THE EVENING WAS cold, but not bitter, and she had a thick woolen shawl. A gibbous moon was rising amid a field of glorious stars, and the peace of heaven seemed to breathe from the autumn forest, pungent with conifers and the softer scent of dying leaves. She made her way carefully up the path that led to the well, paused for a drink of cold water, and then went on, coming out a quarter hour later on the edge of a rocky outcrop that gave a view of endless mountains and valleys, by day. By night, it was like sitting on the edge of eternity.
Peace seeped into her soul with the chill of the night, and she sought it, welcomed it. But there was still an unquiet part of her mind, and a burning in her heart, at odds with the vast quiet that surrounded her.
Ian would never lie to her. He’d said so, and she believed him. But she wasn’t fool enough to think that meant he told her everything she might want to know. And she very much wanted to know more about Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa, the Mohawk woman Ian had called Emily … and loved.
So now she was perhaps alive, perhaps not. If she did live … what might be her circumstances?
For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder how old Emily might be, and what she looked like. Ian hadn’t ever said; she hadn’t ever asked. It hadn’t seemed important, but now …
Well. When she found him alone, she would ask, that’s all. And with determination, she turned her face to the moon and her heart to her inner light and prepared to wait.
IT WAS MAYBE an hour later when the darkness near her moved and Ian was suddenly there beside her, a warm spot in the night.
“Is Oggy awake?” she asked, drawing her shawl around her.
“Nay, lass, he’s sleeping like a stone.”
“And thy friends?”
“Much the same. I gave them a bit of Uncle Jamie’s whisky.”
“How very hospitable of thee, Ian.”
“That wasna exactly my intention, but I suppose I should take credit for it, if it makes ye think more highly of me.”
He brushed the hair behind her ear, bent his head, and kissed the side of her neck, making his intention clear. She hesitated for the briefest instant, but then ran her hand up under his shirt and gave herself over, lying back on her shawl beneath the star-strewn sky.
Let it be just us, once more, she thought. If he thinks of her, let him not do it now.
And so it was that she didn’t ask what Emily looked like, until the Mohawks finally left, three days later.
IAN DIDN’T PRETEND not to know why she asked.
“Small,” he said, holding his hand about three inches above his elbow. Four inches shorter than I … “Neat, with a—a pretty face.”
“If she is beautiful, Ian, thee may say so,” Rachel said dryly. “I am a Friend; we aren’t given to vanity.”
He looked at her, his lips twitching a little. Then he thought better of whatever he’d been about to say. He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them and answered her honestly.
“She was lovely. I met her by the water—a pool in the river, where the water spreads out and there’s not even a ripple on the surface, but ye feel the spirit of the river moving through it just the same.” He’d seen her standing thigh-deep in the water, clothed but with her shirt drawn up and tied round her waist with a red scarf, holding a thin spear of sharpened wood and watching for fish.
“I canna think of her in—in her parts,” he said, his voice a little husky. “What her eyes looked like, her face …” He made an odd, graceful little gesture with his hand, as though he cupped Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa’s cheek, then traveled the line of her neck and shoulder. “I only—when I think of her—” He glanced at her and made a hem noise in his throat. “Aye. Well. Aye, I think of her now and then. Not often. But when I do, I only think of her as all of a piece, and I canna tell ye in words what that looks like.”
“Why should thee not think of her?” Rachel said, as gently as she could. “She was thy wife, the mother of—of your children.”
“Aye,” he said softly, and bent his head. Emily had borne him one stillborn daughter and miscarried two more babes. Rachel thought she might have chosen her place better; they were in the shed that served as a small barn and there was a farrowing sow in a pen right in front of them, a dozen fat piglets thrusting and grunting at her teats, a testament to fecundity.
“I need to tell ye something, Rachel,” he said, raising his head abruptly.
“Thee knows thee can tell me anything, Ian,” she said, and meant it, but her heart meant something different and began to beat faster.