“Then I don’t need directions. I know the man. I’ll go to the same place as before.” He hesitated. “Thing is, Mrs. Stoney… You’re happy with him, are you? Because you’re not his only customer. It’s not just her furniture in his store. He does a lot of trade.”

“He was her late husband’s steward,” Alys said coolly. “A position of great trust. She trusts him.”

“Then I’ll say nothing more. Same terms?”

“Yes, collect and ship another twenty crates. Five pounds a ton.”

She took out a purse and counted out fifteen pounds in a promissory note from a merchant, and coins.

“Scraping the bottom of the cashbox?” the Captain guessed. He picked up the note. “Is this good?”

“Yes,” she said shortly. “And you’ll deliver another twenty crates?”

“How many has she got tucked away out there?” he asked curiously.

“It’s her dower. Her personal goods.”

The Captain scowled at her. “And that steward of hers is going to get an export license for another twenty crates of goods, personal goods? Not antiquities for export, his usual trade, which needs another license entirely, but ‘personal goods’? And you want me to land them at your warehouse as personal goods? Paying no tax in London neither?”

“Yes,” Alys confirmed.

“Was it a palace she owned, that she’s emptying?”

“It was, actually,” Alys replied.

He gave her a level gaze from under bushy salt-bleached eyebrows. “Never in all my dealing with you have I seen you put a false account in to Excise,” he said. “Everyone else does it, all the time—but never you.”

“This isn’t false,” Alys protested.

“False as whore’s tears,” he said roundly. “But it’s not me risking my neck for a pair of dark eyes and a nasty temper.”

“I’m not—” Alys started, and was surprised when he put a calloused hand on top of hers.

“I don’t ask,” he said kindly. “But when I come home, and this deal is done, I shall speak with you, Mrs. Stoney,” he said. “And I shall put a question to you, and you’ll tell me the truth. But not till then.”

“I always tell the tr—” Alys was halted by the pressure of his warm hand over her own.

“I know,” he said. “I know you were as straight as an arrow. You’re not yourself now. But I’ll put a question to you. When I come home.”

NOVEMBER 1670, HADLEY, NEW ENGLAND

The winter was coming surely onward, Ned felt as if it were coming just for him, like a private enemy. Every day was shorter, every night was colder; he went into the woods at midday and gathered as many nuts as he could, peeling bark off the sassafras tree, picking the last growth of the moss, looking out for the edible mushrooms, rooting for groundnuts, knowing that the darkness was coming, knowing that the snow would come and hide everything. He sold the calf to one of the other settlers so that he did not have to feed him through the winter, and took cheeses and two smoked hams in trade. He stabled the cow and the sheep together, so that they could keep each other warm, and when he locked them up under a black sky, pierced with stars, the frozen cold of the metal bolt made his mittens stick to the iron.

The extra thatch on his house was all that stood between him and yawning arc of the icy sky. Ned, who had been exposed to the elements all his life, and had never feared an English winter, thought that this was a season that took a man to the edge of fear.

He was so dreading the solitary nights of winter that he was delighted to see Wussausmon’s dugout nose to the pier, and the man clamber out and come up the steps to the bank.

“Lord! It’s good to see you!” he said. “I am sick of my own company already, and it’s only November.”

Wussausmon showed his slow smile. “Why not go into the town for the winter? Would they not give you a bed at the minister’s house?”

Ned shrugged. “I can’t leave the beasts,” he said. “And Mr. Russell’s house is crowded as it is. I’ll get used to it as the winter closes in—I’m just getting used to it now. Are you staying the night?”

The man shook his head. “I’m going downriver. I was at Norwottuck this morning and Quiet Squirrel sent these for you. She says you can have them for a cheese.” He held out a bundle that looked like an armful of half-woven basketware.

“Come in out of the cold anyway,” Ned said. “What are you doing at Norwottuck in this season? I’d have thought you’d be beside your fire at home in Natick?” He led the way indoors and pulled off his thick woolen jacket.

“Visiting,” Wussausmon said nonchalantly.

“Pokanoket business?” Ned asked acutely.

“Colony business, actually,” Wussausmon said. “The governor and Council at Plymouth asked me to take messages to all the tribes that are not allied to the Pokanoket.”

“Are there any?” Ned demanded. “Surely, those who aren’t kin have sworn friendship?”

“Hardly any. I told them that. But the Council is determined to turn his own friends and kinsmen against the Massasoit.”

Ned hesitated, wanting to ask more.

“See what she’s sent you!” Wussausmon urged.

Ned sat on a stool as Wussausmon lowered himself in an easy crouch. Ned disentangled his gift. At first he thought it was a fish trap; he saw bended whips of supple sticks tied together with strings of hide, and woven with split withies. They looked like two great flat baskets. He looked at Wussausmon for an explanation.

“Snowshoes!” the man told him. “Quiet Squirrel made them for you, thinking that you would be able to walk into the woods when the snow comes. Have you got some already?”

“No!” Ned exclaimed. “I don’t know anyone who has them. I’ve only seen a French trapper wear them. I’ve always dug out my path and struggled along. Isn’t it hard to learn to walk on them?”

“It’s just walking,” Wussausmon smiled. “Coatmen can walk? Just keep your tips up.”

“How do I fit them?” Ned asked.

“That’s the other part of her gift to you,” Wussausmon told him. “You’ll have to give up your shoes, you’ll have to wear moccasins like the People of the Dawnlands.”

“She’s always hated my shoes,” Ned complained. “And my feet will freeze!”

“No, they won’t. These are winter moccasins, they’re made from moose fur; your feet will be warm. Far better than in your boots, and she’s given you buckskin leggings to tuck into them.”

Ned looked at the beautifully stitched moccasins, more like the bootees that an English child might wear in the cradle than shoes for a man, but he could see they were thickly lined with fur and were made with double skins, real native boots.

“Try them!” Wussausmon suggested.

Ned heeled off his heavy shoes and his cold damp hose and slid a bare foot into the fur-lined moccasin; the comfort and the warmth was instantaneous. Wussausmon laughed aloud at Ned’s face.

“Shall I tell her you’ll give her a cheese for them?”