Ottawa, Late August 1931 Lord Malvern glowered down at the courtroom with all the severity of a ram who had been a judge for nearly 40 years. His voice rumbled across the courtroom like thunder. "The Crown takes a very dim view of this matter, Mr. Soaper. Neither Mr. Kholyawsky, nor any other, has seen fit to question the plaintiff's identity, and it borders on contempt to bring this matter before the court now." Mr. Soaper smiled and stood. The wolf, immaculately dressed in a black suit beneath his legal robes, reached into his jacket and pulled out, with a flourish, a handful of papers. "I have here, Your Lordship, sworn testimonies, from no less than 6 citizens of her hometown in the Maritime Dominion, which attest that the woman present in this court is not Moire Gunn." A bustle of voices broke out as the evidence was duly examined. Seated on the left side of the court, Moire Gunn, the otter, fidgeted restively next to her husband. She had decided to wear a dark green shirtwaist for the day, along with a long black skirt and a dark green jacket. Her red hair was tied back in a tight, schoolmistress bun. A simple tam o' shanter lay on her lap. It was conservative, severe dress, and that was precisely the intention. Marcus was similarly attired in a black lounge suit, fedora resting on his lap. Getting to this stage had taken over a year of bloody struggle. While the bulk of Moire's properties were in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, under the jurisdiction of the Maritime Dominion, the fact that Birkwell and Co. were based in Canada meant the trial had to take place there. But once that matter had been settled, it had been a simple matter of retrieving the necessary documentation. From a legal standpoint, at least according to a strict letter of the law, Birkwell and Co. had committed open theft. Marcus just hoped this was enough to overcome showbusiness tactics. At a nod from him, their lawyer, Mr. Rucastle, stood. The Great Dane, tall and dignified, regarded the court with a severe eye. His rumbling, mellifluous baritone filled the courtroom. "Your Lordship has read the testimonies that have been presented. In rebuttal, I present to the court the death certificates of Flora MacAskill, deceased 1924, and John Flaherty, deceased 1926. Since they have been dead for several years, I ask the court to consider how it is that their written testimonies have been presented here in court today." The grin fell from Mr. Soaper's face in an instant as the evidence was examined. Lord Malvern leaned across and fixed him in his seat with a steely glare. "Mr. Soaper. The presentation of false testimonies in court is a very serious matter. This will be examined further. For now, I will discount the testimonies you have presented thus far." The wolf glanced at his client, then continued after receiving a nod. "I also have here, Your Lordship, a letter from a Mr. Asa Pontirelli of New York, who testifies that the woman present here today is in fact his estranged wife, Luisa Pontirelli. For evidence, I also present this photograph." Again, the evidence was presented. Lord Malvern examined the photograph carefully. "Hmm...There is a passing resemblance, I suppose. Mr. Rucastle, you may stand." Mr. Rucastle duly did so, smoothing his robes down with a dignity befitting a graduate of Edinburgh University. "Your Lordship, Mrs. Pontirelli is an American citizen and cannot be compelled to appear in this court. She was, however, willing to have a photograph taken of her one week ago, dated by that day's newspaper. You will note that the background indicates her presence at that time in Washington, DC when the plaintiff was present in this court." "I see." He gave the wolf another irritated look. "Do you have any other evidence to present, Mr. Soaper?" "Err... no, Your Lordship." "Mr. Rucastle, do you have any further presentations to establish the plaintiff's identity?" He nodded. "Yes, your lordship. I call to the stand Moire Kholyawsky-Gunn." Another brace of whispers passed over the court as Moire took the stand, and was duly sworn in on a weighty bible. "You are Moire Kholyawsky-Gunn, is that not correct?" Moire nodded, and spoke in her clear contralto. "It is, sir." "And you were born Moire Gunn on the 4th of April 1893, is that not also correct?" "It is sir." "Can you tell me, Mrs Kholyawksy-Gunn, where you were educated as a child?" "I was schooled at Thurso Church School, sir, in Sutherland." "I direct the court's attention to this letter from Mrs McGilliebride of Thurso, and an enclosed report on Moire Gunn's handwriting marks dated the 15th of May, 1905." "Objection, Your Lordship, there is no proof that this letter is genuine-" "You are in no position to cast doubt on written testimony, Mr. Soaper. I will examine the evidence in more detail before I reach a decision, but for now your objection is overruled." Mr Rucastle nodded. "Thank you, your lordship. Mrs Kholyawksy-Gunn, can you remember the names of the passengers you bunked with during your voyage to Newfoundland in 1911?" "I can. They were Mr. and Mrs Robertson and their three children, and Mr. and Mrs Macready and their son." "I direct the court's attention to the passenger register for the SS Greenock, sailing from Glasgow on the 6th of September 1911. Mrs Kholyawsky-Gunn, do you swear that you did not see this register until this moment?" "I do, sir. By Almighty God." More hushed whispers, and a nod of approval from Lord Malvern as he looked over the ledger. "This seems in order." He gave a stern look to the defence table as the wolf stood once more. "Mr. Soaper. This had better be substantial evidence." Mr. Soaper stood. "Your Lordship, the litigants have presented