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A fter taking it easy for a day or two due to his injuries, Crispin was eager to prove his continued usefulness. Today, he’d taken Luke and a group of young boys to the north shore of the island to spearfish along the rocky shore. In truth, most of the boys were better at it than he was, but it was an honor to be trusted with the young men of the tribe.

While the boys gathered around the latest catch, a large perch, he spotted a canoe approaching from the mainland. It wasn’t a Ziinzi Island birchbark canoe. It sat too low in the water. Calling the boys together, he pointed it out, hoping one of them would recognize the craft. It was determined to be a dugout canoe, and it contained two passengers.

Crispin sensed no alarm from the boys, who quickly returned to their fishing. The canoe appeared to be heading farther south along the shore and would not land near them. Crispin swallowed down his unease and snapped his attention back to the children under his care. No one was going to drown on his watch.

He didn’t consider himself a paranoid person, yet his return to the village that afternoon made the hair on the back of his neck bristle. Something had happened. And that something involved him. People were staring. A little girl pointed at him and then ran away.

“What’s going on?” he asked Crooked Foot.

“Ben Red Feather has returned. He is speaking to Staring Eagle now about his vision.”

“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“They are speaking loudly. Red Feather claims you have stolen his honor. He demands an opportunity to win it back.”

“I’ve stolen nothing. Ben Red Feather has no honor.”

“Mind your words,” Crooked Foot said with a shake of his head. “Nenokaasi will explain to you.”

Finding Birdy sitting with a group of women pretending to weave sleeping mats while eavesdropping at the chief’s wickiup, he waved her over for a private conversation.

“We need to leave,” she said. “I’ll have my father arrange transportation to Sault Saint Marie.”

“Leave? Why?”

“My grandfather has agreed to allow Red Feather to reclaim some of his honor.” Birdy wiped away tears before speaking again. “In Ben Red Feather’s vision, the mountain lion spoke to him. It said that you used magic to steal the kill from him. He was supposed to be the one to kill the lion. He claims you tricked the lion into choosing you instead.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. His lack of honor has nothing to do with me.” As he spoke the words, he remembered Hardy Carmody’s warning. What the chief said was law. He couldn’t reason or argue his way out of this. He knew enough of the tribe by now to know visions and dreams were taken seriously. “I’m not running.”

“He’s going to try to kill you,” she sobbed.

“Then he’ll look an even bigger fool when he fails.”

“You’re still healing.”

“Little Eyes did his job well,” he replied, rolling his shoulders to prove his health. “I’m not letting Ben Red Feather hang over my head like Lord Dunwoody. No more running.”

“I want our child to meet their father.”

“They will. I finally feel welcome here and I’m not letting Red Feather’s lie send me scurrying away. No more running.”

“My grandfather has decided that this issue must be dealt with quickly. Ben Red Feather will confront you tonight when the sun touches the treetops. I will sharpen your knife,” Birdy said with a tremor in her voice.

Watching her grandfather shuffling toward the fire to speak, Birdy fought off a wave of nausea. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on his words. But her eyes flew open again when she realized what he was saying.

Crispin was given a chance to avoid confrontation. All he had to do to assuage Red Feather’s honor was to hand her over to him. Red Feather even promised to allow Crispin’s child to live. Her grandfather spoke the words as if they were an acceptable alternative to violence.

Part of her wished he would take the offered deal to save his life. She would slit Red Feather’s throat the first time he closed his eyes to sleep. Waiting for grandfather’s interpreter to explain the offer to Crispin felt like an eternity. All around her, people were debating the merits of the deal.

The consensus was that Crispin should save his own life and surrender her to a real human being. While she never doubted Crispin’s response, the crowd gasped when he spoke.

“Never,” Crispin said, shaking his head. “Nenokaasi is my woman. Ben Red Feather has no honor. The mountain lion refused to be killed by a man with no honor. I will fight for my woman, and I will be victorious.”

Mouths fell open as Crispin’s insult hung in the air. Even her grandfather raised an eyebrow. Red Feather’s response was to raise his fists into the air and howl out a war cry.

“You don’t have to watch.” Her father’s voice assured her as he walked up behind her. “If Ben wins, I’ll kill him before he lays a hand on you,” he whispered into her ear.

“Crispin will win,” she whispered back. His lessons with Crow Shadow and Bone Tooth were now more important than ever. “He will feel my faith in him as he fights. It will give him strength.” Drop by drop, she’d seen his confidence grow with every passing day. The scars of his childhood were now hidden beneath muscle and determination. If he believed in himself, he would win.

“Then he’ll feel my faith, too.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“They are making many wagers at the trading post,” Jacques said, as he came to stand with them. “I have bet on his lordship. I will not tell you the odds.”

The fight started slowly, and Crispin’s ignorance of the rules was throwing Red Feather off his game. He was hurling curses and insults, but rather than responding in kind, Crispin stood his ground, looking bored rather than frightened.

