“What then?” she asked, startled.
“Dear did you ever learn that you are a ‘Hidden Child’?”
“What is that, Euan?”
“Then you do not know?”
She shook her head.
And so I told her; told her also all that we had guessed concerning her; how that her captive mother, terrified by Amochol and his red acolytes, had concealed her, consecrated her, and, somehow, had found a runner to carry her beyond the doors of the Long House to safety.
This runner must have written the Iroquois message which I had read amid the corn-husks of her garret. It was all utterly plain and horrible now, to her and to myself.