“Why are they starin’?” Whit asked, craning his head in return.

“They starin’ at you, Dag? I been by here twice and they never stared at me…”

“Just keep walking, Whit,” said Dag wearily. “Don’t turn your head. Turn around, blight it!”

Whit was walking backward again, but he obediently wheeled. “Huh?”

“I’m a Lakewalker, seemingly alone, in farmer country. Corpse-eater, grave-robber, sorcerer, remember? They wonder what I’m up to.” They wonder if I’m an easy target. They wonder if they could take me. He supposed they might also be wondering if he was some sort of consequence of last night, looking for retribution.

“But you aren’t up to anything.” Whit squinted over his shoulder.

“You sure it isn’t just the hook?”

Dag set his teeth. “Quite sure. Don’t you remember what you thought, first time Fawn brought me into your kitchen at West Blue?”

Whit blinked in an effort of recollection. “Well, I suppose I thought you were a pretty strange fellow for my sister to drag in. And tall, I do remember that.”

“Were you afraid?”

“No, not particularly.” Whit hesitated. “Reed and Rush were, I think.”

“Indeed.”

Whit’s eyes shifted; the mob of flatties on the boat roof was gradually settling back down. “This feels creepy, y’know?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Whit’s dark brows drew in. Thinking? Dag could hope.

“What did you hear up at the goods-shed about the fight last night?” Dag asked.

“Oh, yeah, that was lucky for us!”

“What?” said Dag, astonished. His steps slowed.

Whit waved a hand. “It seems two fellows from the Fetch got roped into it by some of their friends, jumping some local Lakewalker they were mad at. When the ferrywomen and a bunch of other Lakewalkers came to break it up, they run off scared, along with some girl and her beau. The other three was in no shape for runnin’ and are back on their boats now. But it means Boss Berry needs two stout fellows to pull the broad-oars.” Whit pointed to Dag and himself, grinned, and held up two fingers. “And Fawn to cook,” he added cheerily.

“Let me get this straight,” said Dag. “You’ve volunteered me—and Fawn—as flatboat crew?”

“Yeah! Isn’t it great?” said Whit. Dag was just about to blister him with an explanation of how not-great it was, when he added, “It was Fawn’s idea, really,” and Dag let his breath huff out unformed.

On his next breath, Dag managed, “Do you have any idea how to man a flatboat sweep?”

“No, but I reckoned you would, and Berry and Bo said they’d teach me.”

It wasn’t exactly Dag’s vision of the marriage trip he’d promised Fawn—or himself, for that matter. It wasn’t just the work, which Whit plainly underestimated. Dag was still dragging from his encounter with Hod, though it wasn’t his bodily strength that had suffered. But he remembered the recuperative effects of the harvest, and was given pause. He said more cautiously, “Did you tell this boat boss I’m a Lakewalker?”

“Uh…I don’t remember as it came up,” Whit admitted uneasily.

Dag sighed. “Was he wearing a pot on his head?”

“Her head, and no. What kind of pot? Why?”

Dag’s terse summary of Barr and Remo’s jape surprised a shout of laughter from Whit. “Oh, that’s ripe! No, the loaders at the goods-shed didn’t tell me that part! I wonder if they was some of the pot-pated ones?”

“Not so ripe in the result,” said Dag. “One of the patrollers was wearing his sharing knife last night, which he should not have been, and it was broken in the fight. The Pearl Riffle Lakewalkers are pretty upset about it today.”

Whit squinted. “Is that bad?”

Dag groped for a comparison. “Suppose…suppose you and Sunny Sawman and his friends got into a drunken brawl in the village square of West Blue, and in the tumble one of you knocked over your aunt Nattie and killed her. Gone in a moment. That’s just about how bad.”

“Oh,” said Whit, daunted.

“I expect those patrollers feel as bad as you would, the morning after.” Dag frowned. “I wouldn’t imagine the friends of those flatties who are laid up feel too kindly toward stray Lakewalkers just now, either.” He sighed. Well, one way or another, they needed a boat out of Pearl Riffle, come the rise. Which couldn’t come too soon.

And here, evidently, was the boat in question.

Fawn—at last! — stood in the bow talking with a tall, blond girl in a practical homespun shirt, skirt, and leather vest, her sleeves rolled up on slim but strappy-muscled arms. She had a nice wide smile, tinged, as she looked down at Fawn, with a touch of that same excited-to-be-making-new-friends air as Whit. Fawn looked equally pleased. Dag tried not to feel old. In a pen to one side of the bow, a boy knelt milking a goat. He had the same straw-straight hair as the tall girl, cut raggedly around his ears, and the same wide cheekbones flushed with sunburn. Too big to be her child, so likely a younger brother. A much older man, unshaven and a trifle seedy, leaned against the cabin wall looking on blearily but benignly.

Dag nodded to the blond girl. “That your Boss Berry?”

“Yep,” said Whit proudly.

Dag eyed him. So that’s the way his wind blows, does it?

“She ought to be Boss Clearcreek, but she says that’s her papa, so she goes by Boss Berry. Wouldn’t it be good for Fawn to have another woman aboard? You can see Berry likes that idea, too. They hit it off straightaway.”

Dag was getting a certain sense of inevitability about this boat. He let his groundsense flick out. At least the water all seemed to be on the outside of the hull. There was a coherence about its ground that said boat not boards. “It’s a good making, this boat,” he conceded.

Fawn saw him, and came dancing over the plank above the mud to hug him as if he’d been gone for days and not hours. He let Copperhead loose to nibble the grass clumps, reins trailing, and folded her in, permitting himself a brief, heartening ground-touch of her. After Pearl Riffle Camp, it felt like bathing a wound in some sweet medicine. He released her again as the boat boss began picking her way across to shore, her wide smile flattening out.

“Dag, I found the best boat!” Fawn un-hugged him just enough to lift her face to his. Like a morning-glory blossom. “Berry says we can have passage in exchange for being her crew, if you think that’d work out—”

“I already told him that part,” said Whit.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself—” began Dag.

The blond girl arrived and folded her arms tightly across her chest, frowning. She said to Fawn, “This your Dag?”

Fawn turned out of Dag’s one-armed embrace, but didn’t relinquish his hand. “Yes,” she said proudly.

The frown became tinged with dismay. “But he’s a Lakewalker!”

Though it seems there’s some question about that, today. Dag nodded politely at the boat boss. “Ma’am.”

The frown deepened to a scowl. “Fawn, I know Lakewalkers. A Lakewalker wouldn’t no more marry a farmer girl than—than he’d marry my Daisy-goat over there. I don’t know if you’re trickin’ me or if he’s trickin’ you, but I do know I don’t want no trickster-man on my boat!”

Fawn and Whit, in chorus, went into the usual explanation about the wedding braids and West Blue that was beginning to exhaust Dag. It wasn’t just Boss Berry, or the suspicious stares from the stirred-up flatties. It was all that atop the scene in the Pearl Riffle patrol headquarters. Dag felt suddenly like a swimmer caught in an eddy between two shores, unable to land on either. He braced himself: Nobody said this was going to be easy. But he hoped he wasn’t about to lose Fawn their boat-passage. Or her new friend.

Berry touched Fawn’s wedding cord, held out in demonstration; her face grew, if not wholly convinced, less tense. Her gaze flicked over the hook. “They say you know boats,” she said to Dag at last, the first words she’d spoken to him directly.

He repeated the polite nod. “I’ve never worked a flatboat or a keel. I’ve taken narrow boats, big and small, down both the Grace and the Gray, though never the whole length in one trip.”