Free Dawn on a Distant Shore by Sara Donati

conversations.
    His father and Otter
were there, to either side of Giselle. Before Hawkeye was a plate of sweets and
a full wine glass. Moncrieff was farther down the table, involved in a
conversation with a well-dressed man Nathaniel didn't recognize.
    "Panthers among
peacocks," whispered Robbie. Hawkeye and Otter stood out in their worn
buckskin hunting shirts and leggings, flanked by army and cavalry officers in
scarlets and blues, green plaids, flowing ribbons, brass buttons, gold braid,
silk sashes, swords with ornate baskets.
    "Hawkeye looks aye
crabbit."
    "Testy, but in
good health," Nathaniel agreed, relieved just to see his father looking
himself. He was sixty-nine years old, a man who had spent most of his lifetime
out-of-doors, but he sat there as he would sit at his own table, or at a Kahnyen'kehâka
council fire, as lean and straight as a man in his prime, his eyes alert and
watchful.
    There was only a
partial view of Otter's face, but the tension in the boy's shoulders was easy enough
to read. He was wound up tight and ready to spring. Adele's visit had primed
them well.
    And there was Giselle.
Looking down over the room and not ten feet away from her, they were close enough
to count the pearl buttons at the nape of her gown. She sat with her back to
them; a good thing, for she had sharp eyes. Nathaniel let himself study her,
the dark blond hair pinned up to reveal the long neck, the white skin of her shoulders
against deep green silk, the curve of her cheekbone when she turned her head to
speak to the servant.
    Now that he had got
this far Nathaniel couldn't remember why he had dreaded the sight of her so much.
She was still beautiful--he could see that even from here--but she wasn't
Elizabeth, and she had no power over him. To his surprise, the most he could
feel for her was a vague gratitude and reluctant admiration. Giselle did as she
pleased. She could be ruthless; she cared nothing at all for the good opinion
of others; and there was an air of casual danger about her. Because it suited
her to do so, she surrounded herself with men who were eager to amuse, taking
from them what she wanted and leaving the rest. Tonight she had placed a seventeen-year-old
Kahnyen'kehâka at her right hand over rich and powerful men, and none of them dared
challenge her. She had been having parties like these behind her father's back
since she was sixteen.
    A cavalry officer was
holding up his glass toward Giselle, the wine picking up the candlelight and
flashing it back again. His own complexion was equally flushed.
    "This
Paxareti," he announced in a voice slurred with drink, but just loud
enough to claim everyone's attention, "is proof that the Portuguese are
not total barbarians. It comes from a monastery a few hours' ride from Jerez,
but it is well worth the cost. Well worth it, by God."
    "And how very
thoughtful of you to bring it to me, Captain Quinn," said Giselle. Her
tone was easy, encouraging but not engaging, and her voice was just as
Nathaniel had remembered it, deep and slightly rough, as if she had strained it
the day-- or the night--before. "And how sad that our American friends
resist so great a pleasure." She was looking at Hawkeye, but she leaned slightly
toward Otter as she spoke.
    "It is said that
two glasses of strong sherry will render a reticent man more communicative
without ... impairing him," commented an officer of the dragoons who was
staring at Hawkeye. He was well grown and broad of shoulder, but when he grinned
he revealed a set of ivory teeth too large for his mouth.
    Hawkeye raised a brow.
"When I've got something to say worth saying, I'll speak up, with or
without spirits. So far I ain't heard anything worth the trouble."
    Robbie's grunt of
approval was lost in the mixture of laughter and protest from below.
    "What of your
young friend, then?" The dragoon's gaze wandered toward Otter. "Or
has he no civilized languages?"
    "Major
Johnson," Giselle said evenly, before Hawkeye could reply. The