“I’ve never had no Lakewalker as boat crew, before. Never even seen one doing that, on any farmer boat.” But her voice was growing more doubtful than hostile.

“I started out this trip to do a lot of things no one had done before.” Dag glanced at Fawn’s anxious, upturned face and bestirred himself. “I’ve been on high water and low, and I know a snag from a sawyer. And I could spot you the channel through the sand bars and shoals in water thick enough to plow, day or dark.”

“Oh, your groundsense can do that?” said Fawn in delight. “Yes, of course it would!”

“It’s true,” said Berry, “you don’t hardly ever see a narrow boat hung up. You Lakewalkers use your magic to pilot, do you?”

“In a way.” If Berry decided to let Dag and his party aboard, he would have days ahead to explain the subtleties of groundsense. Dag tilted his head at the grazing Copperhead. “Do you have room for my horse?”

“Your wife”—Berry’s mouth hesitated over the phrase, then went on—“Fawn mentioned the horse. Can he share the pen with Daisy?”

“He could be persuaded, yes.”

“Well, then.” The boat boss’s pale eyes were still flat with caution; Dag thought they would gleam more blue if she smiled. “I guess you’ll do.”

Whit whooped in triumph; Fawn grinned. Dag was infected by their enthusiasm to the extent of a crooked smile. Even Berry’s lips twisted a bit as she made her way back across the narrow board and down onto her deck.

The bleary man had been listening unmoved to the debate, his head canted; the boy had stopped milking the goat and hung over the bow, wide-eyed. “So, Bo,” said Berry to the bleary man, with a jerk of her head toward the three on the shore. “Looks like we got us a Lakewalker oarsman.”

One bushy gray eyebrow cocked up; he spat over the side, but only drawled, “Well, that’s different.” He followed her as she ducked indoors.

“How do we get Copper onto the boat?” asked Fawn suddenly, as if she’d only just noticed the problem. “He’s a lot bigger than Daisy-goat.”

“More planks,” said Dag succinctly.

“Oh.”

“Fawn, I got my glass goods!” Whit began excitedly, staring after Berry. Dag could only think, Pull in your tongue, boy, before you step on it.

Fawn’s brow wrinkled in worry; Dag guessed she was thinking much the same thing. She took Whit by the wrist and lowered her voice. “Come over here like we’re getting Copper.” Dag strolled after, till they were all out of earshot of the boat.

Fawn pretended to be fussing with her saddlebags. “Whit, you went chasing off before I had a chance to tell you something. Berry isn’t just taking the Fetch downstream for a trading boat. Her papa took a boat down last fall, and never came back. No word. She means to go look for him.”

“Oh, we can help—” Whit began.

Fawn overrode this: “Her papa, her big brother, and her betrothed. All gone missing.”

Whit’s face was suddenly wiped clean of expression. After a moment he said, “She’s betrothed?”

“Yes, or maybe bereaved. Even she don’t know which right now. So try for a little, a little…I don’t know. Just try not to be a blighted fool, all right?”

Whit blinked. “Um. Yeah. Well…” He gulped valiantly. “Well, we still need a boat. And she still needs a crew, right?”

“Right,” said Fawn, watching him carefully.

“Girl like that, in a fix like that, she deserves all the help she can get. A good pair of hands. Three pairs. Well, two and a half.” His grin was awkward, unfelt.

“And if you make one more of your stupid hook-jokes,” Fawn added levelly, “I swear I’ll clout you on the ear.”

“Um. Right.”

Dag started unloading saddlebags, thinking, We need some rain. Soon.

They all settled in quicker than Fawn would have guessed. Berry’s uncle Bo accepted Dag’s presence without comment, though her little brother Hawthorn, who was rising twelve but not yet come to his growth spurt, gaped round-eyed and mute, and tended to skitter away when Dag loomed too close. But Fawn and Berry joined forces on cooking dinner, Berry mainly showing Fawn where and how things aboard were cleverly kept, and after eating it Bo and Hawthorn both smiled at Fawn a lot.

Thinking she had better start as she meant to go on, Fawn made sure the washing-up fell mainly to Whit and Hawthorn. As the night chilled and the river mist rose, everyone gathered around the remains of the cook fire in the little hearth, augmented by the light of a rock-oil lantern, and were encouraged to drink up as much of the foaming cider as they could hold.

Whit wandered to peer out the back hatch, then came and settled himself again on his stool with a sigh. “Think it’ll rain soon?” he asked. Of the air generally, as near as Fawn could tell, and with no expectation of a reply.

Bo held out one battered boot and wriggled it. “My weather toe says no rain tonight.”

Whit looked skeptical. “You have a toe that can tell the weather?”

“Yep. Ever since it got busted, that time.”

Berry grinned over the rim of her tankard. “Hey, don’t you go questioning Uncle Bo’s bad toe. It’s as good as a coin toss any day.”

“The weather in the Grace Valley can change sudden, this time o’ year,” Bo advised Whit amiably. “Rain, snow, wind—fog. Why, one time when I was workin’ a keel up from Silver Shoals, the fog came down so solid you couldn’t hardly see your hand in front of your face. It was so thick it held the boat back, it did, and finally the boss said to put down our poles, ’cause he was anchoring for the night. Next morning, we woke up to all this mooing, and found we’d run right up over that fog for a good half-mile onto shore, and the keel was stuck in some farmer’s cow-pasture.”

Whit sat up, snorting cider out his nose. He rubbed it on his sleeve, and said, “Go on, you did not!”

Hawthorn, looking equally skeptical, said, “So how’d they get the keelboat back in the river?”

“Rollers,” said Bo blandly.

Hawthorn’s lips twisted in doubt at this logical-sounding reply.

Bo’s head went back in mock-offense, those hairy gray eyebrows seeming to jig. “No, it’s as true as I speak! Twisters, now, those are good for a tale or two as well.”

“Twisters?” said Fawn uneasily. “You get twisters on the river?”

“Now and then,” said Berry.

“You ever been in one?” asked Whit.

Berry shook her head, but then Dag’s deep voice sounded for nearly the first time that evening. “I was, once, on the upper Gray.”

Everyone looked around as surprised as if one of the chairs had suddenly spoken. In the gloom almost beyond the fire circle, legs stretched out, Dag raised his tankard in return and drank. Only Fawn saw his indrawn breath, sensed that he was about to make an effort that did not come easily to him.

“There were six of us, paddling a big narrow boat full of furs down from Luthlia for the river trade. The storm came up sudden, and the sky turned dark green. We pulled in hard to the western bank and tied everything to the trees, which was not so reassuring when the trees started to rip out of the ground and tumble away like weeds. Strangest sight I ever saw, then—the wind had picked up a horse, this white horse, out of a pasture somewhere to the west, and it passed us by straight overhead, its legs churning away like it was galloping. Galloping across the sky.”

A little silence followed this; Bo’s gray eyebrows climbed. Then Hawthorn said, “So, what happened to the horse? Did you see it come down?”

“We were all too busy gripping the ground and being terrified, right about then,” said Dag. “The poor thing was killed, likely.”

Hawthorn’s face scrunched up in dismay; Dag glanced from it to Fawn, and swiftly offered, “Or it might have spun down and landed in a pond. Swum out, shook its dizzy head, and started eating grass.”

Hawthorn brightened slightly. So did Whit, Fawn noticed, and bit her lip.