There's a war on and she's terrified yet invigorated. The bodies falling around her seem barely real at all, though the soldier in a puddle of blood at her feet had only this morning refilled her water canteen, though that one over there had held her horse when she dismounted. The three men before her—appearing so suddenly between the shots that still echo in the valley—are a startling contrast to the men she knows in England, to the men whose final breaths were taken on this hillside.

These men—two natives and one white man dressed like them—approach them, as Duncan watches them guardedly. The younger one shoos the horses away and Alice flies at him, screaming that they need them to get out. She herself cannot move; she feels frozen in time. Duncan asks impatiently, imperiously, why they lose the horses; the man replies that they'll be heard for miles.

The conversation is antagonistic, sparse words pronounced patterned oddly, after grammatical structures not her own. It fascinates her, despite the situation they've found themselves in. Everything seems thrown in sharp relief; she realizes, now, just how asleep she had been in London.

She knew, always, that she wasn't meant for a quiet life, that life in Portman Square held very little opportunities for her, that the most she could hope for herself there was a good place in society and the thrill of involving herself, however remotely, in real world affairs. But upon arrival in America—well, even before—she felt something different. The journey by ship was long and hard, but she was able to stand in the fresh sea air. There were few other civilians aboard; the war had stopped most travel to America. There was no one to scold. There was no land to be seen; she felt as those she was in the center of the world, and time seemed to stand still. She hadn't felt like this since she accompanied her father to war.

When they landed in Boston and traveled south down to Albany, that freedom ended. She and her younger sister resumed their precious padded life in the luxurious confines of the patroon's residence. While Alice spent her days indoors, she whiled away this waiting time tramping through the fields, looking eagerly out into the woods, waiting a summons from her father.

She had seen the face of war before; had served as a battlefield nurse several years previously, when accompanying her father the summer before she was presented at court. She curtsied to the royal family that winter with her mind filled with the men she had helped, knowing that the white gloves on her hands did nothing to obscure the blood of those who were lost to her. But what was being fought in European battlefields, over European ideas, had the stench of dead blood, of countries that no longer mattered. There was nothing left to fight for, she thought, just the same things over and over again.

They begin to walk, following these men without so much as introducing themselves. She stoops to pick up a fallen pistol; she can shoot, and she can use it if she needs to. The weight of the flintlock drags her pocket down and she can feel it beat heavily against her thigh as they continue along the trail.

Alice is tired, she knows. She's not used to this land, this endless tramping through forests. It's a much different terrain than the streets of London or even the Scottish countryside. Even the country surrounding Albany is not this rough. They keep quiet for quite some time in the forest, following the lead of their new guides. When they reach the river, Duncan, obviously ill at ease over this situation, speaks up.

'Scout, I'd like to thank you for your help. How much further is it?'

'Night and a bit,' replies the white man. 'That Huron captain back there…'

'The guard? He's a Mohawk.'

'He's no Mohawk, he's Huron,' he states, and his impatience catches her attention. 'What other reason would he have to murder the girl?'

'What?' Duncan responds, appalled. The scout looks back at them.

'Dark-haired one.'

She bristles to hear herself described thus, though she maintains a calm expression.

'Miss Cora Munro. Murder her? He never set eyes on her before today. She's only been here a week.'

'No blood vengeance? No reproach or insult?'

'Of course not!' Duncan pauses. 'And how is it you were so nearby?'

'Came across the war party. Tracked 'em.'

'Then you're assigned to Fort William Henry?'

'No.'

'Fort Edward, then.'

'Nope. Headin' west, to Can-tuck-ee.'

'I thought all our colonial scouts were in the militia. The militia is fighting the French in the north.'

'I ain't your scout, and I sure as hell ain't in no damn militia.'

Duncan lunges forward, insulted, and she lays her hand on his arm, pulling him back. She feels the comforting weight of the pistol against her thigh, knowing she will use it if she must. They walk on in silence.

They come across very few signs of human inhabitation as they begin their trek, only one—the burned-out remains of a frontier cabin. Ever the soldier's daughter, she analyses their location, notes that it is completely indefensible. The low wooden fence is more to keep livestock in than to keep intruders out.

There's an acrid smell of smoke in the air, combined with the smell of burned flesh. Alice can barely stomach it—she knows that from the way her head turns away, the way her hand grips on her arm. The three men precede them, exploring the skeleton of the cabin. They gather, speaking low, in a language she cannot understand.

