I moved out the next week. After making promise upon promise to the tearful children that I would visit them every weekend (Ryan was too young to make the journey to the homestead; he would only complain the whole way), I transferred the last of my property to the manor. Heartfelt and sorrowful good-byes were exchanged between my parents and me, along with more promises to visit each other.

Now that I had moved in and established a routine at the manor, time passed quickly. July brought baking sunlight and sweet flowers. We spent many evenings in the bay, splashing about in the water when the tide was in and picking shellfish when it was out.

One particular day, as the sun was beating down on the valley, Connor and I sat outside; I was scrubbing clothes in a wash basin, he was skinning a deer. It was tedious work for both of us, but we chatted throughout.

His hands were bloody up to his wrists, and as he paused to brush his hair from his eyes he left a smudge along his forehead. I laughed at him, and he gave me a look.

"What?" he said.

I rubbed my own forehead. "You've got a smudge."

"Oh." He frowned and examined his hands for clean skin; upon finding none, he tried to wipe the crook of his elbow over his forehead, but he only succeeded in spreading the blood further.

I laughed and shook my head. "Oh, you goose. You've made it worse."

He scrubbed again, harder, and I ended up dipping the end of my skirt in the soapy water and wiping the blood off myself. He looked up as I stood over him, and at this close proximity I simply couldn't help it: I leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"All better," I said and returned to my basin to continue scrubbing the clothes.

Little by little, he was getting used to my open displays of affection. I knew he would never fully become accustomed to such physical intimacy, what with the values that had been instilled in him from such an early age, but there was progress. He was coming out of his shell. I cast my mind back to when I first met him, nearly five years ago, and smiled at how far we had both come.

We worked in amicable silence for a bit. I liked that we didn't have to talk all the time. When one lives away from one's friends, there is no lack of conversation topics as they do not see each other every day. But now that I was here and saw Connor and Achilles every day, there were not as many new things to talk about. The silence didn't bother Connor; he seemed to like it, and because he liked it, I did, too.

I finished my work before he did and asked him if I could help him with anything, but he was in The Zone and said nothing. I tidied my own things away, working around him in a bubble so I wouldn't disturb his reverie.

Eventually I had nothing left to do but wait until he finished. I lay on my back in the grass by the cliff; a breeze barely stirred the long grass, and the sea was a distant crash behind me. I shaded my eyes with my forearm, hearing nothing but birds.

Some time passed, and then a shadow passed over me. I moved my arm and glared up at Connor, who towered over me, blocking out the sun.

"What?" I grumbled, squinting at him.

He tilted his head. "You all right?"

I covered my eyes again. "I'm waiting for you, you numpty."

He spread his hands, which were now devoid of blood. His shirt was clean, too - how long had I been here? "I am finished," he said.

"Evidently." I held up a hand in a request for help. He smirked and deliberately stepped over me, dusting his hands together. He was barefoot. "Rat," I wailed.

"Ótkon," he called back.

I muttered a varied array of insults under my breath as I hauled myself to my feet, dizzy with the heat of the sun. Connor had already disappeared into the manor (which was empty for the day, as Achilles was seeing to matters within the growing homestead village), and he returned moments later with two cups of water.

"Thank you," I said, and we drank in silence, relishing the cool water in the stifling heat. The trees were still with the lack of a breeze, and the air was thick and heavy with the dry heat.

We looked up at the same time as a sound came from inside the manor, and we both went still. Achilles wasn't supposed to be back yet. I met Connor's eyes, and he gave a barely-perceptible nod, and we slowly moved towards the back door. Connor froze as we heard it again, clearer this time.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" someone was calling. "Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

A burglar wouldn't know Connor's name. He tilted his head to the side and slowly pushed the back door open to peer inside. He let out a breath. "Kanen'tó:kon. Has something happened?"

I peered past Connor; his friend was frantic and wide-eyed, and once he heard Connor he came to the kitchen. He was more tanned than when I had last seen him; his clothes were lighter; without the gloves his hands were scarred and strong.

