Free Distant Fires by D.A. Woodward

self-appointed guardian, a feeling not altogether linked to his consciousness, and somehow closer to an emotion entirely new. He did not assess it, but as they continued down the “Point a Callieres”, stepping up to the thick, wooden door of the sombre stone structure, the child awoke slightly, only to cling ever more tightly to his grey and white uniform, and the pulse of feeling beneath.  
    Along with the British, her people were the most reviled in New France.  Now, she remained motherless, dispossessed of her birthright. In all probability, she would be subject to ridicule and ill treatment over her origins.  
    Could he allow this to happen when there was a possibility of altering the truth?  Given that it was known the Iroquois often took members of outside tribes—including Huron—as slaves, he could have her pass as the daughter of a Huron captive, and no one would be the wiser.  It was the least he could do, for he would not have her faced with further trauma and derision.  
    Presently, she appeared incapable of speech, and from what he had learned of the language from a turncoat Iroquois trader months before, the dialects were close. Regardless, as a Huron adoptee, to respond in Iroquois would not be cause for suspicion.  
    His only concern was that she be assured a good and just upbringing...he thought of his mother, her keen interest in such matters, but...she was beyond reach...  
    Nonetheless, with the present situation put to rest, he could do more for the child. Luckily his own Captain was to be away a number of days, and this, he hoped, would gain him enough time to gather information.  
    The weather-beaten door opened to a pale, middle-aged woman, clad in clean, but dreary, cast-off garments. Her hair was carefully covered, and in her hand she held a candle, which she extended, like a flickering beacon out of the dark, quieted haven of humanity, to their faces.    
    “I have a Huron child to leave in your temporary care,” announced Nicholas. “Her name is Shanata.”  
    The leathery lines about her eyes crinkled in quiet solicitude, expressing a capacity for caring undiminished by the exhaustive demands of her ministrations.    
    Her silent interest pressed him to continue. “I will return within a few days. She has suffered much, and will need quiet and rest—”    
    He had not been able to finish his sentence when a second pair of arms extended to enfold the child. She awoke with a start, but did not cry or fuss. Rather, like some frightened fawn, cornered and unsure, she shot him a parting look of such resignation and sadness, he wondered if it were not best to take her with him.  
    Fortunately, sensibility overrode emotion. “No fear,” he said haltingly, in Iroquois.  “I come back. Just stay here a...little bit.”  
    He thought she had understood, but she continued to stare with the same piteous expression, and though, in the blink of an eye, she was whisked from his sight, he was left to wonder at the curious emptiness he felt in his arms—as in his heart.                                                  
                                                    
                          ………  
     
    The ground gave slightly underfoot from the rain of the previous evening, but neither Louise, nor her companion Madame Girald, took any notice, as they sauntered arm in arm across the gardens of the Chateau de Ramezay, chatting and inspecting the flower-lined paths to the walking rhythm of the ever-present foot soldiers.  
    Louise stopped to pick a handful of feathery, soft pink posies she spied at her side, a few of which she tucked into the honey-blonde curls of her upswept coiffure.    
    Then, as Helene Girald watched in surprised delight, Louise spontaneously, and most indelicately, broke off a cluster, and in the next instant, stuck the oversized bouquet