“It’s been six days since I busted the arm,” said Dag a little tightly. “For this, I think I can manage.” He did let Fawn go first, watching her closely. He then had her dip the quill again and help push it into his fingers. The grip was painful but not impossible. The signature was not his best, but at least it was clearly legible. The clerk’s brows went up at this proof of literacy.

The clerk’s wife and Fawn’s mother returned. Missus Sower’s gaze on Dag had become rather wide-eyed. Craning her neck curiously, she read out, “Dag Redwing Hickory Oleana.”

“Oleana?” said Fawn. “First I heard of that part.”

“So you’ll be Missus Fawn Oleana, eh?” said Sower.

“Actually, that’s my hinterland name,” Dag put in. “Redwing is what you would call my family name.”

“Fawn Redwing,” Fawn muttered experimentally, brows drawing down in concentration. “Huh.”

Dag scratched his forehead with the side of his hook. “It’s more confusing than that. Lakewalker custom has the fellow taking the name of his bride’s tent, by which I would become, er…Dag Bluefield West Blue Oleana, I suppose.”

Sorrel looked horrified.

“What do we do, then, swap names?” asked Fawn in a tone of great puzzlement. “Or take both? Redwing-Bluefield. Er. Redfield? Bluewing?”

“You two could be purple-something,” Sower suggested genially, with a wheezing laugh.

“I can’t think of anything purple that doesn’t sound stupid!” Fawn protested. “Well…Elderberry, I suppose. That’s lake-ish.”

“Already taken,” Dag informed her blandly.

“Well…well, we have a few days to think it over,” said Fawn valiantly.

Sorrel and Tril glanced at each other, seemed to inhale for strength, and bent to sign below. The day and time for the wedding was set for the earliest moment after the customary three days at which the clerk would be available to lend his official presence, which to Fawn’s obvious relief was the afternoon of the third day hence.

“In a hurry, are you?” Sower inquired mildly, and while Dag did not at first catch his covert glance at Fawn’s belly, she did, and stiffened.

“Unfortunately, I have duties waiting at home,” Dag put in quellingly, letting his wrist cuff rest on her shoulder. Actually, aside from averting panic by beating Mari back to camp, till this blighted arm healed he was going to be just as useless at Hickory Lake as he was here at West Blue. It hardly mattered at which spot he sat around grinding his teeth in frustration, although West Blue at least had more novelty. But the disturbing mystery of the sharing knife was an itch at the back of his mind, well buried under the new distractions yet never fading altogether.