"William Johnson has returned," said Kanen'tó:kon, breathing heavily between his words like he had run here, "with all the money required to buy our land. He meets with the elders as we speak. I begged them to resist, but I fear he shall have his way, unless you intervene."

Connor stepped fully into the kitchen incredulously. "How is this possible? We destroyed the tea. Johnson should be unable to finance it."

"The Templars are nothing, if not resourceful," I murmured, more to myself than the others.

"Please," Kanen'tó:kon said. "It has to stop."

Connor was already shoving his shoes on. "Of course. Can you tell us where they are meeting?"

Kanen'tó:kon explained where Johnson Hall was while we grabbed our weapons and suited up. Johnson Hall was seven miles from the Mohawk River in Johnstown, New York. Built in 1763, it was set in William Johnson's huge estate and, unfortunately for us, would be heavily guarded.

We left a note for Achilles before taking horses from the stable and following Kanen'tó:kon out of the valley. The horses wheezed and sweated in the heat, but we hardly had the time to stop and rest them in our haste to reach Johnson Hall before the meeting ended.

One of the chimneys of Johnson Hall stuck out above the trees; once we could see it we tied the horses and continued on foot. Our feet hardly disturbed the dry grass as we crept, as quickly as we could without alerting guards to our presence, up the hill to the meeting.

Connor grabbed my arm and yanked me back as a redcoat soldier passed by the path, rifle slung over his shoulder as he made his rounds. It was hard to see his face in the shadow of his tricorne, but as he turned his head I could see the scar on his cheek, raw and pink in the sun, and all I could think of was Voltaire's book.

Connor was watching him like he was preparing to take him down. "Wait," I hissed to him. "I know him."

He looked at me for a few long moments, but he moved on without asking any questions. Another patrol passed us by, larger this time - there were six to this one, walking two-by-two, faces flushed with the heat. Each was scanning the forest; one wrong move on our part would alert the entire group.

Kanen'tó:kon and Connor shared a wordless look, and before I could say or do anything Kanen'tó:kon was stepping out of his cover and approaching them, hands raised and saying something in Kanien'kéha, making wild gestures as though he were lost and seeking directions.

As we continued on without him (he had stalled the patrol long enough for us to get past) Connor started chuckling under his breath.

"What was he saying?" I whispered.

"He was insulting their mothers," he replied with a guarded smile.

I made a mental note to ask him the specifics of these insults, but another patrol passed by, and we both ducked to avoid being seen.

"Brothers, peace," Johnson's voice came faintly, carried in the still air. "I am confident we will find a solution."

Another voice, quieter and more ancient than the mountains around us, said, "We are not your brothers."

I thought I heard Connor mutter something that sounded like, Damn right, but when I looked at him his face was grim and stony.  The trees were beginning to thin out; we would need an alternative way to access Johnson Hall. Though, judging by the volume of the voices we heard, the meeting was held out of doors.

"Do we not seek the same things?" Johnson sounded strained. "Peace; prosperity; fertile land?"

I could tell Connor was listening intently as the unfamiliar voice said, "You seek land, true enough - land that is not yours, nor any person's."

Johnson Hall was now visible through the trees: a pale-bricked building large enough to house three entire families; sticking out harshly from the soft greens and yellows of the forest with its stark white stone.

William Johnson stood outside the front of this building, dressed in his rich red coat with a handmade blanket thrown over one shoulder, with a design not unlike that of Kanen'tó:kon's clothing. Sunlight glared off the silver ring on his right hand - the mark of the Templars.

Johnson, an Irish man from county Meath, had married Molly Brant, an Indian woman (like Connor, she used two names; her true name was Konwatsi'tsiaienni), thus making him the brother-in-law of Joseph Brant (Thayendanegea), the Mohawk military leader. I could only assume this was partially why he was held in such high regard among the Mohawk people; why he was the Superintendent of Indian Affairs in the northern colonies.

