“So,” she said, “you named my son for me; let me do the same for yours.” She spoke gravely, in English, and looked from Ian’s face to Rachel’s and back again.

Ian felt Rachel stiffen and feared that this might be one too much for the inner light. The blue paint had begun to melt with her sweat in the heat of the longhouse and was spreading little blue tendrils and drops down her cheeks like budding vines. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t seem able to form words. He saw her shoulders straighten, though, and she nodded at Emily, who nodded seriously back, before turning her attention to Oggy.

“His name is Hunter,” she said.

“Oh,” Rachel said, and her smile blossomed slowly through the vines.

88

In Which Things Do Not Add Up

IAN DECLINED AN INVITATION to stay the night in the longhouse, to Rachel’s very apparent relief. He squeezed her hand, and when no one was looking raised it to his lips.

“Tapadh leat, mo bhean, mo ghaol,” he whispered. She knew that much Gaelic, and her face, a little strained under the blue and white streaks, relaxed into its normal loveliness.

She squeezed back and whispered, “Hunter James, and whatever the Mohawk is for ‘Little Wolf.’”

“Ohstòn’ha Ohkwàho,” he said. “Done.” He turned to make their farewells.

Tòtis would stay with his mother until the Murrays’ departure for the Ridge, and so it was only the three of them that returned to Joseph Brant’s house, riding in the wagon through the quiet, cold dark. The early storm had passed, and the light snow melted; the moon cast light enough to make the muddy road visible before them.

He thanked her again for agreeing to take Tòtis, but she shook her head.

“I grew up as an orphan in the home of people who sheltered me out of duty, not love. And while I had Denzell for some of those years, I wanted more than anything to have a big family, a family of my own. I still want that. Besides,” she added casually, “how could I not love him? He looks like thee. Has thee a clean handkerchief? I fear my paint is running down my neck.”

The house looked welcoming, all its windows lighted and sparks flying from the chimney.

“Does thee suppose Silvia and her daughters have come yet?” Rachel asked. “I had forgotten them altogether.”

Ian felt his heart jerk. He’d forgotten them, too.

“Aye, they have,” he said. “But the house is still standing. I expect that’s a good sign.”

EVERYONE SEEMED TO be at the back of the house; there was talk and laughter in the distance and the smell of supper hung appetizingly in the air, but only the servant-girl who let them in was in evidence.

Rachel begged him to make her excuses; she wanted only to feed Oggy, who, having slept in her arms like a small, heavy log all the way home, was now showing signs of life, and to go to bed.