He was gnawing on a knucklebone, his face glistening with fat. His belly had the last roundness of a younger child, but there was a quickness to his eyes. His nose wrinkled as if she smelled bad, and his eyes trailed over her dress of spotted calico.

"You look like one of the People, but you dress like an O'seronni," he said in Kahnyen'kehâka, as if to test her.

In the same language she answered him, "My grandmother is Made-of-Bones who is Kanistenha of the Wolf longhouse where you were born. Don't you remember me, Little-Kettle? I'm Squirrel. I wiped your nose for you more than once a few winters ago."

He flushed. "Aya. You have your grandmother's sharp tongue." And then, after a look over his shoulder to the circle of men around the fire, he said, "Come. There are things to see."

Hannah's hesitation lasted only for a few heartbeats. For as long as it took for him to challenge her with his eyes: was she one of the Real People, or was she O'seronni?

She followed Little-Kettle into the crowds.

No one took note of them, two red-skinned children among so many. Neither of them had a coin to spend and so they skirted the cook fires where pinfeathers filled the hot air and hungry men bought corn bread and squash stew and blackened duck on long skewers, sprinkled with pepper and maple sugar. For a shilling a Cree woman in a curious cape and hood painted with designs in red and black would cut a hissing slice of venison from a spit, to be juggled from hand to hand and eaten hot enough to scorch the mouth.

On a trampled spot under a triangle of wild plum trees in first blossom people crowded around to watch a man with bloody fists take on all comers. Little-Kettle's eyes grew, but the smell of cheap rum was heavy in the air and Hannah pulled him away, ill at ease. They stayed longer to watch the Huron playing Guskâ'eh, polished peachstones rolled in a wooden bowl: white, black, white, black. Four of either at once and coins shifted from one dusty pile to another. But here too the smell of liquor could not be ignored, and Hannah began to think of her father, and to look around herself for the quickest way back to the Kahnyen'kehâka camp.

Little-Kettle had wandered off to look at a man who sat on a shabby blanket.

"Moccasins," the man called out to anyone who passed. "Fine buckskin moccasins. Cured 'em myself."

"Look at him," whispered Little-Kettle. "The Huron must have done that to him."

Hannah looked. Clumps of dark hair streaked white and pulled back in an uneven queue, as if to show off his ears, or what remained of them. They had been notched hard, leaving behind nothing more than frayed strips. It was true that before the priests had got the best of the Huron they had been known to take ears and fingers and more from their war prisoners, but this man had a brand on his cheek, a crooked t faded to a bright pink against his graying stubble.

"Not the Huron," she said.

He had the look of the wanderers about him, the ones who had never found a place to settle after the war, too much a colonist for England, too American for Canada, and not welcome anymore by Yankee or Yorker. She had heard the stories around the hearth in Anna's trading post, how loyalists had been stripped of their property and turned out to make their way to the Crown's protection in Canada, or starve. Tar and feathers, split noses and jugged ears and white-hot branding irons. Or worse, if you were a woman. They were soldier's tales and never meant for little girls to hear, but Hannah always had a talent for making herself small and listening hard, and she forgot very little.

She looked at his ruined face and at his moccasins: lopsided, the leather poorly cured, uneven in color and pieced so badly that no woman would claim such work. He made her uneasy, but his moccasins made her sad.

"He's a Tory," she told Little-Kettle, already turning away. Hannah used the Kahnyen'kehâka word for Englishmen, Tyorhenhshâka.

But the man's head snapped around toward her as if she had called his name. He squinted in the sunlight and his eyes were as brittle and shiny as rocks heated red hot again and again.

"Wahtahkwiyo," he croaked. Good shoes. The hair rose on the nape of Hannah's neck and all along her spine there was a sparking, but she could not walk away as she knew she must; he had used her language and pinned her to the ground with it.

He laughed, his tongue a pale pink snake among blackened stumps. "Come along, then, missy," he hissed, in English now. "Don't run away. Buckskin moccasins. Took the hides myself, down Barktown way. Your corner of the world, by the sound of you. Two big Mohawk bucks, oh yes. Maybe your kin, eh? One of 'em had a turtle tattoo on his cheek. He looked something like you, so he did."

Little-Kettle had no English and he opened his mouth to ask her what it meant, the look on her face. But Hannah grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him away. The man's laughter clung to them like smoke from an unholy fire.

It was late afternoon when they started back to the Nancy. Hannah slipped into the canoe between her father and Bears, and wrapped herself in the striped blanket they had bought for her, glad of its prickly warmth: the wind was coming up cold, setting the new leaves on the oaks that surrounded the Cree lodge to shivering.

The blanket was well woven, but still Hannah could not quite stop shaking. She wanted to talk to her father, but he was so far away from her and his worry so close to the surface. She didn't know if she had the right words, anyway. Are men so cruel? she wanted to ask him, but she feared his answer. She hugged her knees to her chin and stared at her moccasins, worn thin now across the toes. Last fall she had helped her grandmother cure the hide, and then she had pieced and sewn them under Many-Doves' careful eye. They were lined with the fell of a rabbit she had snared herself. The beadwork was uneven, but she had been very proud of them when they were done. Hannah tucked her feet harder under herself and took her lip between her teeth to keep them from chattering.