Longing (unabridged) from The Fiery Cross
Copyright © 2001 Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross. All rights reserved.

Diana provided this excerpt as a comparison of the unabridged and abridged audio tapes of her books. This is the original text/unabridged audiobook script that will be read for the audio tapes. [Please note, the title “Longing For Home,” is the title I have given it, not what Diana called it.--Rosana]

But the longing for home was strong: my spacious hearth, with its huge cauldron and its roasting-jack, the light-filled peace of my surgery, with the fragrant bunches of nettle and dried lavender overhead, dusty gold in the afternoon sun. My feather-bed, soft and clean, linen sheets smelling of rosemary and yarrow.

I closed my eyes for a moment, summoning up a wistful vision of this haven of delight, then opened them to reality: a crusted girdle, black with the remnants of scorched oatcake, soggy shoes and frozen feet, damp clothes that chafed with grit and sand, hampers whose abundance had dwindled to a single loaf of bread-- well-nibbled by mice--ten apples and a heel of cheese; three screeching babies, one frazzled young mother with sore breasts and cracked nipples, one expectant bride with a case of incipient nerves, one white-faced serving-maid with menstrual cramps, four slightly inebriated Scotsmen--and one Frenchman in similar condition--who wandered in and out of camp like bears and were not going to be any help whatever in packing up this evening...and a deep, clenching ache in my lower belly that gave me the unwelcome news that my own monthly--which had grown thankfully much less frequent than monthly of late--had decided to keep Lizzie’s company.

I gritted my teeth, plucked a cold, damp clout off a clump of brush, and made my way duck-footed down the trail toward the women’s privy-trench, thighs pressed together.

The first thing to greet me on my return was the hot stink of scorching metal. I said something very expressive in French--a useful bit of phraseology acquired at the Hopital des Anges, where strong language was often the best medical tool available.

Marsali’s mouth fell open. Germain looked at me in admiration and repeated the expression, correctly and with a beautiful Parisian accent.

“Sorry,” I said, looking to Marsali in apology. “Someone’s let the tea-kettle boil dry.”

“Nay matter, Mother Claire,” she said with a sigh, juggling little Joanie, who’d started to scream again. “It’s no worse than the things his father teaches him a-purpose. Is there a dry cloth?”

I was already hunting urgently for a pot-lifter with which to grasp the wire handle, but nothing came to hand save soggy diapers and damp stockings. Kettles were hard to come by, though, and I wasn’t sacrificing this one. I wrapped my hand in a fold of my skirt, seized the handle, and jerked the kettle away from the flames. The heat shot through the damp cloth like a bolt of lightning, and I dropped it.

“Merde!” said Germain, in happy echo.

“Yes, quite,” I said, sucking a blistered thumb. The kettle hissed and smoked in the wet leaves, and I kicked at it, rolling it off onto a patch of gravel.

“Merde, merde, merde, merde,” sang Germain, with a fair approximation of the tune of “Rose, Rose,”--a manifestation of precocious musical feeling that went lamentably unappreciated in the circumstances.

“Do hush, child,” I said.

He didn’t. Jemmy began to screech in unison with Joan, Lizzie--who had had a relapse owing to the reluctant departure of Private Ogilvie--began to moan under her bush, and it started in to hail, small white pellets of ice dancing on the ground and pinging sharply off my scalp. I pulled the soggy mobcap off a branch and clapped it on my head, feeling like an extremely put-upon toad beneath a particularly homely mushroom. All it wanted was warts, I thought.

The hail was short-lived. As the rush and clattering lessened, though, the crunching noise of muddy boots came up the path. Jamie, with Father Kenneth in tow, crusted hail on their hair and shoulders.

“I’ve brought the good Father for tea,” he said, beaming round the clearing.

“No, you haven’t,” I said, rather ominously. And if he thought I’d forgotten about Stephen Bonnet, he was wrong about that, too.

Turning at the sound of my voice, he jerked in an exaggeration of startled shock at sight of me in my mobcap.

“Is that you, Sassenach?” he asked in mock alarm, pretending to lean forward and peek under the drooping frill of my cap. Owing to the presence of the priest, I refrained from kneeing Jamie in some sensitive spot, and contented myself instead with an attempt to turn him into stone with my eyes, ala Medusa.

He appeared not to notice, distracted by Germain, who was now dancing in little circles while singing theme and variations on my initial French expression, to the tune of “Row, Row, Row your boat.” Father Donahue was going bright pink with the effort of pretending that he didn’t understand any French.

“Tais-toi, cretin,” Jamie said, reaching into his sporran. He said it amiably enough, but with the tone of one whose expectation of being obeyed is so absolute as not to admit of question. Germain stopped abruptly, mouth open, and Jamie promptly thumbed a sweetie into it. Germain shut his mouth and began concentrating on the matter at hand, songs forgotten.