Red Feather, knowing Crispin’s shoulder had been injured in the hunt, lunged first, testing Crispin’s range of motion. Easily pivoting away from Red Feather’s blade, he made no lunge in response. This angered Red Feather, and he thrust his blade again, only to have Crispin turn aside one more time.

Red Feather’s next lunge was angry and frantic. Just as she began to worry that Crispin wouldn’t defend himself at all, he exploded into action, quickly knocking Red Feather to his knees. In the blink of an eye, Red Feather’s knife was stripped from his hand, his head was pulled back by his hair, and Crispin’s blade was at his throat.

There was a moment of silence while the crowd waited for blood to flow from Red Feather’s neck. Everyone heard when Crispin began to speak.

“You live only because I allow it,” he said, nicking Red Feather’s throat just enough to draw a single drop of blood.

It took Birdy a few more moments to realize he’d delivered his verdict in Ojibwe so everyone would understand. His death blow was delivered in words. She held her breath again, knowing his next move was the difference between his life and death.

Pushing Red Feather back to the ground, Crispin snatched up the man’s knife and walked to her grandfather. Presenting Staring Eagle with both knives, Crispin spoke again. “I did not come here to kill human beings.”

With her father holding her back, Birdy blinked back tears of pride and joy and strained her ears when her grandfather began to speak.

“It is good there is no death today. The argument is settled. Lord Morgan has the heart of the lion and the good sense of a human being. He will keep his woman.”

“ Sacré bleu ,” Jacques whispered beside her. “I just made a lot of money.”

Leander Hardy Morgan, one day heir to the Earl of Angleswood, was born on a bitterly cold, snowy day in November 1815. He had his mother’s dark eyes, but in all else, he resembled his father. When the name-giver stopped by the trading post, she declared him Mishibizhiins , Little Lion.

That winter was the coldest freezing moon the elders could recall. The big lake froze early, stranding Jacques and unprepared trappers and traders at the post. Christmas, celebrated by the Catholics and Christians confined together, was a grand feast of trout. The men, all far from home, constructed silly hats and joke gifts from whatever they could find.

By January, twelve feet of snow surrounded the trading post, and her father opened his doors to anyone from the village who needed to take shelter from the weather. The hunt had been good that year, but the ice fishing season was all but halted. Holes in the ice froze over again so quickly that many fish were lost. Even fur-lined moccasins couldn’t keep the frostbite from stealing toes.

To make room for others, Birdy, Crispin, Luke and the baby now shared a single room. Luke, claiming to be impervious to the cold, still made his way to the village every day to deliver essentials and check on the elderly. It was he who brought news from the elders who refused to—or who couldn’t—leave their wickiups.

“They say it’s in the sky. The colors, I mean. At sunrise and sunset, the sky is yellow and red, even brown. The blue is almost gone. A dry fog blows over the island each day. They say it is smoke from a great fire we cannot see.”

“What else are they saying about it?” Crispin handed the boy a cup of warmed ale and placed a wool blanket over his shoulders.

“The earth is unhappy,” Luke repeated what he’d heard. “The spring crops will be bad, and the corn will not grow. Game will flee deeper into the woods.”

“How are my aunt and uncle faring? I was hoping you’d convince them to shelter here.”

“Crooked Foot has reinforced their wickiup with many layers. They say they have seen snow before and will not leave their home. I will continue to bring them what we can spare.”

“You’re a good boy, Luke. Oh, what am I saying,” Birdy said before stopping herself. “You’re nearly a man now.” She smiled at the lad, more grateful for his help than he would realize.

“Tomorrow I will go speak to Staring Eagle,” Crispin announced. “The man is ancient. He should be here where it’s warm. His death would send the island into turmoil at a time when we must all work together.”

“My grandfather is stubborn. For his entire life, he has never spent the night under the slate shingles of a house in the fort. Offer him our room if you have to. Leander and I will sleep under the counter like I did when I was a little girl.”

“That’s where Jacques is sleeping. Don’t forget the ice came so early this year he was stranded. We’ll find a place for Staring Eagle. The hard part is going to be convincing him.” Crispin walked over and kissed his son’s chubby cheek. “Release Little Lion from his cradleboard. I will keep him warm here under my coat.”

Birdy chuckled as she untied the lacings. Crispin had embraced his nickname of Lion Heart and smiled from ear to ear the day his son was named Little Lion. He was a proud papa, and she knew he’d parade their baby around the trading post to show him off again.

Over the past year, she’d witnessed her husband throw off the yoke of unreasonable expectations laid there by his father. Where she once saw the scars of anxiety and indecision were now confidence and experience.

The trading post was stuffed to the gills with humanity and, keeping it clean with everyone warm and fed, was running her ragged. Between helping her father, preparing baskets of supplies, distributing food and caring for an infant, she was bone tired.

She needed rest so deep that she would dream.

