Elizabeth leaned into him. Nathaniel smelled of river water and mud and sweat, but he was healthy and whole. She said, “It is very shallow and selfish of me, but I do resent the fact that Lily’s homecoming has been ruined.”

He narrowed one eye at her, suspicious of this change in the subject.

“I wanted it to be—”

Nathaniel looked around the table, and then looked at her again, pointedly. “What could you want more than this?”

She could not challenge him on that point. He was perfectly right.

“A search party will be going out at first light,” Simon was saying. He didn’t add what they all knew, that the searchers were unlikely to find much to rescue.

“Aye then,” Nathaniel said. “Time we got to bed. Daniel, you planning to walk up the mountain after the long day you’ve had?”

Daniel barely looked up from his cup. He didn’t seem to notice that the table had gone quiet in anticipation. Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time he had agreed to stay in the village, or when she had dared ask him to stay.

“I want to walk down to the village with Simon and Lily,” he said finally. “And then I’ll see.”

Gabriel and Annie declared it time to set out for Hidden Wolf, and would not hear of bedding down in the parlor or anywhere but their own cabin beside the waterfalls. At the door Elizabeth took Annie’s face between her hands and kissed her soundly on the forehead. She was so much like her mother, and her mother was so missed. How young they were. Children, setting off on their own. Tomorrow, when she had slept, Elizabeth would sit down and think it all through.

By ones and twos they began to drift away to their beds, until she and Nathaniel were alone in the kitchen with the only light coming from the banked hearth where coals pulsed hot beneath the cinders.

“We’ve got the whole summer and into the fall,” Nathaniel said. “Right now it’s time we slept.”

Up the stairs, stepping quietly with Nathaniel behind her, Elizabeth stopped at the top and stood to listen. From behind Luke’s door they could hear the soft rise and fall of voices. The small chamber Martha had for her own was quiet, and the children’s rooms were just as silent.

“You’ll wake them,” Nathaniel said. He was right, of course. But still she hesitated at the door, listening for some sign. She imagined the girls asleep, all four of them wound together in a bed meant for two adults. The twins on their backs with chins pointed to the rafters, and Hannah’s two girls back-to-back. The boys would be on the floor in the next chamber, all of them claiming to be more comfortable on hard board than soft mattress. Sometime in the night one or all of them would climb into the bed, half asleep, and have no memory of doing so the next morning. Or none that they would admit to. They were good boys, but in such a hurry to grow up and prove themselves. As her own boys had been, to her constant worry. When the next war came—and it would, she could not deny the inevitability of it—she hoped these children would be wise enough to know better.

And if they did not, she would remind them. Wherever they were, she would remind them. It was increasingly clear to her that Paradise would one day be too small for Hannah’s children. Their alternatives would be few and limited. She had become fully aware of this when she took Henry with her to Johnstown when he was just three. People stopped to stare at him without hesitation or apology, because he was beautiful. Because he was long-limbed and graceful. And because his eyes were turquoise and his features symmetrical and his complexion the color of copper seen through old honey.

Like a painting, strangers stop to say. Like an angel. And: Such a shame.

Most people could not imagine a place in the real world—in their own world—for a mixed-race child. In Henry’s face were the best features of every race that populated the continent, white and red and black, and there was more. The bright and intelligent eyes, the naked curiosity in the way he observed the world. He had never known a hateful word, but the day would come. For all of them, that day would come. Others would pronounce them worthless and unclean.

Elizabeth would spend the rest of her life making sure that these grandchildren—every one of them—learned their own true value. They were healthy and whole, full of light and promise. Not of her blood, but hers just the same.

There would be others. It seemed now that Gabriel might be the first to bring her a grandchild, something she would have never imagined even ten years ago. She had believed for a very long time it would be Lily. In those first few years while they were away, Elizabeth opened every letter in a state of excitement and then folded it away more thoughtfully.

Why this should be, Lily had never written, and Elizabeth had never asked. Some things were too fragile to put on paper, but tomorrow she would sit with her daughter, her most loved firstborn, and Lily would tell her those things she had been holding back.

Because Elizabeth could not wonder in silence another day.

Chapter XI

Becca LeBlanc said, “Charlie, you’ll have to go out and look for her. She should have come back by now. I wish I had never let her go.”

It was full dark, and all through the Red Dog people were trying to let go of the terrible day they had survived in order to sleep. Every bit of floor space was taken up, and every bed with the exception of one.

“Callie Wilde is too smart and too tough to get herself in trouble,” Charlie said, folding his hands over his middle. “If she gets it in her head to go check on her trees, then there’s no stopping her. You know that yourself.”