Roger, Jamie, and Ian walked silently back toward the inn where they had left Claire.
“Just by way of curiosity, Ian, what did ye do with Forbes’s ear?” Jamie asked, breaking the silence as they turned into the wide street where the inn was.
“Oh, I have it safe, Uncle,” Ian assured him, patting the small leather pouch at his belt.
“What in the name of G—” Roger stopped abruptly, then resumed. “What d’ye mean to do with it?”
“Keep it with me until we find my cousin,” Ian said, seeming surprised that this was not obvious. “It will help.”
“It will?”
Ian nodded, serious.
“When ye set about a difficult quest—if ye’re Kahnyen’kehaka, I mean—ye generally go aside for a time, to fast and pray for guidance. We havena time to be doing that now, of course. But often, while ye’re doing that, ye choose a talisman—or to be right about it, it chooses you—” He sounded completely matter-of-fact about this procedure, Roger noted.
“And ye carry it with ye through the quest, to keep the attention of the spirits upon your desire and ensure your success.”
“I see.” Jamie rubbed the bridge of his nose. He appeared—like Roger—to be wondering what the Mohawk spirits might make of Neil Forbes’s ear. It would, probably, ensure their attention, at least. “The ear . . . did ye pack it in salt, I hope?”
Ian shook his head.
“Nay, I smoked it over the kitchen fire at the inn last night. Dinna fash yourself, Uncle Jamie; it will keep.”
Roger found a perverse sort of comfort in this conversation. Between the prayers of the Presbyterian clergy and the support of the Mohawk spirits, perhaps they had a chance—but it was the presence of his two kinsmen, stalwart and determined on either side of him, that kept him in hope. They would not give up until Brianna was found, no matter what it took.
He swallowed the lump in his throat for the thousandth time since hearing the news, thinking of Jemmy. The little boy was safe at River Run—but how could he tell Jem that his mother was gone? Well . . . he wouldn’t, that was all. They’d find her.
In this mood of resolution, he led the way through the door of the Brewster, only to be hailed again.
“Roger!”
This time, it was Claire’s voice, sharp with excitement. He turned at once, to see her rising from a bench in the taproom. Seated across the table from her were a plump young woman and a slightly built young man with a cap of tightly curled black hair. Manfred McGillivray.
“I SAW YE BEFORE, sir, two days ago.” Manfred bobbed his head apologetically toward Jamie. “I . . . er . . . well, I hid myself, sir, and I do regret it. But of course, I’d no way of knowing, until Eppie came back from Roanoke and showed me the ring. . . .”
The ring lay on the table, its cabochon ruby casting a tiny, calm pool of ruddy light on the boards. Roger picked it up and turned it in his fingers. He barely heard the explanations—that Manfred lived with the whore, who made periodic expeditions to the ports near Edenton, and upon seeing the ring had overcome his sense of shame and come to find Jamie—too much overcome by this small, hard, tangible evidence of Brianna.
Roger closed his fingers over it, finding the warmth of it a comfort, and came to himself in time to hear Hepzibah say earnestly, “Ocracoke, sir. At the dark of the moon.” She coughed modestly, ducking her head. “The lady did say, sir, as you might feel some gratitude for the news of her whereabouts. . . .”
“Ye’ll be paid, and paid well,” Jamie assured her, though he was clearly giving her no more than a fraction of his attention. “The dark of the moon,” he said, turning to Ian. “Ten days?”
Ian nodded, his face shining with excitement.
“Aye, about that. She didna ken whereabouts on Ocracoke Island this was?” he asked the whore.
Eppie shook her head.
“Nay, sir. I ken Stephen’s got a house there, a large one, hidden in the trees, but that’s all.”
“We’ll find it.” Roger’s own voice surprised him; he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
Manfred had been looking uneasy throughout. He leaned forward, putting his hand on top of Eppie’s.
“Sir—when ye do find it . . . ye’ll not say to anybody, will ye, about Eppie telling ye? Mr. Bonnet’s a dangerous man, and I wouldna have her imperiled from him.” He glanced at the young woman, who blushed and smiled at him.
“No, we won’t say anything about her,” Claire assured him. She had been scrutinizing both Manfred and Hepzibah carefully while they talked, and now leaned across the table to touch Manfred’s forehead, which showed a stippling of some sort of rash. “Speaking of peril . . . she’s in a great deal more danger from you, young man, than from Stephen Bonnet. Did you tell her?”
Manfred went a little paler, and for the first time, Roger noticed that the young man looked truly ill, his face thin and deeply lined.
“I did, Frau Fraser. From the first.”
“Oh, about the pox?” Hepzibah affected nonchalance, though Roger could see her hand tighten on Manfred’s. “Aye, he did tell me. But I says to him as it makes no difference. I daresay I’ve had a few men what are poxed before, not knowing. If I should get it . . . well. God’s will, innit?”
“No,” Roger said to her quite gently. “It isn’t. But you’ll go with Mrs. Claire, you and Manfred both, and do exactly what she tells you. Ye’ll be all right, and so will he. Won’t they?” he asked, turning to Claire, suddenly a little uncertain.
