Some days after the departure of Cora, Nathaniel, and Alice, Uncas discovered that he had a little shadow in young Ben. It had been tacitly understood that the wikwam they had been occupying would now be the home for the two of them as long as they were there; Ben seemed much more comfortable with the idea now that the women were gone. He had happily rearranged the furs and hides inside to make beds for himself and Uncas, side by side along the fire.

Uncas could not find it in him to resent Ben's now nearly constant presence. After all, time was what he had been needing to work with the boy and now they had plenty of time, though Uncas still had to spend a large portion of the day aiding Sanquen in the attendance of her mother, as he had promised Chingachgook. But it was now possible to re-institute language lessons, take Ben hunting, teach him how to become proficient with the bow, among other skills; and work on getting him to spend time with the other boys.

In this last Uncas had not yet been successful. Ben refused to countenance asking the Delaware lads to include him in their group, and Uncas had decided that he had better hold off on insisting that he did so. Ben was, in essence, still an outcast; but as long as he was at Uncas' side no one would treat him poorly, and the boy, having discovered this almost immediately, now depended upon it.

Uncas knew how important it was to bring him back from the fringe of camp society; he didn't want the boy to get too comfortable, but with Alice's absence he found he lacked some of the will to enforce sterner measures. So the long days of late summer slipped by.

They were having a meal by the communal pot on one such warm evening about a week after Chingachgook had left. Some of the men had been fishing, and Nachenum had brought up some of the choicer specimens to cook over the fire. Ben crouched, barefooted, his face slightly flushed from the heat of the flames, trying to angle the spitted flesh to ensure even cooking.

"You are burning it," Uncas observed. He was standing back from the fire, consuming a piece of roasted early pumpkin.

Ben withdrew the stick and examined it. "Woman job," he said dismissively.

"Women's work," Uncas corrected. "Don't be lazy in your speech. Remember what you read in my father's book from the cabin: speaking reflects thinking. Besides," he added, knowing Ben would expect a practical application, "there will not always be women around to do it for you."

"Don't remember," Ben said. He still had a strong argumentative streak that needed curing.

A couple of boys appeared to eat; they paused when they saw Ben, who tensed when he saw them. They looked alike enough to be brothers; the older one murmured something to the younger and Uncas was not surprised to hear that the word "schiquineu" was part of what he said.

Ben's white skin grew even whiter. Uncas dropped the pumpkin rind to the ground, where it was immediately devoured by a waiting dog, and moved towards the boys. The younger one ran off, but the elder, who had been taught to stand his ground, did not, though he looked intimidated.

"What's your name?"

"Tsela."

"You live with both your parents?"

The lad nodded.

"Then you are lucky. But think on this. If they died, Manto keep that from happening, you too would be schiquineu." Uncas waited for a few heartbeats and then continued, "You will be a man soon. A man without compassion is no man at all."

The boy bowed his head.

"I do not want to hear that word around the camp again," Uncas said. "Tell the other boys to watch their tongues."

"Yes, older brother." Tsela waited for Uncas's gesture of dismissal and once he got it, ran off to join his sibling.

Uncas returned to Ben's side. Ben was staring at him with mingled respect and a touch of bitterness.

"You must do that yourself next time," Uncas told him. "I will not always be here. Now come, if you're finished eating. We can have a writing lesson before it's time to sleep."

Ben followed him obligingly back to the wikwam, without a sigh or a roll of his eyes, which was a definite improvement over the previous occasion when Uncas had insisted he practice writing.

"Nuhshum." Chingachgook crouched by Alice, resting the back of his hand on her forehead for a moment. "Wake. You were dreaming."

Alice sat up, in a daze, aware of moonlight, aware that he had just referred to her as his daughter-in-law again. Wonderingly she brought her own hands up to her face and realized it was damp with tears.

He turned away then, and she was glad for that, as it allowed her a few moments to regain some composure. She had no sense of time passing, though based on the progress of the moon in the sky she must have been sleeping for some while already. Fumbling around for her water, she took a drink, and hastily wiped her face.

She had not yet caught Chingachgook sleeping, though she assumed he must at some point. He did look more tired than usual; the moonlight revealed every line of age and wear on his skin. She felt a momentary stab of guilt. Surely he would rather be back with his people attending to his sister than accompanying her to Albany. But they would not have let her go alone (and if she had to do so, who knew what harm may have befallen her) and she could not have borne to have it be Uncas. Strangely, however, the longer the Mohegan elder went without pressing her for an explanation or apology, the more she felt like giving one. Alice did not, after the fact, blame Nathaniel for his unexpected attack on her motives and intentions—she understood at least a little how it must look from his perspective; but there had been no possible way she could defend her decisions when he had challenged her.

