"I came because I was sent for," Nathaniel said. "Moncrieff wrote to say my father wanted me here. Isn't he with Otter in the garrison gaol?"

Robbie ran a hand over the white bristle on his jowls. "Aye, that's true. But Hawkeye nivver asked that we send for ye. In fact, lad, he was glad tae ken ye safe at hame. I canna think why Moncrieff wad write and tell ye sic a thing."

"But I can," said a calm voice at the low threshold to the other room. A woman appeared there: of small size and uncertain age, the kind who didn't draw attention to herself, unless you took note of the animated expression of her eyes.

"Miss Iona," said Nathaniel. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has," she said. When she smiled, it was easier to see the young woman she had once been, and to give the stories credence. Almost twenty years ago Nathaniel had first made her acquaintance: Wee Iona, men in the bush called her, or Sister Iona, for she had once worn the veil and that was a fact few could overlook, or forget. How she had left the convent, and why, was the stuff of legend and rumor.

Now she moved around her small home, offering him her hospitality. "Time has treated you well, Nathaniel Bonner. Take those wet things off now, come along. There's stew, if young Claude here hasn't yet eaten his way to the bottom of the pot." The Gaelic hovered there just beneath the surface, all her s sounds soft and slurred. But her mind was as sharp as her voice was soft, and he felt her taking his measure.

Nathaniel accepted a piece of sacking from her to towel his head. "Do you have reason not to trust Moncrieff?"

She crouched down before the cooking hearth as nimbly as a girl of twenty. "He's a Scot, is he not?"

Claude shot a broken-toothed grin toward Robbie, who blushed and sputtered with indignation.

Nathaniel pulled a few coins from his pocket, and held them out to the boy. He sprang up, wiping his mouth with the back of one grimy hand. At Iona's suggestion of a warm sleeping place in the barn, he shot out the door, pausing only to glance back at Nathaniel.

"If you should have need of me again, you can find me near the auberge at sunset."

"I'll remember that," Nathaniel said.

When Claude was well away, Robbie returned immediately to the topic at hand. "Iona, I'm surprised at ye. A Hieland lass born and raised and still ye stan' there and curse every Scot on the continent tae the de'il. It isna fair, lass."

"Perhaps not," she conceded with a raised shoulder. "But you Lowlanders are a troublesome lot, and Moncrieff is worse than most. He wants what he wants."

"And that is?" asked Nathaniel, flexing his fingers in the warmth.

"Is it not clear? He wants you and your father on a ship for Scotland. Which is why you sit here in front of my fire, Nathaniel, instead ofwith your wife and children at home. Of course, you must first get Hawkeye out of the garrison to bring about that end; Moncrieff is counting on that." There was no anger in her voice, nothing of resentment in her tone: she laid out what she knew for his appreciation, or rejection. Nathaniel's first impulse was to believe her.

"How do you know him so well?"

Robbie cleared his throat. "Moncrieff and I spend a fair amount o' time here, talkin'."

"Did you happen to tell him the story of how Elizabeth broke my father out of Anna's pantry?"

"Aye," said Robbie sheepishly. "That I did. It's too guid a tale tae keep tae masel', laddie. And in aa the time I've spent wi' Moncrieff and aa the tales tolt, I've no' heard him say a solitary word o' ships tae Scotland."

Iona pursed her lips. "Then you were not listening carefully, Robbie MacLachlan. But I suppose that is not a surprise. I recall Isaac Putnam telling you more than once to clean out your ears."

The beginnings of an old argument flashed across Robbie's normally agreeable expression. It might be a score of years since he had last been in Montréal, but there was still a spark between him and Iona.

Nathaniel said, "Maybe my father was hoping to get out of gaol without getting me involved, but here I am and I can't leave him sitting there. If Moncrieff's got more than setting him free in mind, we'll find out soon enough." He paused to peel off a wet winter moccasin. "Once my father is free we'll be headed home, and the whole of Scotland couldn't stop us."

Iona pushed a stray hair away from her cheek, and Nathaniel saw that her white hair had gone very thin. "Don't underestimate him."

Robbie put down his bowl with a thump. "Ye're a distrustfu' lass, Iona, but it's served ye well these muny years. Perhaps I've been a wee owerfrly wi' Moncrieff."

"Do you know where he is now?" Nathaniel asked.

"Och, aye," Robbie said, throwing him a sidelong glance. "He's d*' wi' the bonnie Giselle. As he does muny an evenin'."

"I take it her father is out of town," Nathaniel said.

"Somerville is in Québec," confirmed Robbie. "I dinna ken for how lang."

They looked at Iona, who inclined her head to one side thoughtfully. "Governor Carleton will keep him there for another week, I should imagine."

Iona was, for all her simplicity of self and home, the best source of information in Montréal. As a young woman she had moved among the armies of three nations while they battled each other for possession of the land; she had known the men who decided the fate of Canada, and she knew them still. These days they came to sit before her fire and talk, and she welcomed any friend of a friend who did not wear a Roman collar: the Scots who ran the fur trade; the English who commanded the colony; the French who lived in the shadow of the English and controlled the city's goods and food supply. McTavish, McGill, Guy, Latour, Despr`es, Cruikshank, Gibb, Carleton, Monk: they came singly or together to talk, and she gave them strong ale and good food, and she listened.