I reached for the kettle, using a handful of my hem again as pot-holder. Jamie bent, picked up a sturdy twig, and hooked the handle of the kettle neatly from my hand with it.

“Voila!” he said, presenting it.

“Merci,” I said, with a distinct lack of gratitude. Nonetheless, I accepted the stick and set off toward the nearest rivulet, smoking kettle borne before me like a lance.

Reaching a rock-studded pool, I dropped the kettle with a clang, and--the hail having stopped--ripped off the mobcap, flung it into a clump of sedge and stamped on it, leaving a large, muddy footprint on the linen.

“I didna mean to say it wasna flattering, Sassenach,” said an amused voice behind me.

I raised a cold brow in his direction.

“You didn’t mean to say it was flattering, did you?”

“No. It makes ye look like a poisonous toadstool. Much better without,” he assured me. He pulled me toward him and bent to kiss me.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” I said, and the tone of my voice stopped him, a fraction of an inch from my mouth. “But one inch farther and I think I might just bite a small piece out of your lip.”

Moving like a man who has just realized that the stone he has casually picked up is in actuality a wasp’s nest, he straightened up and very, very slowly, took his hands off my waist.

“Oh,” he said, and tilted his head to one side, lips pursed as he surveyed me.

“Ye do look a bit frazzled, at that, Sassenach.”

No doubt this was true, but it made me feel like bursting into tears to hear it. Evidently the urge showed, because he took me-- very gently--by the hand, and led me to a large rock.

“Sit,” he said. “Close your eyes, a nighean donn. Rest yourself a moment.”

I sat, eyes closed and shoulders slumped. Sloshing noises and a muted clang announced that he was cleaning and filling the kettle.

He set the filled kettle at my feet with a soft clunk, then eased himself down on the leaves beside it, where he sat quietly. I could hear the faint sigh of his breath, and the occasional sniff and rustle as he wiped a dripping nose on his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” I said at last, opening my eyes.

He turned, half-smiling, to look up at me.

“For what, Sassenach? It’s not as though ye’ve refused my bed--or at least I hope it’s not come to that yet.”

The thought of making love just at the moment was absolutely at the bottom of my list, but I returned the half-smile.

“No,” I said ruefully. “After two weeks of sleeping on the ground, I wouldn’t refuse anyone’s bed.” His eyebrows went up at that, and I laughed, taken off-guard.

“No,” I said again. “I’m just...frazzled.” Something griped low in my belly, and proceeded to twist. I grimaced, and pressed my hands over the pain.

“Oh!” he said again, in sudden understanding. “That kind of frazzled.”

“That kind of frazzled,” I agreed dryly. I poked at the kettle with one toe. “I’d better take that back; I need to boil water so I can steep some willow-bark. It takes a long time.” It did; it would take an hour or more, by which time the cramps would be considerably worse.

“The hell with willow-bark,” he said, producing a silver flask from the recesses of his shirt. “Try this. At least ye dinna need to boil it first”

I unscrewed the stopper and inhaled. Whisky, and very good whisky, too.

“I love you,” I said sincerely, and he laughed.

“I love ye too, Sassenach,” he said, and gently touched my foot.

I took a mouthful and let it trickle down the back of my throat. It seeped pleasantly through my mucous membranes, hit bottom and rose up in a puff of soothing, amber-colored smoke that filled all my crevices and began to extend warm, soothing tendrils round the source of my discomfort.

“Oooooo,” I said, sighing, and taking another sip. I closed my eyes, the better to appreciate it. An Irishman of my acquaintance had once assured me that very good whisky could raise the dead. I wasn’t disposed to argue the point.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, when I opened my eyes again. “Where did you get it?” This was twenty-year-old Scotch, if I knew anything about it--a far cry from the raw spirit that Jamie had been distilling on the ridge behind the house.

“Jocasta,” he said. “It was meant to be a wedding-gift for Brianna and her young man, but I thought ye needed it more.”

“You’re right about that.”

We sat in a companionable silence, and I sipped slowly, the urge to run amok and slaughter everyone in sight gradually subsiding, along with the level of whisky in the flask.

The rain had moved off again, and the foliage dripped peacefully around us. There was a stand of fir trees near; I could smell the cool scent of their resin, pungent and clean above the heavier smell of wet, dead leaves, smoldering fires, and soggy fabrics.

“It’s been three months since the last of your courses,” Jamie observed casually. “I thought they’d maybe stopped.”

I was always a trifle taken aback to realize how acutely he observed such things--but he was a farmer and a husbandman, after all. He was intimately acquainted with the gynecological history and estrus cycle of every female animal he owned; I supposed there was no reason to think he’d make an exception simply because I was not likely either to farrow or come in heat.

“It’s not like a tap that just switches off, you know,” I said, rather crossly. “Unfortunately. It just gets rather erratic and eventually it stops, but you haven’t any idea when.”

“Ah.”

He leaned forward, arms folded across the tops of his knees, idly watching twigs and bits of leaf bobbing through the riffles of the stream.