'What did you say?' calls Duncan, imperiously.

'Ottawa, allied to the French. It's a war party, moving fast.'

'Let us look after them,' he says, approaching the bodies.

'Leave them,' comes the dismissive response as they turn to walk away.

She is angered by their indifference. Though she, too, is eager to leave, they should do something for the people of this place.

'Whoever they are, these strangers, they are at least entitled to a Christian burial!'

'Let us go, miss,' he says dismissively.

'I will not! I have seen the face of war before, sir, but I have not seen war made upon women and children. It's almost as cruel as your indifference,' she hurls at his back.

He stops, turns, and advances on her, ferocious. Is that grief she sees in his eyes? She steps back involuntarily. 'Miss Munro. They were not strangers, and they stay as they lay.' He moves on without another word.

In her short time in America she sees that this country, involved so desperately in war, is not at all like the Europe she has left behind. It was as if the war was alive; here, there was something to fight for. A whole unconquered land—the promise of untold riches in the soil, in the forest, in the nascent cities. It is easy to feel lonely here, without the bustle of old, established European cities. It is easy to feel lonely when she is the only person around for miles, save her traveling companions. These forests have never known dense human populations; they seem to her something out of a book, out of the primeval histories of the world. She cannot fathom a time when England looked like this, when the lack of human occupation did not fill the woodlands with the sound and the fury of the hunt or other occupations.

The hunt here is different. She watches Mr. Poe slip away as they tread onwards, returning silently with two rabbits. She heard neither shot nor sound; his reappearance is neither celebrated nor, indeed, marked by anything at all. She wonders how he can move so silently, so comfortably, in this wilderness.

It's silent, walking on. It seems like they've been walking forever in this forest. She knows it's called the Endless Forest, and she imagines fancifully that they've already walked the length and breadth of England. She is anxious, impatient; she wants to get to the fort. And yet there is a calmness within her, as though this walk has finally managed to soothe the boredom and impatience she's felt all her life.

The sun has not yet started to lower itself in the sky when they stop for the night. She knows that they are stopping because of them; knows, instinctively, that these men could walk through the night without another thought. She would push on, but walking any more today is beyond her sister. Alice is pale and wavering beside her; the sight of the frontier cabin had affected her more than she realized. She settles her sister first, secure beneath the tall tree they have chosen to make their campsite. She walks silently with the older one—Chingachgook—to the creek to fetch water, while Nathaniel and his brother build their campsite. Duncan stays behind, guarding Alice.

There's not much to eat—their provisions had been in their horses' saddlebags, were lost to them when they were let loose. Mr. Poe gives them a bar of something he calls pemmican—dried meat and fruit. Alice nibbles at the bar forlornly, takes a sip of water, then lies down and turns on her side, falling asleep quickly. She tries to do the same, but she cannot sleep.

Duncan positions himself near them, to protect them, she thinks. But she does not need his protection. Surely if these men were to do anything they would have done so by now. They would not have wasted their time pretending to lead them to the fort if all they wanted was their scalps. They had not showed compassion to the residents of that cabin, it is true, but that did not mean they were cruel.

As she sits next to Alice, stroking her hair, she fights back her frustration with Duncan, his arrogance, his determination to take care of her. They were in trouble, she knew that. His constant inquiries into her state of being were frustrating and inconsequential. Of course she is not all right! They were set upon and attacked; they could be attacked again at any moment. There's nothing he can do about it, and she doesn't want to talk to him any more. Every time he glances at her, gives her a helping hand on their trek, she fights down a feeling of guilt and the growing, sickening knowledge that her plea for time was ignored by him, that he considers them, for all intents and purposes, betrothed.

Sleep eludes her, though her sister's breathing has long since evened. She remembers times when they had slept out beneath the stars on their father's estate in Scotland. Alice had never liked those nights much, she remembers. She had reveled in them, longed for them, desperate for the freedom this way of life provided. These men—these curious men—lived this way al the time, presumably. Now that they are resting, her mind not focused on the endless progression forward, she has time to wonder. Mr. Poe is there, in front of her; surely he cannot be so rude as to refuse to answer her questions. She rises from her position next to Duncan, despite his reproachful glance, and seeks him out.

'Why didn't you bury those people?' she asks.

He doesn't look at her as he responds, 'Anyone lookin' to pick up our trail would've seen it as a sign of our passing.'