Regardless of how he got to his position, he was still trying to take the land from these people - Connor's people.

Johnson stood before a crowd of no more than fifteen men, all of whom were seated on the ground to listen while he spoke. Some men bore long, dark hair; others were shaved completely bald. It was one of these bald men, with a lined and tired face, but with a wisdom in his eyes such that I fancied he was an immortal king, who was speaking against Johnson in this debate.

"I only wish to keep you safe," said Johnson as mutters of dissent began to rise from the gathered men. "There are those who would betray and manipulate you - or worse yet: take the land by force."

As Connor and I crept around the back of Johnson Hall, I took note of the British soldiers stationed around the property. I had expected more, though I supposed that most were patrolling every access route to the meeting for fear of saboteurs. There were less guards here - Johnson had placed too much trust in the soldiers further afield.

I heard the old man's voice in the still air as Connor began to scale the back of the building: "We are all too aware of the expeditions your people send against us."

"What do you mean, my people?" Johnson sounded insulted, and he continued sharply, "We are all one. We should act as such."

Connor had reached the peaked top of the roof without incident, and he poked his head over the edge to nod to me. I couldn't climb in a dress - in the very least, I couldn't climb well - and would have to find another way to gatecrash the meeting.

"How?" demanded the elder man's voice. "By signing our lands over to you? Then we will be as one: in your debt for ever."

One of the back windows of Johnson Hall was ajar; I debated climbing through and making my way to the meeting from behind, but the risk of running into someone inside was too great, as that would alert the entire meeting of our presence. I couldn't endanger Connor like that.

Another voice, younger and rougher, spoke up. "Sir William may have a point. What hope have we against their black powder and iron?"

I looked around for something - anything - that I could use as cover. Just beyond where I stood, the grass was long and thick, leading into a thicket of bushes at the edge of the tree line. I crept into the bushes, achingly slow, that led around the side of Johnson Hall, where I could see the meeting taking place.

"The spirits will guide us," the first elder said, "as they always have."

"Did they not guide us here?" demanded the other who had spoken: younger than the first by only a fraction, whose grey hair was gathered in two long braids.

"Yes," the wizened elder said, "that we might unmask the Great Betrayer."

"This is a mistake," the younger one spat. "We should sign."

Johnson, who had been glancing between them as they argued, stepped forward with raised palms. "Peace. Peace. Have I not always been an advocate? Have I not always sought to protect you from harm?"

The youngest of the group straightened up. His black hair had only a touch of grey at his temples, and his face was strong in a rugged, middle-aged way. "If you wish to protect us," he said slowly, "then give us arms - muskets and horses, that we might defend ourselves."

I could see Connor, now, on the roof: only because I was searching for him was I able to pinpoint him. He met my eyes across the space between us, head cocked to the side so he could listen to the negotiations.

I shrank back as a guard passed by my place; for half a moment I was tempted to drag him into the bush and silence him, but to do so would guarantee our failure.

A twig snapped.

I flinched as the guard looked sharply around, hardly daring to breathe. For a heart-stopping moment I thought he had seen me, for he drew in a breath, but more twigs snapped, and somewhere behind me a deer called as it sprang away.

It wasn't until the guard turned away, satisfied that he had seen no saboteurs, did I let out a slow and silent breath.

Johnson was still arguing with the elders. "War is not the answer."

"We remember Stanwix," the old man insisted hotly, staring Johnson down with wrinkled eyes of steel. "We remember you moved the borders. Even today, your men dig up the land, showing no regard for those who live upon it. Your words are honeyed, but false. We are not here to negotiate - nor to sell. We are here to tell you and yours to leave these lands."

For a few beats, in which I could hear my own heart thundering in my ears, there was silence. Johnson regarded the elder as one might regard a cockroach.

"So be it," he said. "I offered you an olive branch and you knocked it from my hand."

At a single twitch of his hand, every soldier present drew their rifles. It was now or never.

