She saw the curiosity in Everett's face, and she saw disappointment. He did not want to be running errands to another man for her. But he said nothing of that. "If that will help, that's what I'll do."

For a moment, Ingrid thought to squeeze his hand in gratitude. But no, she knew how he would take that, and he would take wrongly. "It will. Thank you, Everett."

Everett nodded, put his cap back on his dark head and stepped away across the yard. He was too late to catch the boats going out. He had lost himself today's work to come here to her.

Why do I not love him? Ingrid closed her eyes, and there in her private darkness, she saw Avan in the firelight, and she saw his long, graceful hands. Swiftly, she opened her eyes again, and went upstairs to Grace.

Grace lay still as a corpse under the faded quilts, her unbound hair spread out on the pillow showing the snarls the night wind had teased in it. Her eyes were open, but Ingrid had no idea what she saw.

Ingrid sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the comb that lay on the chest. Slowly, gently, she began to run it through her sister's hair, singing softly.

"Hushaby, don't you cry.

Go to sleepy, little baby.

When you wake, you shall have All the pretty little horses."

"Ingrid?" Grace's voice was little more than a whisper.

"Yes, Grace. I'm here."

"I didn't mean to ... I was under the water. It was so heavy, I was so tired. I was afraid I would drown. My lungs were freezing. He held me. He told me he would keep me safe. I cried to go home. He said I could, but that I must promise to come back. He was so lonely. I promised." She paused, and her chest heaved in a silent sob. "I don't want to go, Ingrid."

"You will not go." Ingrid gently teased out one more snarl. "I promise."

"He calls me. He calls me by my promise and he is never quiet. I didn't know before, but I do now, and he calls ..."

Ingrid gripped her sister's shoulder. "Do not listen to him, Grace. He had no right to bind you so. You must not listen."

"So cold." Ingrid bit her lip to hear how much her sister sounded like the ghost.

Ingrid wrapped her arms around Grace and held her close, rocking gently back and forth. "He will not have you, sister. I swear by God in Heaven he will not have you."

Avanasy watched Ingrid Loftfield fall into step with her family, her back straight, and her hands gathering up her hems to keep them out of the way of her long, swinging stride. Her auburn hair had come loose during her night's adventures, and fell in dark curls down the back of her neck.

"Well, well, the one that got away, eh?" A hand slapped him hard on the shoulder. He turned his eyes from Ingrid to see Roman Thorfeld, a bony, blue-eyed man grinning at him, showing all his tobacco-stained teeth. Avanasy cursed himself for staring too long.

"I was just thinkin' about her poor sister," he said mildly, falling into the lower speech the fishermen favored. "Gone right out of her head I figger."

"Ja, ja." Thorfeld, like a number of the men grown up on the shores of Lake Superior seemed to speak a blend of three or four different languages. He was not a vicious man, just of a coarse upbringing, and now he shook his head heavily. " *S a shame too. They're good people, the Loftfields. *S a sorry shame."

"And we're doin' mithin' *tall for *em by standin' here," announced Elias Ilkka, a squat, dark Finnishman, tough as tarred rope and the nominal leader of the itinerant fisherman who clung to the shore of Sand Island. "Let's get to it, boys."

The men voiced their agreement in their various tongues, and trooped to the docks in a mass. Avanasy stayed with them. It was not what he wanted, but he feared that if he begged off, it would direct more talk at the Loftfields and plenty of that already swirled around him. Every incident, every encounter or interaction, especially involving the unfortunate Grace, was remembered, kicked over, examined, and improved upon. It went on all through the day, even out on the gray waters with the sharp wind pouring over them and all the work of rope, sail, net and the great loads of silver-blue fish to attend to. Omens for the misbegotten voyage were remembered, and Grace's wild ways. Her mother was a Catholic, it was said repeatedly, with many a sagacious nod, and her sister at twenty-three showed no signs of marrying, even with Everett Lederle hanging about her door like a hungry dog.

With all this gossip, all of it relishing its own stories, all of it essentially wrong, Avanasy found it hard to lose himself in the work, as he usually did. By the time they came in at late afternoon, it was all he could do to make himself help with sluicing the decks and hanging the nets up to dry. As soon as he was able he retreated to the shack on the shore where he lived amidst a cluster of other fishermen, each in their own summer shack. Come winter they would all head across to the mainland and turn to timbering for the season.

