On the last day, drenched in sweat from paddling hard upstream, they stopped a few hours out of Paradise. By this time, Elizabeth's joyful anticipation had given way to a light but persistent anxiety, buzzing quietly beneath the surface like a sore tooth as she framed the things she might say to her father, to Julian and Kitty, to Moses Southern and to her schoolchildren. These imagined conversations left her on edge, wanting both to rush ahead and run away. She saw herself standing before them, their minds and hearts closed to her reasoning, their indignation and disapproval weapons she could not best. It doesn't matter, it won't matter, she told herself again and again. She remembered Nathaniel's face when she had found him finally, the strength of his arms and of his resolve. The world will be right again, he had said to her. Together we will make it right.

Resting before the final push so that she could recover from her daily bout of nausea, Elizabeth had taken the opportunity to comb out her hair and plait it again. She had washed the grime from her face and neck and arms, steadfastly refusing to look at her reflection in the water, knowing that gallons of buttermilk could do nothing to repair her skin to its former state of ladylike pallor. For the first time in many weeks she found herself thinking of the loss of her own clothes, for as comfortable as she had become in Kahnyen’keháka dress, she did not relish the idea of meeting her father and brother as she was.

By the time the first homesteads came into view set back from the shores of the river, Elizabeth could not remember why she had been in such a hurry to get here, and if they should not have waited until full dark. As if he had read her thoughts, Nathaniel glanced at her over his shoulder, his teeth flashing white in his face. "You sorry you took me on, Boots?"

Her anxiety left her in a great rush. Instantly ashamed of her petty worries, Elizabeth drew a deep breath and tossed her plait over her shoulder.

"Never," she said.

Rain began to fall as they pulled to shore. Treenie bounded into the shadows and waited there while the men dragged the canoe into the bushes. Elizabeth pulled on her pack, looking over the familiar setting of the lake, the far shore lost in a twilight fog. Not a person in sight, no curious boys to gawk, ask questions, and carry news. Tomorrow would be soon enough for a reckoning.

* * *

On the way up the mountain, a path as familiar to him as the landscape of his own face, Nathaniel had to remind himself to limit his stride. He was eager to be at home and anxious about what news waited for them, but he was worried about Elizabeth and the child, too. If he turned now and looked at her she would lift up her chin, and urge him on. She would push herself past reason, if he let her. She wore her determination like war paint.

The rain stopped and the cloud cover broke so that the forest was plunged in and out of the last light of day, now near dark, now reflecting raindrops on every leaf. The sun dropped below the horizon with the suddenness of finger snap, and in response the breeze rose and the great pines all around them rustled and sighed.

They passed the old schoolhouse and he saw with some relief that it had not been vandalized.

"I came tae ca' on yer fait her here, muny years sync," Robbie was saying to Elizabeth. "Afore he wed yer mither, that was. The judge was e'er glad o' company. A mannie wha kent the worth o' a wee sup o' whisky on a cauld winter's eve.

"Rab MacLachlan," she answered, her tone gently teasing. "For a man who professes to love nothing so well as his solitude it seems to me that you are happiest in the company of others."

"You've got him there, Boots," Nathaniel laughed.

"That she doesna," Robbie protested with a grin. "I deny that wi' baith hands and wi' a' my teeth."

The path grew steeper and the bantering slowed and then stopped. In single file they made their way through the darkened strawberry fields, the heavy smell of overripe fruit following them back into the forest. He heard Elizabeth draw in a small hiccup, the sound she made when she was struggling not to be sick. Strong smells roused her stomach, these days, and the sickly sweet stink of an acre of fermenting strawberries was enough to set his own stomach on edge. He increased his pace to put the place behind them, and when he paused to look back he could see that the crisis had passed.

At the place where the path left the woods and came out near the cliff face, Nathaniel stopped to listen. Cupping a hand at his mouth, he sent out the poor—will's rolling call: purple rib! purple rib! He waited, and then repeated it.

The call came back, and he relaxed. Behind him, he heard Robbie let out his breath, too.

Elizabeth was at his elbow.

"Look." She made a sweep with her arm as if to lay out the whole world for him. When he could make himself look away from her face he saw what she did: the moon was rising, rolling up the long spine of the mountain just opposite them, the one the Kahnyen’keháka called Wolf Walking.

"He carries the moon on his back," Nathaniel told her. "Trying to take it home to his young."

"How many times have you come home to Lake in the Clouds?" she asked, her gaze still fixed dreamily on the mottled silver disk of the moon.

"A thousand, and a thousand more," Nathaniel answered, tracing the line of her cheek with one finger. "But never so willingly."

She rewarded him with a smile. "Do you think Hannah will be surprised to see us?"

"You can ask her yourself," Nathaniel said. "I hear her coming now."

Treenie was standing to attention, and she let out a soft woof. "Aye, loupin' like a deer wi’ the hunter fast behind," Robbie noted.