Which was just as well, she told herself. What she needed now most of all was rest, and there were two cots in the little clinic. She imagined them, freshly made, on either side of the hearth. It was that picture she had in her mind when she opened the door and found Leo sweeping the floor.

Hannah turned as she took off her cloak and shook it. A shower of sleet hit the floor with a hissing sound.

“I’ll be done here soon,” Leo said. “Or I can leave this until tomorrow.”

He was calculating something for himself, she could see it in his face. Hannah said, “As you like, Leo. I have work to do.” Which was true enough.

She went to the table where her daybook—so new that she had filled only one page—had its home. She read over the last entry:

Ltilakna. 6-year-old Choctaw girl with a rash of small open, infected blisters at the right corner of the mouth. Cleaned area thoroughly and applied a distillation of dock root. Asked mother to bring the child back in two days’ time.

Thomas. 54-year-old Catawba seized with colic. Severely undernourished, probably eating refuse. Gave him a decoction of snakeroot & saffron and a bowl of bread soaked in beef broth.

She had notes for another six entries to be made, and so Hannah brought the candle on its saucer closer to the daybook and reached for the stoppered ink bottle. The long room was clean and dry and there was a good fire in the hearth. Hannah took a moment to close her eyes and be thankful for the fact that she was—that they all were—alive and safe, for the tasks she had to keep her mind occupied, for the good black ink and the smooth paper of the daybook. And then she asked herself how long it would be before she fell asleep over her work.

“Ben came in earlier,” Leo said, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Did he?” Hannah took up a penknife to trim her quill, observing Leo from the corner of her eye.

She was very aware of how gossip moved through the household, and had no doubt that everyone, including Leo, knew where she had spent Sunday night. The part of her that was Kahnyen’kehàka was not bothered by this; it was every woman’s right to choose, and that she had done. She would not pretend otherwise, though the other part of her—the O’seronni half, raised by a Scots grandmother and an English stepmother—stumbled a little at this lack of privacy.

Leo would know where she spent Sunday night. He would know, too, that Ben Savard had joined the militia.

“He left you a note, under that bottle on the corner of your table. I didn’t read it.”

“Can you read?” Hannah asked, surprised.

He smiled proudly. “The priests will teach anybody who wants to learn.”

“As long as they convert.”

He gave a shrug worthy of an old man. “It’s a small enough price.”

Hannah took the note, feeling her pulse jump as she opened it. She spread it flat on the open daybook and saw that Ben Savard’s handwriting was even and schooled and still was distinctly his own. He had written only two words: the name she had been given by her husband’s people.

Walking-Woman

She touched the letters on the page and then she folded it and tucked it into her bodice.

Leo was saying, “A stranger came by as well. A white man. He said he’d call again.”

“An American?”

Leo’s lip curled. “Pas du tout.”

“I understand you don’t like Americans,” Hannah said. “But you should remember that Dr. Savard’s wife is one. I hope you don’t make a face like that at her.”

“Mrs. Savard is no American,” he said, indignant. “Mrs. Savard is a Quaker.”

That brought Hannah up short. “That is her religion, not her nationality. Some Quakers are Americans. Mrs. Savard is both.”

Leo seemed to take this as a personal affront. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, then, what about her children? What of Rachel?”

“Oh, she’s an American,” Leo said.

“Very well,” Hannah said, irritated and amused at the same time. “But I suggest that you talk to Mrs. Savard and see what she says. So this stranger was not American. What did he look like?”

Leo shot her a sidelong glance that said very clearly what an odd question this was. “I couldn’t say. I know better than to look white men in the face when they speak to me.” He raised his head with a sudden movement. “Why do you speak French like a white?”

Hannah paused and considered the question. “I learned French from a teacher. A white woman. Do people have trouble understanding me?”

Leo said, “We understand you well enough, but it’s hard to trust somebody who talks like you. Who doesn’t talk like us.”

Hannah understood very well what he was trying to tell her: Many people, including Leo himself, had not yet made up their minds about her.

A timid knock at the door made them both turn in that direction. Leo was across the room before Hannah could move a step. He opened the door and Hannah saw a young boy, his dark face wet with rain. He caught Hannah’s eye and then looked down at his own feet while he said a few hushed words to Leo. There were some questions and answers, and then Leo closed the door in the boy’s face.

Hannah said, “What is it?”

“Do you know somebody named Titine? A free woman of color?” His expression was uneasy.

“Yes,” Hannah said. She gathered her thoughts, or tried to. She realized, with some disquiet, that she hadn’t given Titine a thought in days. Titine, who had disappeared, and possibly died, trying to be of help to the Bonners.