Come winter, what will you do? Avanasy dropped into his rough chair and stared at the banked coals in his tin stove.

After a time, he got up, poked the fire to life, put the remainder of the morning coffee on to heat, and lit his pipe with a splinter. He'd acquired the habit of both the brew and the bowl shortly after coming here, observing them to be the norm for the men around him, and he had to admit he found them both pleasant enough, if harsh. Like the backbreaking work on the boats, there was a rough enjoyment to be had in them, along with the singing, the gossip, the drink, and the wild beauty of the islands. He'd thought himself content. Not comfortable, to be sure, and there were days when the easy familiarity of his fellow fishers could still slap up hard against his pride. But content. Content enough.

Until last night.

He'd lied when he told Ingrid he'd been awake for too much thinking. He'd woken because he'd felt a change in the air. Something unchancy, Roman Thorfeld would have called it, and that was as good a word as any. He'd felt such things before in this world on the far shore of the Land of Death and Spirit, but those sensations had been fleeting, momentary brushes with whatever spirit powers this world held. He'd felt nothing so strong and so steady since he'd left Isavalta. All his blood sang in his veins at the touch of power, real power, and he'd gone to meet it like a lover.

There he'd found Ingrid Loftfield facing down a dead man, and about to die for it.

He hadn't even thought. He'd drawn his knife, and charged. Thankfully, the ghost had with him something of the living world it was using as an anchor, or else Avanasy would have done little more with his blade than annoy it.

Not that the burning of that shawl has driven it off for more than one night. Avanasy sucked on the stem of his pipe, noticing only absently that its fire had gone out.

He had not worked any magic since three days after he landed here. He'd woven himself a simple spell of understanding that he might speak with the people who now surrounded him. Or it should have been simple, requiring that he take pains and be precise in his workings, yes, but otherwise it should have been of no great moment. But the effort of it had laid him low for almost a whole day. Among the many strangenesses of this world was this truth - that the magic was buried deep in the fabric of soul and soil and it would be coaxed out only with great reluctance. So, Avanasy had abandoned the work of magic for the work of fishing. It had seemed no great sacrifice. He had believed that exile and Medeoan's turning away had left him with little desire to continue as a sorcerer.

But then had come that touch of the other world last night, the brush of power, and he'd woken hungry for it. No, ravenous. It could have been anything, any monster, any trickster, anything at all, and if Ingrid and Grace had not been there to bring his other instincts into play, he might have done anything at all to keep it by him, to feel that touch of power that his blood so missed.

"I spent my life telling Medeoan she could not change what she was," he murmured to the fire. "It seems I did not listen to my own good teachings."

And I have given my word to help. He chewed on the stem of the pipe. He did not move to relight it. What did his word mean here? The word of a fisherman? The word of Avan? Nothing. He was no one in this place, with neither reputation nor honor to guard, and better off so. Power, and the revelation of power, could endanger him, forcing him further away into this world.

And the next time a power finds you? How much worse will it be next time?

Avanasy sighed. He removed his pipe from his mouth, knocked it out against the edge of the tin can he kept for the purpose, and stood. In the corner of his shack waited a heavy wooden chest which he kept locked with an iron lock, and which he now opened with an iron key he wore on a thong around his neck.

Inside lay his old clothes and boots, wrapped in oiled brown paper he'd purchased after his arrival, along with some gold stored up against emergency, and three silken scarves, woven with his own hands, each of them tied with three different knots.

Avanasy chose the blue scarf, and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. After locking the chest again, he turned to consider the contents of his cabin. He really should have wine for this, but there was none. He set some fresh coffee on to brew, wrapped up a packet of tobacco and his spare pipe, and set out some bread and smoked fish on the least battered of his tin plates. Rough fare, but the best hospitality he had, and that was what would count.

As the coffee finished, he went outside and laid a fire on the sand, lighting it with kindling of pine needles and splintered driftwood. The night was silent, except for the noises of wind and water. The other huts were dark and the men within them snoring loudly in their sleep. Avanasy laid his offerings out on the far side of the blaze and drew the scarf from his pocket. He spat on the knot and breathed across it, and tossed the scarf into the fire.