a masterful forgery, wrapped up in a fantastic tale of assault, kidnap and escape lifted straight from the pages of a dime novel. No evidence has been presented that Mrs Kholyawsky-Gunn's disappearance was forced, or that she suffered any of the indignities which she claims to have been subjected to. Will she not undergo a physical examination to prove her claims?" The court bustled again with whispers, more than a few amongst them outraged. Lord Malvern stared at the wolf. "Mr. Soaper-" "Your Lordship." Moire spoke up from where she still stood. All eyes turned towards her. Silently, she opened her jacket and pulled it away. Turning her back to the judge, she reached back and pulled up her shirt until the hem was at her nape, baring her naked back to the court. Mr. Soaper went pale. Several of the whispers became gasps of horror. Others became murmurs of pity, and others still of anger. "Shame, sir! Shame!" Several men could be heard snarling, directing their gaze at the wolf and his clients. Lord Malvern looked at Moire for a respectful moment, then turned away. "You may sit, Mrs Kholyawsky-Gunn. Your testimonial is accepted." He shook his head, then looked out at the crowded courtroom. "I have seen no credible evidence to contradict Mrs Kholyawsky-Gunn's testimony, nor to question her identity. These matters being resolved, I rule in favour of the plaintiffs." His gavel slammed against the wood with a deadly finality. "All assets, shares and property of Birkwell and Co. are to be awarded to Moire Kholyawsky-Gunn, along with $800,000 in damages." Mr. Birkwell, a tall and thin deer, practically shrieked from his seat. "But I shall be ruined!! The company will be bankrupt!!!" Lord Malvern silenced him with a simple stare. "From the evidence presented over the last few months regarding your conduct, Mr. Birkwell, you are very fortunate to not be facing *criminal* proceedings. That may yet change. Mr. Soaper?" He turned to the wolf, who was now sitting as though he had been struck over the head. "I will speak with you in chambers." ~ Moire sighed as she slid into bed next to her lover, pulling the silken sheets over them as she did so. She wore a silk slip over a body hardened and sculpted by a life of work, and her red hair flowed freely down her back. Her green eyes sparkled. "...I canny believe it." She whispered. "We did it. Marcus...Ye know what this means? It means..." The raven smiled and sat up, rubbing his beak into her neck. His blue eyes looked into hers, his pince-nez set aside on the side-table. "I know." He beamed. "It means that you have what is yours, and Duncan's. It means our son has a future." Moire smiled back. "Not just that. It means..." She looked down at the scar on her crotch, where she had cut out the Sultan's brand-mark two years prior. "It means...It means I'm free. It's o'er. It's..." Tears ran down her cheeks. Her shoulders began to heave as she buried her face into the sheets. "Aww feck it," She sniffed, trying to smile. "Look at me...weepin' like a wee bairn..." "Shhh..." Marcus wrapped his arms around her brawny shoulders, and squeezed. "I am so, so proud of you. I'm so proud to know you. You showed those bastards what was what." She looked back at him, grinning through her tears. "I thought ye didn't like swearing?" Marcus smiled back, and rubbed his beak against her nose. "For you? I'd swear every curse in the Torah." "Ye bleedin' loverboy. C'mere." - Duncan stared at the telegram. "Aww, shite..." He sat down with a clump. Junior read over his shoulder. "$800,000... even in Canadian, that's still north of $650,000 American. Dunk, pal, congratulations! I can see you're a bit shocked, but this is fantastic!" Duncan shook his head. "It's not that." He held up the other letter. "Arrived this morning." Junior took it, and skimmed halfway through it before firmly folding it closed and handing it back. His cheeks reddened. "Oh, my..." Duncan glared up at him. "Seems yer wee plan worked better than ye intended." The otter folded one leg over the other in a blatant attempt at concealment. "The *plan* was just to get the two of you to meet and chat. You were both bein' a bit shy about mixing, so Lucy got the girls to push her to talk to you, and I left you with her and let Lucy flirt me away. Neither of us was expecting *this*. We just wanted to give the both of you a bit of confidence for the next affair." "Well, it looks like she wants her next affair tae be wit' me." Duncan shifted where he sat, adjusting his trousers to conceal his body's reaction. He glanced at the letter. "An' here I thought it was bunny lasses who were supposed tae be loose." "A base canard, sir!" He shook his head. "Actually, I'm pretty sure ours just don't *pretend* otherwise. Now that I'm thinking about it, Lucille did seem disappointed that we were headed back home instead of staying over at the hotel..." It was Duncan's turn to grin. Without thinking, he switched into Gaelic. In the two years they had known each other, Duncan and Sean Jr had worked out a sort of dialect, somewhere between Duncan's Gaelic and Junior's Irish. It helped when private conversation was needed. "" He ducked the swipe that followed. "" The otter grunted. "" He looked down at the letter. "" One hand rubbed over the other. " He reached over to tap Duncan's chest over his heart. "" He looked down at his avian hands, flexing the black, scaled fingers. "" " The rabbit grinned. " Duncan blushed furiously. "" "" "<...Look, how about we cut a deal? I go out with Fleur, and you give Lucille a chance to scratch her itch. I don't think she wants romance, Junior. At least...>" He flushed again. "" He held out a heavy hand. "" Sean Jr. chuckled and extended his hand. ""