Andre doesn’t move; his eyes skim the camp. Isi is behind us on horseback, a rifle on his back, but I know he can have it to his shoulder in a heartbeat. Charlie stops. His eyes are bright blue, like his pa’s. Piercing. “Ětes vous ici seul?” Frère Andre asks. “Only you? Here?” “Nah,” Charlie says, “but my sister’s too sickly to move around much. That winter—weren’t she something?” I stare at him. He barely looks like himself, excepting his eyes. His face has lost its boyish look, and there’s a scraggly beard started around his chin. He jerks his head toward me. “Hiya, Emmeline.” The little boy appears again, crawling out through the tarp. He stands, wraps one arm around Charlie’s leg, and hides his face behind Charlie. A pang cuts through me. He’s so thin. “My little brother, Josiah,” Charlie says, nodding at him. “And your ma?” I ask, trying to remember how many were in Jameson’s family when they were sent out from the settlement. Charlie’s face goes stony.
