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provocation, keeping only the dirk that always hung on his belt.
    He stood still under the leader’s appraising inspection, meeting the dark eyes of a man of an age with himself. The man’s hair was streaked with grey, his face the deep brown of a ripe hazelnut, as was his lean torso, the strong arms and long fingered hands. The supple leather of his leggings clung to him, and round his waist was wrapped a decorated band from which hung an axe and a long, evil-looking knife. He radiated no overt animosity, more a wary curiosity towards these strangers who were encroaching on lands that had for generations belonged to his people, his tribe. The Indian adjusted his quiver and plucked at his bowstring, eyes straying towards the river.
    “I was born here.” The Indian spoke good English, surprising Matthew.
    “Here?” Matthew indicated the ground at his feet.
    “No, over there, in the ruined village.”
    “Ah.” Matthew nodded. “I’m Matthew, Matthew Graham.”
    “I am Qaachow – of the Susquehannock.” The Indian bowed; Matthew followed suit.
    “What happened?” Matthew asked. “To the village.”
    “Smallpox.” Qaachow grimaced. “They all died – including my wife and my little daughter.”
    “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible thing to lose a child.” He met Qaachow’s eyes and smiled ruefully. “My daughter died in Scotland, five years ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.” My lass, my Rachel. He raised his eyes to the sky like he always did when he thought of her, hoping for a glimpse of his angel child, somewhere way up high.
    He shook himself, recalled his duties as a host, and invited Qaachow and his men to share his table. He was somewhat relieved when Qaachow declined, saying they preferred to stay outside.
    “Alex!” Matthew called. “Will you be so kind and bring our guests some food?”
    His wife appeared so quickly she must have been waiting behind the door with the heaped platters and jugs of beer that were now carried outside. Once the food had been distributed, Alex served the beer, curtseying in the direction of Qaachow before handing him a mug.
    “You can go back inside now,” Matthew said.
    “I’ll stay,” she replied, pouring him some beer. “What do they want?”
    “We speak your tongue,” Qaachow said, making Alex go so bright red Matthew smiled.
    “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “that was impolite of me. I’m Alex.” She extended her hand.
    Qaachow backed away, staring at her hand. “I am Qaachow.” He gave her a little bow. “We must be on our way,” he added, directing himself to Matthew. “We have a long way to travel.” He inclined his head, swivelled on his heel and led his men due south.
    “What did they want?” Alex slipped her arms around Matthew’s waist.
    “He grew up here,” Matthew said into her hair. “In the abandoned village. He wishes us to respect his dead, I reckon.”
    “His dead?” Alex reared back to see Matthew’s face.
    “His people – they died of the smallpox.” He uttered a quick prayer and looked down at her. “We’ll not to disturb them: his wee daughter and his wife – we’ll leave them to rest in peace, aye?”
    “Of course,” Alex said. “His daughter?”
    “Aye, a wee lass. Like our Rachel.”

Chapter 5
    Edinburgh, 2016
    Magnus Lind rarely talked about his daughter anymore. Not at all, actually, except with Isaac, his grandson. But not speaking didn’t mean not thinking, and not a day passed without Magnus throwing at least one thought in the direction of his lost girl, gone now for almost fourteen years.
    He poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed a bun hot from the oven, and stepped outside into the garden. June twilights were purple moments of time perfumed with lavender and honeysuckle, roses and the heady scent of the mock-orange that grew by the garden shed.
    He sank down into his rickety garden chair and stretched out his legs. He felt lonely and abandoned, with his woman, Eva, in