It was their third night of travel. They had paralleled the road for most of the way, although Chingachgook insisted on keeping well out of sight of any other journeyers, also bypassing the few small settlements scattered along the road.

Alice remembered little of the days; nights were more difficult, as she could not keep her thoughts on what lay ahead of her, only recalling what she had left behind.

She longed to be in Albany already.

Rising now, she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her hair, feeling the need to be unremarkable, indistinct. "We may as well keep going," she said. "I shall not sleep any more tonight."

"It is the same to me," Chingachgook agreed. "But my son would not thank me if I hurried you."

"On the contrary, you have been very patient," Alice replied, hoping she could deflect him from further speculations on Uncas's wishes regarding her treatment.

"Of course, you must want to reach your relative as soon as possible."

Alice wondered if he meant this ironically, but his expression seemed ingenuous enough.

"I do," she said at last, sensing she was being drawn into a conversation somewhat against her own will, but unable to avoid it. "Until now, I did not know there was any of my father's family here on these shores."

"Family is important," Chingachgook accorded, and now she was sure there was something dry in his tone.

"I am sorry that you had to leave your sister," Alice said, the words tumbling out in rather more haste than seemed decorous. He must think I have little concern for anyone's welfare but my own. I have not given him much reason to think so, but still...

"Uncas will take the proper care of her." He looked at her directly now when he said this.

Alice tried her absolute utmost to stare back at him, but her gaze wavered and fell. "I..I am sure that he will," she murmured. "May we...may we go?"

Chingachgook rose from his crouched position. Though he was slightly shorter than either Uncas or Nathaniel, he made a formidable figure: still every bit a warrior despite his increasing years, there was something about him that did not ask for respect; it did not need to. His authority was unassuming and all-encompassing.

"My son has chosen you," he said, quietly, "but you do not choose him."

"It is...not that simple," Alice faltered, knowing she could not prevaricate against such a statement. "I need more time."

"A winter's worth of time was insufficient?"

"I need...a break."

I need something...oh, why is it that I do not know myself what it is I need, she thought wildly, and why must I be constantly asked when I have not had a chance to determine it for myself? How exhausting it was to be perpetually in a state of defense!

"Perhaps it is because you are English," Chingachgook said, startling her for a moment since it was as if he were commenting on her thoughts. "I did give Uncas warning to that effect."

Alice wondered if the continued conversation was the Mohegan man's way of punishing her. "It is not his fault."

"When you have found what you are looking for, you will come back."

Was that a question? She did not know. And had no answer to give.

He gestured then, that they would go, and Alice gladly moved out of the moonlight into the darkness of the sheltering trees, where all she had to think about was where to step, and keeping him in sight so she did not lose her way.

Yesterday he told me that we could reach the city in two more nights...if I can just manage two more nights, then he will be gone, and my last reminder of Uncas with him...

"Ready to keep going?" Nathaniel bent down by Cora's side and gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. They had been resting for most of an hour. Cora still felt like there was nothing she wanted to do more than continue her nap, but there was yet so much traveling ahead of them that she hated to prolong it. She nodded. "If I may just have some water."

Nathaniel helped her to drink and then crouched back on his heels, regarding her. "I wonder if I shouldn't have let you talk me into taking you back."

"Why?" Cora smiled a little at his regretful tone. She was not having any second thoughts, despite her almost constant weariness. It was the right thing to do. Stretching out her legs, she said, "We have had perfect weather until now, and nothing untoward has happened, has it?"

"No," Nathaniel admitted, "but maybe we are pushing our luck, all the same." He rubbed a hand over his face and she realized, though he hadn't said as much, that he was probably just as tired as she was. After all, he was staying awake for most of the nights. It had been a luxury to be able to trade watches with Uncas and Nachenum on the way down. Now, it was completely up to him to ensure their safety.

"You should be resting," she said, reaching out to touch his gritty jaw. "When I take a break you are always roaming about looking for something for me to eat."

"You are always hungry," Nathaniel replied with a grin.

It was true. Her nausea had peaked at the camp, and in the last week had subsided, leaving her feeling almost constantly ravenous, particularly for fresh foods which were difficult to come by. A large part of her thoughts were occupied by musings of food and what she would experiment with making once they were back at the cabin. It did not help to assuage her cravings, of course; but it was better than thinking about nothing.

