Fawn nodded, not needing a list to picture it: linens and cooking gear all assembled, bride bed built and feather ticks stuffed and maybe all of it garnished with embroidered coverlets, curtains hung, food laid in, the house cleaned and repaired and all sprigged out. Wedding dress sewn. And then the waiting: first with impatience, then with anger, then with helpless fear, then with fading hope. Fawn shivered.

“Strawberry season came and went, and I left off fussing with the house and started fussing with this boat instead. The only kinsman who’d give me a hand was my uncle Bo, who’s my mama’s older half-brother that never married. The rest of my cousins have got no time for him ’cause they say he drinks too much and is unreliable, which is true enough, but half-help’s better than none, I say. And none was what I got from the rest of ’em. They said I’d got no business going on the river by myself, as if I didn’t know ten times as much about it as any of them!”

“Think you’ll find ’em? All your lost menfolk?” asked Fawn shyly.

“They’d have to be stuck somewhere pretty tight, you’d figure.” She didn’t name the more likely possibilities: a boat broken on rocks or snags and all drowned, or eaten by bears or those appalling southern swamp lizards Dag had described, or bitten by rattlesnakes, or, even more likely and grimly, all dying of some sudden gut-wrenching illness, on a cold riverbank with no one left to bury the last in even an unmarked grave.

“That’s why I named my boat the Fetch and not just the Finder, which was the first name I’d thought of. I’m no fool,” said Berry, in a lower tone. “I know what all might have been. But I scorned to go on living with the not-knowing-for-sure for one more week, when I had a boat to hand to go look for myself. Well, partly to hand.” She tilted up her tankard to drain the cider. Swallowing, she continued, “Which is why I want a crew to hand, as well. If the rise comes up sudden, I don’t want to be stuck waiting for those two scared-off fools to show themselves.”

“If they turned up anyhow, would there still be room for us?”

“Oh, yeah.” Berry grinned suddenly, making her wide mouth wider; not pretty, but, well, fetching was just the word, Fawn thought. “I don’t like cookin’.”

“If you—” Fawn began, but was interrupted by a plaintive voice from outside.

“Fawn? Hey, Fawn, where’d you go?”

Fawn grimaced and drained her own tankard. “There’s Whit. He must be done unloading. I’d better go reassure him. Dag told me to watch after him.” She rose to make her way through the gloom out to the bow of the boat, calling, “Over here, Whit!”

“There you are!” He strode down the bank, a trifle red in the face.

“You gave me a turn, disappearing like that. Dag’d have my hide if I let anything happen to you.”

“I’m fine, Whit. I was just having some cider with Berry.”

“You shouldn’t be going on boats with strangers,” he scolded. “If you hadn’t—” His mouth stopped moving and hung half-open. Fawn glanced around.

Berry, smiling, came up by her shoulder, leaned on the rail, and gave Whit a friendly-ferret wave. “That your husband?”

“No, brother.”

“Oh, yeah, he looks it.”

Whit was still standing there at the end of the board gangplank. Why should he be so shocked that his sister was chatting with a boatwoman? But he wasn’t looking at Fawn at all. The gut-punched look on his face seemed strangely familiar, and Fawn realized she’d seen it there before. Recently.

Ah. Ha. I’ve never seen a fellow fall in love at first sight twice in one day before.

The afternoon was waning when Dag at last caught up with Tanner’s wagon at the Possum Landing goods-shed. His roundabout chase had taken him first to Pearl Bend, where Mape had redirected him across the river. A long wait for the Lakewalker ferry, a short ride up the bank, a turn left to the Landing—Dag tensed as his sputtering groundsense, reaching out, found no spark of Fawn. But Whit was out front, waving eagerly at him.

“Dag!” he cried, as Dag drew Copperhead to a halt and leaned on his saddlebow. “I was wondering when you was going to show up. I was just trying to figure how to find you. We’ve got the boat ride all fixed!”

Tanner climbed up onto his driver’s box, gathered up his reins, and regarded Whit with some bemusement. “No messages then, after all?”

“No, not now he’s here. Thanks! Oh, no—wait.” Whit went to the wheelers and gave Weft a pat and a hug around the neck, then ran around the wagon and repeated the gestures with Warp. “Good-bye, you two. You be good for Tanner now, you hear?” The horses flicked their ears at him; Warp gave him a soulful return nudge—unless he was just trying to use the boy as a scratching post—which made Whit blink rather rapidly.

“They’re real good, for such young ’uns,” Tanner assured him. “You take care, too.” He donned his hat and tugged the brim at Dag. “Lakewalker.” And, a little to Dag’s surprise, slapped his reins on the team’s rumps and drove off minus Whit. A quick look around located both Fawn’s and Whit’s saddlebags leaning against the porch steps of the goods-shed. A couple of idlers on the shaded bench, one whittling, the other just sitting with his hands slack between his knees, frowned curiously at Dag.

“Aren’t you going along to help him?” Dag asked Whit, nodding toward the wagon rumbling away.

“I just helped him load on about a ton of goods from Tripoint and upriver that he’s taking back to Glassforge. Mape was going to get up a load from downriver at the Bend—cotton and tea, he said, and indigo if they had any, if the price was right.”

“He did. I just saw him.”

“Oh, good.”

“Mape told me they mean to start home tomorrow morning, after they rest the horses,” said Dag. “You, ah, mean to catch up?”

“Not exactly.”

“So, what? Exactly?” Gods, he was sounding just like Sorrel. But Whit didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, you have to come see, you have to come see. Come on, get our bags up on Copper and I’ll show you.”

Dag had no heart to dampen such enthusiasm, despite his own lingering foul mood. Dutifully, he dismounted and helped sling the bags across his saddle, wrapped the reins around his hook, and strolled after Whit, who strained ahead like a puppy on a leash. The idlers’ eyes followed them, narrowing in suspicion at Dag. Edgy, far from friendly, but not quite the hostility that might have been expected had any of Barr’s and Remo’s victims died during the night. Absent gods be thanked. Walking first forward, then backward, Whit waved and called good-bye to them as well, by which Dag reckoned they’d been briefly hired by Tanner as fellow-loaders, a typical way for such rivertown wharf rats to pick up a little extra coin.

“So if you’re not going back to Glassforge with Tanner and Mape and Hod, what are you going to do?” Dag probed.

“I’m gonna try me some river-trading. I spent some of my horse money on window glass, to sell off the Fetch. That’s Berry’s boat. Boss Berry,” Whit corrected himself with a lopsided grin.

“What about that promise to your parents about going straight home?”

“That wasn’t a promise, exactly. More like a plan. Plans change. Anyhow, if I get all my glass sold by the time we reach Silver Shoals, I could take the river road home and not get lost, and get back hardly late at all.”

There seemed a certain disquieting vagueness to this new plan. Well, Dag would find out what Fawn thought of it shortly. He returned his attention warily to his surroundings.

They passed along the scattered row of flatboats tied to the trees along the bank. A man sitting on a crate in one bow hunched and scowled as Dag went by. A woman frowned, clutched up a wide-eyed toddler, its thumb stuck in its mouth, and skittered inside her boat’s top-shed. A collection of flatties idling and laughing on a boat roof fell abruptly silent, stood, and stared across at Dag.