'You knew them well?'

He looks at her for the first time. He's not the fierce and ferocious man who had stalked towards her by the cabin; this time she is sure it is grief she sees in the starlight. He nods.

'You were acting for our benefit and I apologize,' she replies stiffly, not knowing how to respond to his quiet display of emotion. 'I misunderstood you.'

'Well, that is to be expected. My father—'

'Your father?'

'Chingachgook. He warned me about people like you.'

'Oh, he did?' she asks, slightly offended.

'Yes. He said, 'do not try to make them understand you.''

'What?'

'Yes, 'and do not try to understand them. That is because they are a breed apart and make no sense—'

She exclaims, though she has time to do little else, but they echo in her mind as they hear a rustling in the bushes. There is the gleam of moonlight on a shaved scalp, the slight clack of a wampum belt hitting against the butt of a rifle. He levels out his rifle—she sees the name 'Killdeer' carved there. She pulls out the pistol she took from the dead soldier. He looks at her with cool appraisal and hands her the powder horn. She loads her pistol, lining up her shot.

But they retreat quickly, urgent whispers signaling first disagreement and next, compliance, as they fade back into the shadows. They are safe for the moment and now there is time to talk, to ask the questions she needs.

'Why did they turn back?' she asks quietly, confused.

'Burial ground,' he nods, and she turns, faintly making out the platform nestled high in the trees. She feels an overwhelming sense of anger, suddenly—anger about what had happened to them and to those people in the clearing, and about his earlier words.

'A breed apart, we make no sense?'

'In your particular case, miss, I'd make allowance.'

'Oh, thank you so much.'

He looks at her, and somehow his gaze calms her.

'Where is your real family?'

She can tell he's surprised by her question, but he answers readily enough. 'They buried my ma, pa, and sisters. Chingachgook found me with two French trappers, raised me up on his own.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I don't remember them. I wasn't but one or two.'

She feels deeply for him, realizing afresh that this land is so different from the world in which she grew up, that these people are far more complicated than she realized. She won't misjudge him again.

He tells her about his childhood. He talks to her about the stars, how they were a memorial for all unmarked dead. They were their friends, she learns, although she had expected that response. She learns, too, about those people, the Camerons. That they had gone to that place because it seemed to them like Paradise.

She finds herself needing to say something, to share with him as he has shared with her. 'It is not how I thought it would be,' she begins, 'thinking of it in Boston and London.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint,' he replies, and she believes he means it.

'Oh, on the contrary. It is more deeply stirring to my blood than any imagining could possibly be.'

With that, she turns away from him, unable to look in his eyes and see what she knows will be there. She lays awake for some time, accustoming herself to the new rush of her heartbeat.

She had learned, from her mother's people, that to sleep next to someone was the greatest form of intimacy, that one's dreams merged with those of one's companion and walked with them in the night.

She wakes the next morning knowing that in the night they had shared something. Their relationship—if that was the word for it—had shifted, changed. She knew wasn't the same person who fell asleep the night before. Every night she slept in the Americas changed her. It's something in the air, in the water, in the soil. It is also the war, and the liberation of treading on the grounds of what might one day be a new nation. Old prejudices are not in evidence here, as is so clearly evident by their present situation.

But the biggest change had come by sleeping next to Nathaniel. She couldn't think of him as Mr. Poe any longer; he had walked in her dreams last night.

They press on the next day, barely speaking. She doesn't know what to say to him. She cannot find anything to say to Duncan, or to her sister either, though Alice grows more and more energetic the closer they get to the fort. Uncas, Chingachgook, and Nathaniel take turns patrolling ahead to make sure nothing will harm them.

They don't stop at sunset this time, but press on, because they are close to the fort and Nathaniel said it wouldn't matter if they approached at dark. It saved their lives, she realizes later—they could see the bombs fired by the French at the fort.

'What do you want to do?' Nathaniel asks her.

'I don't think the women should approach,' Duncan says, assuming the question is addressed to him.

'Miss Munro,' Nathaniel presses, raising an eyebrow.

'We must get inside. There must be a way. We can't go back now.' It's true—there's nowhere else to go but forward.

'I don't think you know what you are saying—' Duncan says, and she glares at him, frustrated, once again, by his complete inability to curb his protective instincts.

Nathaniel turns to his brother and father, says something to them in Mohican, before turning back to her. 'All right. We'll bring you in. Stay close, now.'