Or worrying about what Alice was doing. Cora gazed past Nathaniel's shoulder, distracted. Should they not have insisted that Alice accompany them back, if she were so determined not to stay with Uncas? Had she failed in her duty as an older sister? Her father would have wanted them to be together. But, she reminded herself, it was too late to worry about that; they had already parted ways once, and now it was as if their situations were reversed; she was going to the wilderness while Alice was taking her turn in the city.

If that were all it was. That had to be all it was. After a few months Alice would surely come to her senses and realize that she did not belong in Albany any more than Cora and Nathaniel did.

She became aware that Nathaniel's grave stare, focused on her face, meant he knew what direction her thoughts were taking now. She often saw a similar look on his face and knew at these times he was thinking of his brother. She smiled again, a little sadly this time.

"Alice is going to be fine," he said, after a moment. "Father will see to that."

Cora was touched that he was trying to reassure her, since she suspected he still privately condemned her sister. "I know that, but once he leaves her in the city, anything could happen. After all—it has been a year since that letter was written. Our father's cousin could have died, or moved away, or..."

"Or any number of things could go wrong. I know."

"She is not a child, but still..." Cora sighed. "She may be a little—spoiled, having been born second in our family. I think she feels as if she is missing something...as though she cannot settle down without knowing whether there is something better for her." Seeing Nathaniel's frown she added, "No, I do not mean that, exactly. That is, I do not think that anyone would treat her better than Uncas does, but..." She hesitated, confused.

"You mean she might be happier with an uncomplicated British gentleman," Nathaniel said with a twist of his lip.

Cora looked at him wryly. "That is not who I chose, why should she? No...but Alice, in her own way, is more conventional than I, and I think she has expectations which she may only now be realizing cannot be fulfilled. I may be wrong, Nathaniel. I am only speculating."

"Well," Nathaniel said, rising, his gaze having hardened, "I only wish my brother didn't have to suffer for her expectations."

"So do I," Cora murmured. "You were right. It is not fair to him." She reached out for his hand to help her up, and brushed off her dress as she did so. "Shall we move on?"

Three days before the coming of the harvest moon, Chingachgook's sister died.

Uncas had not been present at her passing, which was a source of some guilt to him. He had returned from an afternoon's hunt with Ben to find Sanquen, solemn-faced, waiting with the news. Tiskemanis grieved long and loudly for her mother, though she had been busy with her two babies and had done little, to Uncas' way of thinking, towards helping; it had been his younger cousin who had kept long hours by the ill woman's bedside, as he himself had.

It was Sanquen, too, who threw herself into the ritual preparations that the deceased required, with a fervor that was commendable, although Uncas was concerned that the girl was taking too much upon her shoulders. He never saw her in moments of leisure now; and when he came upon her outside the wikwam tanning a hide with as much fierceness as any warrior, he crouched down beside her and took the tool out of her hands. "Quen. Stop."

Sanquen rocked back on her heels and rubbed sweat out of her eyes with a brown forearm. "I need to do something."

"I know, but not all the time. This can wait."

She looked at him, her dark eyes heavy with sadness. "My mother is gone."

"I know," he said again, reaching encouragingly for her shoulder. "I should have been here."

Sanquen shook her head. "You barely left her at all...it just happened to be me."

"I regret the loss of my aunt," Uncas said. He felt sudden pity for the girl. She would have to stay with Tiskemanis and Machque now, and he suspected Tiskemanis would depend on her rather more than usual for childminding. It was, of course, a younger sister's responsibility to help out, until the girl was old enough to find her own husband and start a family; still, it seemed to Uncas that she had not had much of a childhood. If he ever had a daughter, he would want the child to know plenty of freedom...

He repressed this thought with a wince.

Neither Sanquen nor Nachenum had brought up the topic of Alice since the day the English girl had gone. Looking down at the hide as she spoke, the girl said, "You have lost something yourself."

"Don't remind me, cousin." He tried to speak lightly but it did not come out quite that way.

The sorrow that Sanquen felt over her mother's death melted into something richer, blent with empathy, projecting clearly as she looked at him. "Is it awful?"

A sudden gust of wind sent early leaves scattering around their legs, reminding them both that the season was changing; that the fine weather would soon be over; that fall, and winter, were on their way. "Yes," Uncas admitted.

"I expect it is worse than death," Sanquen said softly. "At least death is final. Nusiwôhtum, nuntôyuquksak." [I am so sorry, older brother.]

He could not meet her eyes. All around them, the sounds of life continued; the singing of the wind, the rushing of the distant river; the thrum of arrows leaving bows as boys practiced; a mother calling sharply to her child; rough canine barking. And he was alive, and still part of it; but she was right. It did feel worse than death to be part of it now.

No matter where you go, I will find you.

But if she did not want to be found?