I lunged out of the bush and dragged the nearest soldier back, one hand pressed over his mouth, but it wasn't enough to muffle his enraged cry.

To my utter surprise, Johnson laughed. "Call off your dog, or everyone here dies."

The guard began to pummel my ribs with his fists. Clenching my teeth, I struck the side of his head over and over with the butt of my flintlock, which made him thrash all the more.

Johnson's distraction was all Connor needed to jump off the roof, tomahawk in hand, and embed the blade in the Templar's chest where he stood.

The soldier in my grip fell limp just as the others sprung into action. I shoved him off me, and before I was even on my feet the elders were swarming at the soldiers, taking their weapons and beating them about the head with them.

I glanced down at the man I left behind, one arm curved around my throbbing ribs. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and blood trickled from his temple. He would wake up - albeit with a headache - which was more than I could say for Johnson.

Time almost seemed to stop as Connor tore the tomahawk free from Johnson's chest, and the Templar pressed his hands to the gash, blood spilling through his fingers, thick and dark and so red.

He sank to his knees. "What have you done?" he rasped, and desperation made his voice higher.

Connor's face was unreadable, his voice low, and I strained to hear him over the struggle between soldiers and elders. "Ensured an end to your schemes. You sought to claim these lands for the Templars."

Johnson's face was growing steadily paler, and his dark beard was almost black against his white skin. "Aye," he said, "that we might protect them. Do you think that good King George lies awake at night, hoping that no harm comes to his native subjects? Or that the people of the city care one whit about them?" He laughed again, and it was weak and wheezing. "Oh, sure, the colonists are happy to trade when they need food, or shelter, or a bit of extra padding for their armies - but when the walls of the city constrict; when there's crops that need soil; when there's no enemy to fight; we'll see how kind the people are then."

He was starting to slump. Connor knelt before him and steadied him with a hand on his arm. "The colonists have no quarrel with the Iroquois," he said.

"Not yet," grunted Johnson; his lips were turning chalky. "But they will. It's the way of the world: in time, they'll turn. I. . . I could have stopped it. I could have saved you all."

I gave the soldier behind me one last look before dusting my hands off and stepping out of the bush. My skirts snagged on dry thorns, and dust caked my shoes. As I pulled my skirts free, the elders managed to get the rest of the soldiers completely disarmed - not bad for a group of old men.

"You speak of salvation," said Connor, "but you were killing them." He didn't mention his mother; I wondered if Johnson even remembered or if she was just another body without a face.

"Aye, because they would not listen," said Johnson indignantly, on a final burst of energy; more dark blood dribbled between his weak fingers, and he grimaced. "And," he panted, "so it seems, neither will you."

One blood-slick hand slid to his pocket, and I could just see the glint of steel in the sun before Connor drove his wrist blade into Johnson's neck. Fresh, dark blood streamed down his pale skin, down Connor's arm, as Johnson sagged and, at last, went limp. His eyes were open and glassy, but Connor didn't close them.

My friend stood, not appearing to have noticed the blood dripping down his left arm, as he locked eyes with me. A quick once-over told us what we needed to know: neither of us was hurt. I straightened as best I could; my ribs ached, but not so badly that I needed to draw attention to it.

Before Connor could turn and leave, the oldest man said, "Ratonhnhaké:ton."

Now Connor looked at him, wide-eyed and surprised. The old man regarded him with an expression I couldn't decipher.

"Niá:wen, nithoyònha," (Thank you, young man) the elder said.

As a drop of blood made it to Connor's palm, his hand twitched. "Yo." (You're welcome)

"Niá:wen, iah ne í'i khok," (Thank you, not just from us) the elder said. He glanced at me, standing in silence, and said in English: "Thank you. You have the gratitude of not only us, but the valley. Our people are safe."

I smiled, determined not to fidget under the eyes of the elders. They were important people in Connor's society, I knew that, and that warranted the highest respect.