For a moment the fire burned bright blue, and a shower of sapphire sparks rose from the flames, then it shone red, and then white, but gradually, the pure white light faded, and the fire glowed golden again, as if it were nothing more than a blaze of driftwood. Avan sat down on a stone, and waited.

The moon had worked its way another inch up the dome of the sky when the rabbit came hopping down the beach. Its round black eyes reflected Avanasy's firelight as it advanced, hopping tentatively forward a few inches at a time, pausing to sniff the air. At last, it sat up on its haunches, combing its ears and twitching its whiskers.

Avanasy stood, and reverenced in his best courtly manner to the creature.

"I would be honored, sir, on this chill night, if you would join me at my fire, and share my poor fare."

The rabbit cocked its head to one side, considering. Then it hopped up to the plate bearing the smoked fish and bread. It used its teeth to drag one scrap of bread off the plate, and began to eat. It ate all that bread, and the next piece, and the next, and then all the fish.

Then, it ate the plate.

Avanasy held himself very still. The rabbit advanced on the tobacco, snuffling it eagerly, drew a leaf out and ate that, and the paper it was wrapped in, and the pipe. Still, Avanasy did not blink, although he could not hold back some regret that he was about to lose his coffeepot. The rabbit stuffed its face into the coffee mug and drank it dry, swallowing the cup whole when it was finished. It knocked over the pot with one blow of its paw and crawled halfway inside, guzzling up the hot brew.

Then, to Avanasy's mild surprise, it withdrew its head, and sat up again on its haunches. And it was no longer a rabbit. Instead, it was a fat little man with copper skin and black hair bound in thongs hanging down past his shoulders. His ears were as long as his hair, and the lobes dangled down to his chest. His face was merry, and he smelled of sweat, tobacco, and coffee.

He belched loudly, the force of it shaking his long earlobes and making his round belly bounce. "You're a long way from home, I think, magician," he said.

Avanasy bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I am, sir."

"And why have you come so far to set out such a feast for Nanabush, eh?" He leaned forward. "Must want something, eh?"

Again, Avanasy bowed. "I have heard it said it is ever the way with us."

"Ha! Too true. Now, let me see if I can guess what ails you." Nanabush tugged at one pendulous earlobe. "There's a ghost, and there's a girl, and she's a fool and he's a bigger one, and you're the biggest fool of three."

Avanasy said nothing.

Nanabush spat in the fire. "Knots and bindings, nets and weavings, that's your business, and you want Nanabush to tell how to get yourself untangled."

"Is there a way within my power to remove the haunting from the Loftfield family?"

"Nets and knots with you," said Nanabush, picking up the coffeepot and squinting inside with one round eye to inspect the bottom for more liquid. "Always nets and knots. Poor tangled magician."

Avanasy reminded himself of the absolute need for patience. "I believe I have had dealings with a relation of yours. She is queen of the lokai, the fox spirits, in my homeland."

"The Vixen. Yes." Nanabush held the spout of the coffeepot over his wide open mouth and let the last drop of liquid fall in. "She speaks of you." He smacked his lips loudly and belched again.

"Of your courtesy, tender her my best respect."

Nanabush stuffed his fist into the coffeepot, running one fat finger down along the bottom. "She says if you stay here you will live longer."

"I thank you for that news."

"Poor tangled magician." Nanabush sucked on his finger thoughtfully. "You fish. I've seen you."

Avanasy bowed. "It allows me to earn my keep."

"And it is not that different from shore to shore?"

"No, but one must know the waters."

Nanabush raised his finger to make his point. "And the fish themselves."

He was getting close to an answer. Avanasy could feel it, but he must not appear too eager. "I have heard, sir, that you know the waters and the fish better than any."

"Ha! It's true, it's true." Nanabush tapped his finger on the edge of the coffeepot. "These waters are deep, and they're dark. Many a soul is lost down there looking for the fish."

"So I have heard," said Avanasy gravely.

"But it's not just the soul that one must find." Nanabush shook his head, his earlobes flapping and flopping against his chest. "No. It's the bones. The bones of the fish that must be found and warmed. Bones bind as tight as any net."

"There is great wisdom in what you say."

"Ha! You will profit from listening to Nanabush." He shook his ears, tossing his lobes over his shoulders. "But others listen too. And others know things. The fish know that the dark of the moon is the time for fishermen, and they know that is the time for catching little fish, as well as big fish."

