For fans of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, a love story for the ages This is the account of Katie O’Toole, late of Lancaster Co., Pennsylvania, removed from her family by savages on March the 2nd in the year of our Lord 1747 .The thirteenth child conceived of miserable Irish exiles, Katie O’Toole dreams of a different life. Little does she know that someone far away is dreaming of her. In 1747, savages raid her family home, and seventeen-year-old Katie is taken captive. Syawa and Hector have been searching for her, guided by Syawa’s dreams. A young Holyman, Syawa believes Katie is the subject of his Vision: the Creature of Fire and Ice, destined to bring a great gift to his people. Despite her flaming hair and ice-blue eyes, Katie is certain he is mistaken, but faced with returning to her family, she agrees to join them. She soon discovers that in order to fulfill Syawa’s Vision, she must first become his Spirit Keeper, embarking on an epic journey that will change her life—and heart—forever. Ideal for fans of The Son and Empire of the Summer Moon , this riveting novel will transport and enchant readers. K. B. Laugheed grew up near the site of the Battle of Tippecanoe, and now tends her gardens and woods in Arcadia, Indiana. This is her first novel. 1 This is the account of Katie O’Toole, late of Lancaster Co., Pennsylvania, removed from her family by savages on March the 2nd in the year of Our Lord 1747. I wish I could say this is a true and honest account, but I see no way the likes of me can make such a claim. Still, I’ve no reason to lie in the pages of this ledger and plenty of reason to unburden my guilty soul. Mine is such a surpassing strange story. I honestly hope by writing it all down I’ll somehow see the truth of it. I feared at first I might disremember how to write, especially in a language I no longer speak, but now that I’ve begun, I find my fears unfounded, as fears so oft prove to be. I wonder—?­what use is fear in a world where the worst catastrophes are those you ne’er see coming? Ah, well—?­I’m too practiced a storyteller to fall prey to my own impatience. I’ll tell my tale apace, withholding my conclusions ’til the end. I was the thirteenth child my mother conceived—?­a circumstance of some significance for her, I believe, as she took great pleasure in reminding me thirteen was the number of Christ’s betrayer. Her belief that I was an unlucky child was routinely cited as justification for beatings, and I grew to envy those children of hers who ne’er breathed air, believing they were, indeed, the lucky ones. Our home was always too full for comfort and there was ne’er enough of ­nothing—?­food nor clothing nor compassion—?­to go ’round. By the time I reached my seventeenth year, my elder siblings had all married, thereby adding more children and chaos to our already o’erflowing household. On the morning of the attack, I was in the loft with a mob of children, readying them for the day. I cannot recall how many children were with me nor e’en which ones they were, but I recall with crystal clarity the shrill scream we heard in the distance. At that moment all feuding and fussing stopt, and we stared at one another in stunned silence. I peeked through the shutters and saw savages everywhere. Now I knew why various of our countrymen had warned against settling in this territory, the proprietorship of which is still in dis­pute, but no one ne’er could tell my father nothing, especially when he was liquored up, which he was, alas, every day I knew him. When I was small, my gran told tales of how Father had been the son of a lord back in Ireland, how rich he was, and wanton, due to inherit the earth or such like. In trembling whispers, Gran de­scribed how her comely daughter schemed to advance herself by catching the young nobleman’s eye, only to cause the ruin of them both. Instead of becoming gentrified, Gran suddenly found herself the hapless chaperon of the exiled couple as they struggled to find a place for themselves in the crude colonies across the sea. Gran was truly happy only when recounting the many miser­able failures of my father’s life. Unfit for any sort of honest labor, he had, she complained, worn out his welcome in at least a dozen em­ployments in three different colonies, eventually dragging us all into the wilderness of the Pennsylvania frontier. This, he said, was where he would at last restore his fame and fortune. For my part, I ne’er stopt longing to return to Philadelphia, where my brother James remained with his wife and children. I determined to find my way back there at the first opportunity. Throughout my childhood, I listened wistfully to Gran’s tales of the Old World—?­the ancient cities with stone castles, shining cathe­drals, and cobblestone streets—?­but the only world I knew was filled with filth and toil and strife and turmoil. We siblings fought furi­ously o’er every scrap of food or cloth, except during those occasions when Father had