" "Remember how in Deerfield there was nobody to marry? Remember how Eliza married an Indian? Remember how Abigail even had to go and marry a French fur trader without teeth?" Mercy had to laugh again. It was such a treat to laugh with English friends. "Your man doesn't have teeth?" "Pierre has all his teeth. In fact, he's handsome, rich and an army officer. But what am I to do about the marriage?" Sarah was not laughing. She was shivering. "I do not want that life or that language, Mercy, and above all, I do not want that man. If I repeat wedding vows, they will count. If I have a wedding night, it will be real. I will have French babies and they will be Catholic and I will live here all my life." Sarah rearranged her French scarf in a very French way and Mercy thought how much clothing mattered; how changed they were by what they put on their bodies. "The Catholic church won't make you," said Mercy. "You can refuse." "How? Pierre has brought his fellow officers to see me. His family has met me and they like me. They know I have no dowry, but they are being very generous about their son's choice. If I refuse to marry Pierre, he and the French family with whom I live will be publicly humiliated. I won't get a second offer of marriage after mistreating this one. The French family will make me a servant. I will spend my life waiting on them, curtseying to them, and saying "But surely ransom will come," said Mercy. "Maybe it will. But what if it does not?" Mercy stared at her feet. Her leggings. Her moccasins. What if it does not? she thought. What if I spend my life in Kahnawake? "What if I stay in Montreal all my life?" demanded Sarah. "A servant girl to enemies of England." The world asks too much of us, thought Mercy. But because she was practical and because there seemed no way out, she said, "Would this Frenchman treat you well?" Sarah shrugged as Eben had over the gauntlet, except that when Eben shrugged, he looked Indian, and when Sarah shrugged, she looked French. "He thinks I am beautiful." "You beautiful," said Eben. He drew a deep breath to say something else, but Nistenha and Snow Walker arrived beside them. How reproachfully they looked at the captives. "The language of the people," said Nistenha in Mohawk, "is sweeter to the ear when it does not mix with the language of the English." Mercy flushed. This was why she had not been taken to Montreal before. She would flee to the English and be homesick again. And it was so. How she wanted to stay with Eben and Sarah! They were older and would take care of her...but no. None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone. It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise. Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. "I will marry you, Sarah," said Eben. "I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home." Wind shifted the lace of Sarah's gown and the auburn of one loose curl. "I love you, Sarah," said Eben. "I've always loved you." Tears came to Sarah's eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. "Oh, Eben!" she whispered. "Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission." "I'll ask my father," said Eben. "I'll ask Father Meriel." They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? "My French family will put up a terrible fuss," said Sarah anxiously. "Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent." Eben grinned. "Not if I have Huron warriors behind me."