Impossible. It was impossible. His father could not have traveled so far to find him, only for Matthieu to die so stupidly, so close to home.

The water dragged and sucked at him as he treaded water, pulling on his legs, arcing heavy sheets of water over his head. He was so tired already. He tried, between strokes and waves, to kick off his boots. The one floated away easily, leaving his foot light and free. He mistimed the other and got a choking mouthful of salt for his mistake.

He struggled to cough it out, and another wave broke over his head. This is how people drown, he thought. One little mistake after another. One boy against an endless ocean of waves; it was hopeless.

When Matthieu saw the yellow sails looming against the sky, he thought at first that he'd got turned around and it was his father's ship come back for him. Elation surged in his heart.

But of course it was not his ship. It was the pirates coming after him. Coming to reclaim their plunder.

He wept now, wept with fear and rage, the tears hidden in the seawater that streamed down his face, sobs choked out around the chop of the waves. They were coming for him, and he would go to them. He would go, because he didn't have the courage to let the waves take him. He would be taken back to the Tarzine lands, and he would be all alone.

STRONG HANDS REACHED out to him, caught first at his billowing shirt and then his arms. He was hauled into a dinghy, gasping and dizzy, black flares in front of his eyes. His belly roiled and he vomited in great coughing convulsions, stomach and lungs both ridding themselves of what felt like pails full of seawater.

Someone was holding his shoulders as he retched, steadying him. When he was done, they wrapped around his chest and hauled him backward, pulling him against a broad warm body. Matthieu tried to fight, weak as he was. He mumbled curses and pulled against the arms that held him. Let them cut his throat for it, what difference did it make?

Then the voice that had been speaking quietly in his ear penetrated.

"Matthieu. Easy, son. Easy. You're safe now, lad. Matthieu, it's me."

Matthieu twisted around to stare at his captor. Thick blond hair whipping in the wind. Blue eyes that twinkled when they teased. A mouth that was almost always smiling-but not now. Now it looked, just a little, like it might be crying.

Matthieu flung himself into his uncle Tristan's waiting arms and held on tight.

DOMINIC'S SHIP SAILED into Blanchette harbor early the next afternoon with a full escort from Tristan's new sea patrol: two tubby Krylian merchant vessels and the Tarzine pirate ship they had managed to capture during a raid.

Tristan grinned at Dominic's surprise. "You didn't think I'd be sitting around here doing nothing while you were gone? I would have lost my mind worrying about you and driven Rosie to distraction."

"You did drive me to distraction," Rosalie retorted, "but it made no difference-we were all crazy with worry anyway."

"It is one of Turga's ships, I hope?" asked Yolenka. Tristan shrugged.

"Haven't been able to find out yet-we need an interpreter. Actually, I was wondering if you-"

"I am yours." Yolenka offered herself with a dancer's courtesy.

"Hang on. I thought you said you were mine!" Derkh objected. His dark eyebrows drew down in displeasure.

"Derkh, I mean only...Is not-" Yolenka discomfited was a rare sight, and Derkh enjoyed it. Briefly. Then he relented.

"I'm joking. You're not the only one who can act a part."

Dominic hooted with laughter. Tristan and Rosie looked bemused.

"If you had seen what this man suffered," Dominic explained. "He deserves his revenge."

"What I do, I do for your children!" Yolenka rounded on him, color rising into her golden cheeks.

"I know it." Dominic became serious. "Yolenka, I know it, and I want to thank you again. You were magnificent-your dancing and everything else."

White teeth flashed into brilliance. Yolenka turned to Derkh, her smile triumphant.

"You see? Here is man who understands art."

MATTHIEU AND MADELEINE were alone at last. The entire DesChenes clan had met their ship at the pier; but Justine and Solange had spirited the two children straight home. There they had been embraced, exclaimed at and wept over, bathed and fed and dosed with "strengthening tonic," hugged first shyly and then with exuberant glee by Sylvain, questioned and sometimes just stared at with silent hunger by their mother. They had borne it all patiently, happily even.

Now, as Sylvain commandeered his grandmother's attention and Justine, satisfied at last that her children really were all right, pulled herself away to catch up with Dominic, their eyes met. The smile that pa.s.sed between them was complicated: a shared acknowledgement that it was good, better than good, to be home-and that home was not quite the same. They were not quite the same.