"Things do not so much differ from shore to shore."

"Not as much as some might think." Nanabush contemplated the coffeepot one more time, then dropped it onto the sand and kicked it across to Avanasy. "Nets and knots. Stay clear of the bindings and you'll live longer." His eyes twinkled. "Unless, of course, it is the bindings and their undoing that save your life."

Then there was only the rabbit, hieing itself fast across the sand and disappearing into the brush. Then, there was only Avanasy and his fire, and his empty coffeepot.

Avanasy picked up the pot. Well now he knew. Perhaps he knew too much. That was the risk of calling upon the spirits. He knew he could save Grace Loftfield. He had to raise the bones of the ghost at the dark of the moon, the very night the ghost would call Grace to him for the final, fatal time.

But, he also knew that should he ever return to Isavalta he would die. Unless, of course, he would live.

Nets and knots. Poor tangled magician.

Chapter Two.

Medeoan stood at her mother's bedside and willed her to keep breathing.

The empress's private chamber was dark except for the light from the two braziers burning their pungent mixtures of charcoal and cleansing herbs which the physicians had prescribed as an attempt to clear the mucus from the empress's lungs.

Without daylight, the rich apartment seemed as robbed of its vitality as the woman lying still and sallow under the layers of goose down and royal blue velvet. The skin sagged around her throat and jowls, hanging in folds like the heavy curtains around her bed.

At least her eyes were still open, thought Medeoan as she reached out to try to smooth her mother's burning brow. At least some small sound still escaped her throat. Father lay in his own fever as if already dead. None of Medeoan's tears or pleading could rouse in him any sign of life.

The waiting ladies had all retreated to give Medeoan and Kacha a moment in relative privacy with her mother, and now those ladies stood in the shadows like ghosts waiting to come out and lay claim to the dying empress. Medeoan remembered as a little girl being brought by her nurse before those five ladies, and not being sure which one she was supposed to reverence to and call Mother. She had burst into tears at her confusion. The closest, tallest lady, this lady who lay so slack in her bed, had come forward and taken her hand.

"There, there," she'd said, smoothing Medeoan's fingers. "Don't cry. A great prince never cries where others can see, and you, my daughter, will be a great prince."

But not yet. Not yet. Medeoan's throat tightened, even as she forced herself to gently cradle her mother's hand. I will save you. I promise.

Normally, Medeoan's sorceries were kept out of sight. She was well trained, yes, and well read and she knew her own strength. But her actions were to be those of the mortal world whenever possible. No one, Father had said in a particularly blunt moment, wanted a ruler who appeared to strive for more than mortal greatness. But all that was laid aside for this. The court sorcerers had proven themselves useless in this matter. If there was to be magical aid for her languishing parents, the task fell to Medeoan. Already she had worn her fingers to the nub from two days of preparations while the others milled about trying to trap the life that spilled from the imperial vessels.

You cannot die yet. I'm not ready. I will not permit it.

As Medeoan straightened up, Kacha pressed close behind her, reminding her of his warm presence, and trying to ease her shivering.

Medeoan kissed her mother's hand. The skin was far too hot against her dry lips. "You must bear with this for a little while longer, Mother." She tried to keep her voice steady. Mother's eyes were wide and shining with their fever. The empress let her head fall sideways so that she could look at her daughter, but the only sound she could make was a rasping cough. The physics said that the fever had swollen her tongue so that speech was impossible.

Medeoan sighed as Kacha pulled her close, not caring about the eyes of the ladies who surely watched them from their places in the shadows. He lifted her hand from her mother's, and she saw how his thoughts, as ever, were all for her.

"You have cut yourself," he said, looking at the delicate red lines that spread across her fingertips.

Medeoan only shook her head. "The threads for the weaving. They wear on the skin after a while."

But Kacha would not let the subject be dismissed. "You should rest before you go, beloved. You are exhausted." He touched her forehead, perhaps searching for some trace of the fever that wracked her parents. As ever, the knowledge of his love sent a small thrill of delight through her heart.

Despite that, Medeoan shook her head. "They are too ill. An hour could make all the difference."

"Then do it here," Kacha urged. "Surely their home is a stronger place for them than the woodlands."