He thought for a moment. "Wait here," he said, thinking of finding He—Who—Dreams, the best source of information among the men.

Her chin lifted. "I will not," she said firmly. The furrow had appeared suddenly between her brows, and Nathaniel almost laughed out loud to see it.

"Then come along." He sighed, taking up her hand.

"Wait." Elizabeth glanced toward the crowds of people, and then back toward the long house She swallowed nervously, unable to meet his eye.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I saw Richard," she said in a rush.

"Ah." Nathaniel put an arm around her shoulders, and bent his head to hers. "And how was that?"

"I told him that I would answer his charges here."

"You look nervous enough about it," he noted, smoothing a hand over her hair and tugging lightly on her plait. "You've got nothing to fear, Boots. We'll deal with Todd, and the day after tomorrow we'll be on our way home."

Elizabeth looked up at him. "Do you believe that?"

"Aye," he said. "I do."

"But Nathaniel—" She paused, a muscle in her cheek twitching. "What does it mean, his brother coming here like this?"

"The sachem sent for him," Nathaniel said. "Probably He—Who—Dreams put the idea in his head."

"He—Who—Dreams takes a great deal of interest in Richard's welfare," Elizabeth noted. "I suppose he must have known him as a boy when he lived here."

"That ain't it exactly," Nathaniel said with a sidelong glance. "It was He—Who—Dreams who led the raiding party that brought Richard and his brother to the village."

This last piece of information seemed to have robbed Elizabeth of the powers of speech, a state Nathaniel knew would last only until she had chewed on it long enough to get the next issue fixed in her mind. He couldn't predict what it would be, but he did know it would give him something to consider. Loving this woman is afar sight easier than keeping up with her, he thought. God grant me the energy.

He let a hand rest on the small of her back. "You realize, Boots," he said, stopping to get her attention. "That I have never known anybody who makes me think so hard as you do."

She closed one eye, considering. "Is that good or bad?"

"Oh, good," he said, his hand sliding down the curve of her hip.

Her smile was a rare and especially beautiful thing these days. She put her hand over his where it rested on her hip. "That's lovely to hear, Nathaniel. But right now—" She looked through the crowds around the baggataway game, which was just coming to an end. "Where has Richard's brother gone?"

The sound of a single drum began, accompanied by one high, summoning voice.

"The Stick Beating Dance," he said. "That's it, then. It's a curative rite, but I'll wager Richard wouldn't ask for it for himself. That's why they sent for Throws—Far, because he can request it for his brother. How did his wounds look, when you saw him?"

"Festering, the one on his hand that I could see," she said.

"So that makes sense, then."

"I should be very curious to see Richard right now," Elizabeth said.

"Well, for once Todd ain't in an obstinate frame of mind," Nathaniel noted. "There he comes now."

* * *

The whole village seemed eager to be a part of the dance, and so Elizabeth, who was tall for her sex but not so tall as the group of men who milled around the fire, could not fix Richard in her view. Eventually they worked their way to one side, where two singers had situated themselves on a bench. One of them was the canoe maker who blinked at her solemnly as he beat on his water drum. The other singer had a rattle constructed out of a length of horn, stopped up at one end and fixed with a wooden handle at the other.

Two groups were forming on either side of the fire, of both men and women.

"I should join them," Nathaniel said. "Will you—”

“Oh, no." Elizabeth would have laughed out of nervousness, but the mood of the crowd was subdued and focused, and so she sent him on his way with a little wave of her hand.

When Nathaniel had disappeared into the dancers, she found herself trembling with relief. Elizabeth was thankful for this extra time to think about how to say to him what there was to say. The idea was still fresh and unfamiliar enough to make her jerk with surprise, and flush with a combination of pride and reserve. What did a lady say, beyond the terribly awkward phrases of the drawing room?

"Nothing," Elizabeth muttered out loud to herself. A lady said nothing, had no real words for this condition, because it was one never discussed publicly. Announcements were made in a neutral voice over tea: Young Winslow and his lady are in hopeful expectation, her uncle might say.

The singing rose another notch, a wonderful, throaty chanting that was almost hypnotic in its rhythms. Nathaniel moved past in the line, his torso bent over as he danced, all his concentration there, on moving himself in those small, concise steps that sent He—Who—Dreams' prayers off toward the heavens.

A bubble of nausea rose unexpectedly in Elizabeth's throat and she swallowed it back down, taken by surprise. It was the crowd, she supposed, and the heat of the fire, and the excitement—still no clear view of Richard. But then aunt Merriweather would ask what she might be thinking, standing out on her own in the evening breeze, in her delicate condition. Elizabeth had a sudden longing for her aunt, who would take her by the hands and look into her eyes and see what was there. I have had good news of you, she might say with a smile. Aunt Merriweather loved children excessively, but Elizabeth thought of her cousin Marianne at an assembly ball, her mouth in a small moue of disdain as she whispered behind her fan: "Imagine Jane Bingley dancing, and so obviously enceinte."