“What is it?” Crispin asked as he lifted his son from the cradleboard frame and quickly wrapped him in a knitted blanket.

“I’m tired. Our little piggy will not need to eat for another hour or two. I’m going to lie down for a bit. I’m not ill, just tired. My father will gladly help you entertain the baby.” When at last she had the room to herself, she flopped down on the bed and rolled herself into the furs to keep warm. The sound of other inhabitants’ voices, along with all manner of banging, yelling, and the occasional song, quickly faded into nothing.

“Nenokaasi,” she heard her mother’s voice call to her. In her dream, she ran toward the voice but found herself no longer on the snowy island. Thick green grass muted her footfalls, and the air smelled of fresh blooms as if spring.

“Look around you,” her mother’s voice bid. Suddenly, she was back in England. To her left was an unfamiliar house, a large stone rectangle with many glass windows. To her right, a dark-faced lamb scampered in a field.

“I don’t understand,” she spoke to her mother in her dream.

“Follow the lamb,” was her mother’s response. Birdy chased the lamb, but it was lively and quick and jumped away from her.

“Do not cry, my little hummingbird. Return the lamb to her flock. You will have your own daughter soon. She will be as a flower. Tell her the stories of my people.”

Birdy sat up with a start when she heard the door open. Crispin had returned with their hungry, fussy baby. “I saw my mother in a dream,” she blurted out.

“Tell me about it.” Crispin propped up their pillows, so she’d be comfortable and handed her the baby to feed.

“When we were in Grimsby, she told me to go home. Her voice was as if she were standing next to me. This time, I must have been thinking of your sister because my mother told me to return the lamb to her flock.”

“What do lambs have to do with my sister?”

“That’s how your sister introduced herself to me. She said everyone called her Lamb. My mother showed me a house as well,” she added as she remembered. “A big stone house. The stone was pink and beautiful.”

“Like polished granite?” Crispin paused for a bit, as if considering his next words carefully. “Did it have sixteen windows across the front?”

“It had many windows. Tall ones with shiny glass.”

“I dreamed of my father’s country house in Cavendish last night,” he admitted. “I always loved that house. In my dream, we were living there.”

“My mother told me that our next child will be a daughter. I’m to tell her the stories of my mother’s people. She will be like a flower. I’m uncertain what that might mean.”

“My mother’s name was Rose. If Leander had been born a girl, I was going to suggest it as a name.”

“I am ready to leave here,” she said at last. “It’s time for us to return to your home.”

“We won’t be going anywhere until spring when the ice melts. No more running and hiding. We’ll return to London, where I’ll confront Lord Dunwoody. I refuse to live in fear. I will stop this madness once and for all.”

Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, August 1816

“Don’t you dare die on me, you stupid son of a bitch.” Mary-Alice Lamb looked down at the man slumped in her doorway. She should have asked Mrs. Dove-Lyon for a cottage far away from the local pub. How drunk was he?

Rolling him back into the road proved to be more difficult than she imagined, but the motion revived him enough to speak.

“ Ohh ,” he moaned. Moving slowly, he retrieved something from his coat pocket and shoved it into her hand. It was a single playing card from the Lyon’s Den with a word scrawled on its face. Return .

Only then did she take a better look at his face in the moonlight. She knew this man. A flicker of a reflection also revealed the true reason for his incapacitation. The pearl inlaid hilt of a thin knife was sticking out of his chest.

“Callum Mumford,” she whispered. “Who did this to you?” His only response was a groan and a shake of his head. Before she could stop him, he reached up and pulled the knife from his flesh.

“Get up. I’ll help you into the house.” With no idea how closely danger lurked, she grabbed the knife with one hand and tried pulling him into the house with her free arm. “Get up. I can keep us safe inside.” It took several minutes, but once inside, she pulled him into a windowless pantry where she could light a candle and assess his wound with no one seeing them.

“Talk to me, Callum. I’ll clean your wound if you help me remove your shirt.” He reached for his head, and only then did she realize he had another wound. He’d been coshed on the head as well as stabbed. “Who did this to you?”

“Dunno,” he groaned out. “Fecking hurts. Beg pardon.”

“I need to boil some water and find clean rags. I have wound ointment as well. Stay here and I’ll be right back. I promise.”

“Run.” He appeared to be coming to his senses a bit and stared at her through squinted eyes. “You’re not safe.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you bleeding like that. Give me half an hour to get you sorted out and then you can tell me what the heck you’re doing here.”

The man she’d secretly been in love with since the age of twelve lay dying in the pantry of her hideaway. Of all people, why had Mrs. Dove-Lyon sent him?

“Lucky for you, I’ve been working as a seamstress,” she said as she pulled the thread on the last stitch of his wound. “We’ll need to clean this every day.”

“He’s dead,” Callum said at last. “Dunwoody’s dead.”

“If my husband is dead, then who did this to you?”

“I don’t know.”