Neither had any doubt that they would soon be bickering and annoying each other just like before. But they knew now that the bond between them was stronger than any bickering. What they had been through together, how they had stood by each other-that was forever.

The afternoon sun streamed through the sunroom's skylight, brightening every corner and setting fire to Madeleine's hair.

"So, Matthieu," she said.

Her smile grew into a challenging grin.

"Want to play chiggers?"

EPILOGUE.

THE FIRST LASTING SNOWFALL of the year powdered the tree branches and m.u.f.fled their footsteps. Gabrielle walked lightly, enjoying the glittering silent woodland. Winter would bring hardship to many: dwindling food stores, freezing nights, coughs and illnesses of all kinds. Yet in winter's first weeks, she couldn't help loving the swaddled mysterious beauty of a world blanketed in snow.

Feolan led the way, slipping through the branches as sound-lessly as a ghost. Gabrielle had improved, but she would never match the Elves' ability to glide through deep woods with hardly a rustle. He must be nervous, Gabrielle thought, to come so far into the forest. He needs to be sure no one will overhear.

At last, in the protected circle of a small clearing, he brushed off a fallen log, sat her down and stood before her. He seemed about to speak, searching for words, but then he shrugged. "Ah, it is what it is. I'm just stalling." And he opened his mouth and began to sing.

He chose a cradlesong, simpler in its melody than most Elvish music but beautiful and hypnotic.

Gabrielle closed her eyes to listen, not wanting to be distracted by Feolan's self-consciousness or to increase it by staring.

It was certainly not the clear fluid voice she was used to. The voice that sang to her now was deeper, with a distinct grain. Growly in the bottom notes and husky at the top of his range, Feolan's voice was like no other Elf's on earth. Yet the more she listened, the more Gabrielle heard warmth and depth and Feolan's own sure musicality. He had found the beauty in the damaged instrument he had been given.

The song came to an end, but Gabrielle sat still, holding the sound in her mind.

Feolan cleared his throat. "That bad?"

"Oh, love, no, I'm sorry!" Gabrielle was penitent. "That was mean, to keep you waiting while I daydreamed."

He shifted his weight, like a boy at lessons asked to recite.

"What do you think, then?"

She grinned at him. "Well, you'll never be asked to sing at a wedding or baby naming."

He laughed in agreement, the tension broken. Eyed her. "Is there a 'but' to come?"

"There is indeed," she agreed. "BUT-I know of at least two people who will always be glad to listen to you sing."

"You being one?"

"Me being one," she said. She kept him waiting just for a heartbeat. "Your child being the other."

"My-"

Gabrielle watched as the import of her words took hold. She had never seen his eyes so round.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "So soon?"

"So soon?" Now it was her turn to stare. "It's been six years!"

"That's what I mean," he began. Then he closed his mouth. Walked over to her, pulled her up from her log and wrapped her in his arms.

"Even after six years, now and then our worlds b.u.mp together, and I am slow to catch on," he said. "It wasn't soon for you, was it?"

She shook her head against his chest, a little teary. "I was wondering if it would ever happen."

They held each other in the snowy silent clearing. Then Gabrielle pulled back a little. "I'm sorry to take you by surprise. Will it be a problem?"

"It will be wonderful." He meant it. Had she been blindfolded and missed the dazed silly grin that spread across his face, she would still have felt his delight. "Some surprises are good. Some are wonderful."

"Feolan, I'm afraid I lied to you earlier," Gabrielle confessed. "You will be asked to sing at a baby naming, after all."

Holly Bennett is the author of The Bonemender and The Bonemender's Oath, prequels to The Bonemender's Choice, as well as the Druidic fantasy, The Warrior's Daughter. In addition to writing, she is editor-in-chief of Today's Parent Special Editions. Born in Montreal, Quebec, she lives in Peterborough, Ontario, with a houseful of musicians (three sons and a husband) and a nice quiet dog.

New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age.

IRA Notable Book.

Canadian Children's Book Centre Our Choice starred selection

Ontario Library a.s.sociation White Pine Award nominee

The Bonemender

978-1-55143-336-3 $9.95 CDN $8.95 US PB

Ages 12+

"...will appeal to fantasy and adventure

fans alike." -KLIATT

The Bonemender's Oath

978-1-55143-443-8 $9.95 CDN $8.95 US PB

Ages 12+

"...engaging characters, suspense, a