“Yes, they will,” she said dryly. “Fortunately, I have quite a bit of penicillin with me.”
Manfred’s face was a study in confusion.
“But—do ye mean, meine Frau, that ye can—can cure it?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” Claire assured him, “as I tried to tell you before you ran away.”
His mouth hung open, and he blinked. Then he turned to Hepzibah, who was staring at him in puzzlement.
“Liebchen! I can go home! We can go home,” he amended quickly, seeing her face change. “We will be married. We will go home,” he repeated, in the tones of one seeing a beatific vision but not quite trusting in its reality yet.
Eppie was frowning in uncertainty.
“I’m a whore, Freddie,” she pointed out. “And from the stories you tell about your mother . . .”
“I rather think that Frau Ute will be so happy to have Manfred back that she won’t be disposed to ask too many questions,” Claire said, with a glance at Jamie. “The Prodigal Son, you know?”
“Ye won’t need to be a whore any longer,” Manfred assured her. “I’m a gunsmith; I’ll earn a good living. Now that I know I shall be living!” His thin face was suddenly suffused with joy, and he flung his arms around Eppie and kissed her.
“Oh,” she said, flustered, but looking pleased. “Well. Hm. This . . . er . . . this penny—?” She looked inquiringly at Claire.
“The sooner, the better,” Claire said, standing up. “Come with me.” Her own face was a little flushed, Roger saw, and she put out a quick hand to Jamie, who took it and pressed it hard.
“We’ll go and see to things,” he said, glancing at Ian and Roger in turn. “With luck, we’ll sail this evening.”
“Oh!” Eppie had already stood up to follow Claire, but at this reminder of their business, she turned to Jamie, a hand to her mouth. “Oh. I’ve thought of the one more thing.” Her pleasant round face was puckered in concentration. “There are wild horses that run near the house. On Ocracoke. I heard Stephen speak o’ them once.” She looked from one man to the other. “Might that help?”
“It might,” Roger said. “Thank you—and God bless you.”
It wasn’t until they were outside, heading for the docks again, that he realized the ring was still clutched tight in his hand. What was it Ian had said?
“Ye choose a talisman—or to be right about it, it chooses you.”
His hands were slightly bigger than Brianna’s, but he pushed the ring onto his finger, and closed his hand around it.
SHE WOKE FROM a damp and restless sleep, mother-sense at once aroused. She was halfway out of bed, moving by instinct toward Jemmy’s trundle, when a hand grabbed her wrist, a convulsive grip like the bite of a crocodile.
She jerked back, groggy and alarmed. The sound of footsteps came to her from the deck overhead and she realized belatedly that the sound of distress that had wakened her had not come from Jemmy, but from the darkness at her side.
“Don’t go,” he whispered, and the fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of her inner wrist.
Unable to wrench free, she reached out with the other hand, to push him away. She touched damp hair, hot skin—and a trickle of wetness, cool and surprising on her fingers.
“What is it?” she whispered back, and leaned toward him by instinct. She reached again, touched his head, smoothed his hair—all the things she had waked prepared to do. She felt her hand rest on him and thought to stop, but did not. It was as though the spurt of maternal comfort, once called forth, could not be pressed back into her, no more than the spurt of breast milk summoned by an infant’s cry could be recalled to its source.
“Are you all right?” She kept her voice low, and as impersonal as the words allowed. She lifted her hand, and he moved, rolling toward her, pressing his head hard against the curve of her thigh.
“Don’t go,” he said again, and caught his breath in what might have been a sob. His voice was low and rough, but not as she had ever heard it before.
“I’m here.” Her trapped wrist was growing numb. She laid her free hand on his shoulder, hoping he would let go if she seemed willing to stay.
He did relax his grip, but only to reach out and seize her by the waist, pulling her back into bed. She went, because there was no choice, and lay in silence, Bonnet’s breathing harsh and warm on the back of her neck.
At length, he let go and rolled onto his back with a sigh, allowing her to move. She rolled onto her own back, cautious, trying to keep a few inches between them. Moonlight came through the stern windows in a silver flood, and she could see the silhouette of his face, catch the glint of light from forehead and cheek as he turned his head.
“Bad dream?” she ventured. She’d meant to sound sarcastic, but her own heart was still tripping fast from the alarm of the awakening, and the words had a tentative sound.
“Aye, aye,” he said with a shuddering sigh. “The same. It comes to me over and over again, see? Ye’d think I’d know what it was about and wake, but I never do. Not ’til the waters close over my head.” He rubbed a hand under his nose, sniffing like a child.
“Oh.” She didn’t want to ask for details, didn’t want to encourage any further sense of intimacy. What she wanted, though, had nothing much to do with things anymore.
“Since I was a lad, I’ve dreamed of drowning,” he said, and his voice, normally so assured, was unsteady. “The sea comes in, and I cannot move—not at all. The tide’s risin’, and I know it will kill me, but there’s no way to move.” His hand clutched the sheet convulsively, pulling it away from her.