Barr’s lips thinned, but he finally shut up. Except Fawn heard him mutter, as he stepped aboard the Fetch once more, “I made it up…”

The next morning at breakfast, Barr’s campaign upon Remo was temporarily silenced when the entire crew of the Fetch united in telling him to pipe down or prepare to go swimming. It didn’t quite cure the problem, because Barr took to staring instead: imploringly, or angrily, or meaningfully. Remo gritted his teeth and attempted to ignore him. Fawn had no idea what-all the pair were doing with their grounds and groundsenses, but would not have been the least surprised had Remo burst out, just like her brothers when they’d driven their beleaguered parents into threats of a whipping if silence did not ensue, Boss! Dag! He’s lookin’ at me! Make him stop lookin’ at me! Barr watched the shoreline slipping past and glowered harder.

Fawn herself took to sewing, spinning, and unambitious cooking, hugging the hearth. Her monthly had begun last night, and she dared to hope that Dag’s new treatments were helping her to heal, because today’s pain was merely uncomfortable, not crippling. Other hopes rose in her mind as the dull tasks filled the hours. Dag had used a number of Lakewalker tricks to avoid starting a child in her half-healed womb, but it sure would be nice someday not to need those tricks. What was wanted, Fawn decided, was not time, but a place.

She pictured it in lavish detail while she jammed her needle through the tough oilcloth and occasionally her fingers—she preferred cooking to sewing, generally. The new Bluefield place would need to be near a farmer town big enough to give Dag steady medicine work, but not so big or near as to overwhelm him. There ought to be a little lake, or at least a big pond, to grow those Lakewalker water lilies with the edible roots. A kitchen garden, of course, and room for Grace and her foal and surly Copperhead. She spent considerable time working out the garden plan, and what other sorts of animals to have. If they weren’t to follow the migrating seasons of a Lakewalker camp, she could have a house with four real walls. And an iron cook stove like the one she’d seen at Silver Shoals.

She mulled over all the names she’d ever admired, and not just for children, because they did grow up and what was pretty for a baby might sound downright silly in a mother or grandmother—Fawn, for example. Whatever had Mama and Papa been thinking? She and Dag would have more than one daughter, anyhow, that was for sure…Dag would like that. Should they be close to some Lakewalker camp, too? Would any Lakewalkers want to be close to them? What if any of those children with the dignified names turned out to have strong groundsenses…?

She was just considering whether to pick out a name for Grace’s foal, too, when a distant hail from the river broke up her daydreams. Bo, who had been dozing in his bunk during his off-watch, rolled over and slitted open one eye, listened a moment, and rolled back. Fawn set aside her sewing and rose to venture out on the cold front deck to see what was happening.

A keelboat was rapidly overhauling them. On this long, straight reach the wind was coming more or less from upriver for a change, and the keel had its sail up to push it along even more briskly than the heavy current drew the Fetch. The name Tripoint Steel was painted on the prow in fancy letters, with all the Ts in the shape of drawn swords. As the gap closed between the two boats, Boss Cutter and Boss Berry bellowed the news back and forth across the moving waters.

Berry reported the names of the boats that had been seen by the helmeted goods-clerk from their stop yesterday. Cutter mentioned a man who knew a man who’d seen the Briar Rose at a town still forty miles downstream, which made Berry narrow her eyes and wave especial thanks; it would save stopping before then. Berry wished Cutter luck, and Cutter called back, as the gap again widened and the Tripoint Steel splashed bravely on, “You girls be careful now!”

“We’re not all girls,” Fawn heard Whit mutter from the roof. “The Fetch can look after its own. Blight it.”

Dag came out to cloak Fawn in his arms and listen carefully while this was going on, and Barr leaned on the rail to watch in curiosity. Fawn explained to him about Cutter’s quest for the missing boats. “Like a river patrol, sort of. They’re looking for trouble, and armed for it.”

Barr just shook his head.

That afternoon, Barr jittered around the Fetch as restlessly as a bedbug at a family reunion, swearing under his breath at each passing mile. Fawn would have bet that kidnapping schemes now revolved behind his silvery-blue eyes, but how to bring them off in a crowded flatboat in the view—and groundsenses—of all those aboard defeated him at least till bedtime. When she trod across the bunkroom after her last visit to the back deck for the night, his open eyes still gleamed from his nest of blankets in the fading firelight.

The next morning, when she came out to start tea, she found him up and dressed before anyone else. As Fawn cut bacon and calculated how to stretch limited eggs over unlimited potatoes, Berry’s bunk curtains stopped moving. She yanked them back and rolled out dressed in her usual shirt, vest, and leather skirt, shoving her sock feet into her waiting boots. When she came in from the back deck after a brief morning wash, Barr was waiting by the door.

He lowered his voice. “Boss Berry, can I speak with you—in private?” He waved vaguely toward the bow.

She put a hand on one hip and regarded him without favor. “Might it get you off my boat?”

“Maybe.”

She looked dubious, but led him through the stores, tying her hair in its horse-tail with a scrap of cloth on the way.

Whit sat up on one elbow in his bunk and blinked. “What was that all about?”

“Barr wanted to talk to Berry. Alone. They went up to the front deck.”

Whit frowned, rose, and padded over to peer out the window. “No, they went ashore. They’re walking upstream. He’s kinda got his arm…huh.” His frown deepened to a scowl, and he went back to the bunk rack and shook Remo awake. Remo sat up looking less than delighted, but after a whispered consultation, both drew on trousers, boots, and jackets and went out as well. Hawthorn and Hod, wakened by the rustling, followed curiously.

Dag wandered into the kitchen from their bed-nook amongst the stores and sat at the table, smiling as Fawn handed him a mug of strong tea. “What’s the parade?” he asked, nodding toward the bow. He sipped gratefully and opened his second eye. In the bunk rack, Bo rolled over and groaned, then stumbled out to the back deck.

“It’s a little hard to say,” said Fawn, standing on tiptoe at the window to look up the shore. Dripping trees, gray mist, muddy bank, and no one in sight. She went back to cracking eggs and cutting onions, cheese, and bread.

She almost sliced her hand when sudden shouts broke out in the distance. Dag sat up, his head turning, brows drawing down. He tensed, but did not rise. The yelling diminished, then rose again, then stopped. Fawn certainly made out Whit’s voice, and probably Barr’s and Remo’s both.

“What’s all that ruckus?” Bo asked, coming back in and helping himself to tea.

Fawn stretched up again, squinting out into the mist. “They’re all coming back. Uh-oh. Barr’s holding one hand to his face, and Remo has the other arm twisted up behind his back. Really hard. Whit’s got hold of a big stick, and is waving it and talking. Berry’s kind of…stomping. Wow, she looks mad. Hod’s bringin’ up the rear as usual, and Hawthorn’s running ahead.”

Dag rubbed his forehead and took a long, preparing breath. Fawn took heart that he did not, himself, jump up; but then, it seemed the emergency was coming to him. Hawthorn’s thumping feet across the gangplank announced his excitement even before he burst into the kitchen to cry: “Dag! Barr’s tried to magic Berry, and Whit and Remo says they’re gonna kill him!”