Butterfly’s face was still marked by dark bruises when she ventured outside on my arm. We walked to the river, where she sat watching the fast-moving stream. Some of the young men stopped to engage her in conversation, but she responded poorly, and we spent most of our time strolling alone. Her body recovered its strength, but her mind was still fragile.
Otter’s face expressed relief when I finally returned to Teacher’s Mead, and the youth promptly took off on business of his own. He had earned the respite. Otter had remained at the house while I slept in the bachelors’ tipi during the girl’s recovery.
The morning after my return, my second swain appeared. This one was my own age or greater, someone I knew vaguely. He was pleasing to the eye and vigorous in his approach, but I did nothin
