Perhaps ten years old, Nathaniel guessed, and small for his age. Eyes wary, one crusted red; his skin covered with filth and bruises. But he grinned. "Monsieur?"

Nathaniel held out the shilling and it disappeared between quick fingers.

"What's your name?"

"They call me Claude," said the boy. "For another coin I will tell you my family name."

Nathaniel exhaled sharply through his nose. "There's another coin if you get a message to the big Scot inside." It was a long time since Nathaniel had used his French, but the boy's nod was encouraging. "Tell him to meet Wolf-Running-Fast at Iona's, and make sure nobody hears you," he finished.

"The auberge is full of Scots," the boy said. "All Montréal is full of them. Will any Scot serve, Monsieur Wolf-Running-Fast?"

"The tallest one in the room," said Nathaniel. "White haired, answers to Rab MacLachlan. With a red dog, almost as big as you."

There was a flicker of interest in the boy's eyes. "A coin for each of them, the man and dog?"

"If they show up alone, you'll get a coin for each of them."

"And one for showing them the way."

Nathaniel laughed softly at the idea; Robbie could find his way to Iona's purbl. "You'll get your coins if you do your job. And a plate of mutton stew, too, I'll wager."

"Wolf-Running-Fast," repeated the boy. "Iona." And at Nathaniel's nod, he disappeared into the darkened alleyway.

Nathaniel had been trained too well to take anything for granted, and so he waited patiently in the shadows opposite Iona's cottage, in spite of the wind and the rumbling in his gut. Now that he was here, finally, he remembered why he had stayed away all these years. At seventeen he had given up both his innocence and his virginity in Montréal. The first had been lost watching merchants and priests angle for the peltry and the souls of the Huron and Cree, Abenaki and Hodenosaunee. The second he had surrendered with less of a struggle to the lieutenant governor's daughter. The thought of Giselle Somerville left a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had bit into an apple that looked sound but was inwardly foul. He had thought she could not touch him anymore, but it was her at the bottom of this trouble: twenty years, and she had still managed to reach out and put a cold finger on his cheek.

The snow picked up, whipping into his eyes. He pulled his hood down farther and sought the warm center of himself, as he had been trained to do as a boy. At home both hearths would be blazing. There might be venison and corn bread and dried cranberry grunt. Finished with her work, Hannah would be bent over sewing, or a book if she had her way. Nathaniel imagined Elizabeth close by with a child at her breast. He could see her quite clearly; the heart-shaped face, the first worry lines at the corners of her eyes, her mouth the deep red of wild strawberries. By evening time her hair had worked itself free to curl damp against her temple, falling over the angle of her neck and shoulders bent protectively around the child in her arms.

He had no clear pictures of the babies to call on. It had been too short a time.

Nathaniel shook himself slightly. If he could concentrate, if he could get the job done here, he could be on his way home to them in no time at all, traveling with his father and Otter and Rab. The ice roads were frozen solid; they could make good time. At night they would sleep in snow caves and cook whatever they could shoot over a fire of their own making while Otter told his story: how he had landed here in Montréal when he was supposedly headed west, and how he had got mixed up with the Somervilles. The last word they had had of Otter was in December, when Rab MacLachlan came to Lake in the Clouds and brought the news that the boy was wound up with Giselle. Worse still was Rab's report that Hawkeye was on his way to Montréal to untangle Otter from the mess.

Moncrieff's letter and the news that they were both in gaol hadn't really come as too much of a shock: Canada wasn't a good place for the Bonner men; never had been. Especially not when Giselle Somerville was involved. In the deep cold of the night shadows two things were clear to Nathaniel: they had to get his father and Otter out of the gaol as quickly as it could be managed, and they had to avoid the Somervilles. Once they were safe at home again there would be time enough to deal with Otter. He might be Hannah's favorite uncle, but he was also a seventeen-year-old who had dragged four grown men into a dangerous situation.

A muffled whoof! and the red dog appeared in the lane. At the side of Iona's cottage there was a glimmer of white hair and a raised hand, and a door opened and closed. Nathaniel waited five more minutes. When there was no movement, he followed Robbie MacLachlan inside.

It was a small room, lit only by the fire in the hearth and a betty lamp. The house smelled of woodsmoke, roast mutton, tallow, the wet dog who lay like a twitching log in front of the hearth and the unwashed boy who crouched next to her, shoveling stew into his mouth with his fingers. Claude shrugged a hello in Nathaniel's direction, but Robbie had him by the shoulders before he could get out one word in greeting to either of them.

"Nathaniel," said the big man, bent over so as not to knock his head on the low-beamed ceiling, his broad, high-colored face creased in both pleasure and concern. "What are ye doin' here? Shouldna ye be at hame wi' Elizabeth? Is she well? Is the bairn come?"

"She's well, she's very well," Nathaniel reassured him. "And she's given me healthy twins, a boy and a girl."

Robbie's open expression clouded. "But then, why are ye here? What's taken ye fra' yer guidwife's side?"