All right, he’d said the magic word, marry. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done something like this before, long ago. Well, all right, it had been nothing at all like this. Kauneo’s kin had been overpowering in an entirely different manner. The terror rippling through him felt the same, though.

Papa Bluefield growled, “Lakewalkers don’t marry farmer girls.”

He couldn’t grip Fawn’s hand below the table for reassurance; all he could do was dig his fork into her thigh, with unpredictable but probably unhelpful results at the moment. He did glance down at her. Was he about to jump off this cliff alone or with her? Her eyes were wide. And lovely. And terrified. And…thrilled. He drew a long breath.

“I would. I will. I wish to. Marry Fawn. Please?”

Seven stunned Bluefields created the loudest silence Dag had ever heard.

15

In the airless moment while everyone else around the table was still inhaling, Fawn said quickly, “I’d like that fine, Dag. I would and will and wish, too. Yes. Thank you kindly.” Then she drew breath.

And then the storm broke, of course.

As the babble rose, Fawn thought Dag should have tackled her family one at a time instead of all together like this. But then she noticed that neither Mama nor Aunt Nattie was adding to the rain of objections, and truly, whenever Papa turned to Mama for support he received instead a solemn silent stare that seemed to unnerve him. Aunt Nattie said nothing at all, but she was smiling dryly. So maybe Dag had been doing more than just thinking, all this day.

Fletch, possibly in imitation of Papa’s earlier and successful attempt to embarrass Dag about his age, came up with, “We don’t take kindly to cradle robbing around these parts, Lakewalker.”

Whit, his tone mock-thoughtful but his eyes bright with the excitement of battle, put in, “Actually, I’m not sure if he’s robbing cradles, or she’s robbing graves!”

Which made Dag wince, but also offer a wry headshake and a low murmur of, “Good one, Whit.”

It also made Fawn so furious that she threatened to serve Whit’s pie on his head instead of his plate, or better still his head on his plate instead of his pie, which drew Mama into the side fray to chide Fawn, so Whit won twice, and smirked fit to make Fawn explode. She hated how easily they all could make her feel and act twelve, then treat her so and feel justified about it; if they kept this up much longer, she was afraid they’d succeed in dropping her back to age two and screaming tantrums right on the floor. Which would do just about nothing for her cause. She caught her breath and sat again, simmering.