Connor himself inclined his head, his expression carefully neutral, and said, "I would not see his kind take away our land."

I couldn't ignore the way he said his kind. Like all white people were the same; all of us were colonisers with the same goal in mind. Was that really how he saw me? Was I no different in his eyes than the Templars; the king; Columbus? I didn't know, and some things I just couldn't ask him. I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached and spots bloomed before my eyes.

With a final, polite exchange between Connor and the elders, the older men herded the redcoats together and, brandishing the rifles in their hands, escorted them off the property. Connor looked at me, and I couldn't quite read what was behind his eyes.

We returned to our horses - Kanen'tó:kon was long gone - and made our way back to the homestead. Neither of us mentioned the fact that Johnson was the first name to be crossed off our list; we didn't mention that he was the first person Connor had killed. When we got into scraps, we struck to wound, but this. . .

The silence got too loud, so I said, "Tell me about your people."

He was riding slightly ahead of me; when I said this he looked back and slowed pace. "I would hate to bore you."

"Please," I said. "I want to know more about you."

My intention had been to break the silence, but I was genuinely interested as he told me how his people got their name Mohawk.

"It seems to me that the name is an amalgamation of other words," he said thoughtfully, "all joined together to form one. Our Algonquin neighbours-slash-enemies call us Mohowaugs; the Unami call us Mhuweyek; the Narraganset name us Mohowawog. In English terms, these names mean man-eaters and cannibal monsters."

"Are your people cannibals?" I asked, shocked. How had such a gentle soul as his come from a people so depraved that they would eat other humans?

He shrugged. "I am unsure. I think, perhaps in past years, before the English came, the warriors of our nation may have eaten their enemies after battle. Then again," he added as another thought came to mind, "the Ojibwe call us Mawkwas, which means bears."

I knew little about his people, so I listened closely and with great fervour as he explained how Hiawatha, the revered prophet and leader, had encouraged the Seneca, Onondaga, Oneida, Cayuga and Mohawk peoples, all of whom shared a similar language, to join together and become the Five Nations of the Iroquois confederacy. The Tuscarora nation later joined to form the Six Nations.

The Kanien'kehá:ka society was a matriarchal one - women were highly respected and family lines and names were all passed from the mother, which really surprised me.

"Then what do the men do?" I said, and he told me that while the women were the heads of the household and the village, the men were the diplomatic leaders and the primary hunters. Either way, he said, men and women were equal.

I laughed as his facts began to evolve into anecdotes: inter-village games of lacrosse (I was sceptical of him but he informed me politely that he was a competent and competitive player) and how he subsequently sprained his ankle tripping over Kanen'tó:kon; his first kiss with a girl from the Bear Clan (there were three clans: Bear, Wolf, and Turtle, the latter of which he was a member). I suspected there was more to the last story than he was letting on, but I said nothing.

In turn, I told him about Zacchaeus the obese dog and hikes with my grandparents and tea parties with Thomas. When we were small, I used to make Thomas wear dresses to these parties, and Rowan teased him tirelessly for it. I told him about my tenth birthday, when my grandparents took me to the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane and later to White's gentlemen's club on James's Street for chocolate. It was my first time trying chocolate, and I described this memory in detail to Connor.

"I'll bring you there one day," I told him. "You and I will go to London, and I'll show you around and we'll eat so much chocolate we pass out."

By the time we returned home we had almost forgotten, but then we went into the basement to pack away our weapons and we were forced to remember. Johnson watched us, his face forever frozen into a stern expression in the portrait on the wall. I didn't look at Connor as I turned the picture around.

But he was looking at me. "You are hurt," he said.

"It's nothing," I replied. "Just got a few punches from a bastard soldier. I'll live."

His gaze softened. "You should take it easy for a few days."

I sighed and squeezed his hand as I passed him on my way up the stairs. "And leave you to do everything? I don't lodge here for free."

He looked at those pictures a moment longer, at the unforgiving eyes of his father, before he turned and followed me up.