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one, I eventually start having dreams in it without translating anything. That’s what tells me I’ve become fluent . . . same with the Savages’ hand signs Manteo taught me on the ship. I actually started seeing myself communicating with them and understanding them in my dreams.”
    “What are the hand signs for?”
    “They’re the signs all the different tribes of Savages use to communicate with one another when they don’t know each other’s language. Manteo says every Savage in the New World knows them, though some have a few unique signs of their own.”
    “You know everything, Emily Colman. Show me some.”
    “As you wish.” Emily’s hands and fingers moved: twists, turns, rolls, flips, flings; sometimes in conjunction with her head, arms, eyes, and mouth.
    “Impressive! So did you truly say something, or were you just trying to impress me?”
    “Of course, I said something. But because you doubt me, you sha’n’t know what it was.”
    George shook his head. He never tired of hearing her voice; what she said was immaterial. “Very well, I apologize. Now will you tell me?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Come on, Em.”
    “Are you truly sorry, or just being mercenary?”
    “Yes. I’m
very truly
sorry, Mistress Colman. Now please tell me!”
    “I said,
I like you and your father very much, and I want to be your close friend. I’m very happy being with you and talking to you right now. And I should finish telling you why Father and I are here
.”
    George blushed, felt his head muddle with warmth. “Did you really say that?”
    “I did.”
    “Emily”—he took a deep, calming breath—“ finish your story.”
    She smiled at him, grasped his fingers, then squeezed them for a moment. “Well, Father, though he’s a fine schoolmaster, never stopped wantingto farm, always felt like he’d been denied the opportunity; so when he heard about the colony, he saw his chance—a 500-acre chance—decided he could school the colony’s children and farm at the same time. So here
we
are . . . strange that with all the time on the ship, we never talked about any of this. What
did
we talk about?”
    “I was too sick to talk.”
    “Me too, now that you mention it.” She recalled hours of retching over the side of the ship and other times scurrying up the steps, trying to reach her favorite spot before the big heave. She smiled as she remembered calculating exactly how long it took to make the trip and thereafter knowing in advance whether or not she’d make it in time. She also remembered the times she’d lost the race because someone was in the way and slowed her pace; she’d then had to swab the deck or the floor, which nearly made her retch again. It was particularly bad manners to retch in the hold because the smell nauseated the other passengers, with predictable results. The ship had been a terrible place, she thought: people crammed together with animals, no space to breathe, no privacy, constant rolling and pitching, horrible food, tainted water. No surprise people didn’t get to know each other and were always sick, angry, embarrassed, or scared. She was glad it was over, glad to be on solid ground.
    “So what about your mother and brother? Why didn’t they come?”
    “My brother’s slightly over a year old, so my parents decided he was too young and that he and Mother would stay in England for at least another year before joining us. George, I miss them a lot and hope they come next summer, no matter what.” Her face suddenly blossomed with excitement, as she reached into her apron pocket, removed her locket, which had a small hole drilled in the edge for a neck string. “Here, look at this; I’ve never shown it to you.” She handed the locket to George. “My parents exchanged identical lockets before we sailed. Mother’s holds a lock of Father’s hair and this one has a lock of Mother’s.” Sudden tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks. “Look at me, crying like a baby.” She held her