“I’d think it would maybe be a relief to have done wi’ it all. Less mess, aye?”

I repressed the urge to draw invidious sexual comparisons regarding bodily fluids.

“Maybe it will,” I said. “I’ll let you know, shall I?”

He smiled faintly, but was wise enough not to pursue the matter; he could hear the edge in my voice.

I sipped a bit more whisky. The sharp cry of a woodpecker-- the kind Jamie called a yaffle--echoed deep in the woods and then fell silent. Few birds were out in this weather; most simply huddled under what shelter they could find, though I could hear the conversational quacking of a small flock of migratory ducks somewhere downstream. They weren’t bothered by the rain.

Jamie stretched himself suddenly.

“Ah....Sassenach?” he said.

“What is it?” I asked, surprised.

He ducked his head, uncharacteristically shy.

“I dinna ken whether I’ve done wrong or no, Sassenach, but if I have, I must ask your forgiveness.”

“Of course,” I said, a little uncertainly. What was I forgiving him for? Probably not adultery, but it could be just about anything else, up to and including assault, arson, highway robbery and blasphemy. God, I hoped it wasn’t anything to do with Bonnet.

“What have you done?”

“Well, as to myself, nothing,” he said, a little sheepishly. “It’s only what I’ve said you’d do.”

“Oh?” I said, with minor suspicion. “And what’s that? If you told Farquard Campbell that I’d visit his horrible old mother again...”

“Oh, no,” he assured me. “Nothing like that. I promised Josiah Beardsley that ye’d maybe take out his tonsils today, though.”

“That I’d what?” I goggled at him. I’d met Josiah Beardsley, a youth with the worst-looking set of abscessed tonsils I’d ever seen, the day before. I’d been sufficiently impressed by the pustulant state of his adenoids, in fact, to have described them in detail to all and sundry over dinner--causing Lizzie to go green round the gills and give her second potato to Germain--and had mentioned at the time that surgery was really the only possible effective cure. I hadn’t expected Jamie to go drumming up business, though.

“Why?” I asked.

Jamie rocked back a little, looking up at me.

“I want him, Sassenach.”

“You do? What for?” Josiah was barely fourteen--or at least he thought he was fourteen; he wasn’t really sure when he’d been born and his parents had died too long ago to say. He was under- sized even for fourteen, and badly-nourished, with legs slightly bowed from rickets. He also showed evidence of assorted parasitic infections, and wheezed with what might be tuberculosis, or merely a bad case of bronchitis.

“A tenant, of course.”

“Oh? I’d have thought you had more applicants than you can handle, as it is.”

I didn’t just think so; I knew so. We had absolutely no money, though the trade Jamie had done at the Gathering had just about--not quite--cleared our indebtedness to several of the Cross Creek merchants for iron-mongery, rice, tools, salt, and other small items. We had land in plenty--most of it forest--but no means to assist people to settle on it or farm it. The Chisholms and McGillivrays were stretching well past our limits, in terms of acquiring new tenantry.

Jamie merely nodded, dismissing these complications.

“Aye. Josiah’s a likely lad, though.”

“Hm,” I said dubiously. It was true that the boy seemed tough--which was likely what Jamie meant by “likely” ; simply to have survived this long by himself was evidence of that. “Maybe so. So are lots of others. What’s he got that makes you want him specially?”

“He’s fourteen.”

I looked at him, one brow raised in question, and his mouth twisted in a wry smile.

“Any man between sixteen and sixty must serve in the militia, Sassenach.”

I felt a small, unpleasant contraction in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t forgotten the Governor’s unwelcome summons, but what with one thing and another, I hadn’t had the leisure to reflect on exactly what the practical consequences of it were likely to be.

Jamie sighed and stretched out his arms, flexing his knuckles until they cracked.

“So you’ll do it?” I asked. “Form a militia company and go?”

“I must,” he said simply. “Tryon’s got my ballocks in his hand, and I’m no inclined to see whether he’ll squeeze, aye?”

“I was afraid of that.”

Jamie’s picturesque assessment of the situation was unfortunately accurate. Looking for a loyal and competent man willing to undertake the settlement of a large section of wild backcountry, Governor Tryon had offered Jamie a Royal grant of land just east of the Treaty Line, with no requirement of quitrent for a period of ten years. A fair offer, though given the difficulties of settlement in the mountains, not quite so generous as it might have looked.

The catch was that holders of such grants were legally required to be white Protestant males of good character, above the age of thirty. And while Jamie met the other requirements, Tryon was well aware of his Catholicism.

Do as the Governor required, and...well, the Governor was a successful politician; he knew how to keep his mouth shut about inconvenient matters. Defy him, though, and it would take no more than a simple letter from New Bern to deprive Fraser’s Ridge of its resident Frasers.

“Hm. So you’re thinking that if you take the available men from the Ridge--can’t you leave out a few?”

“I havena got so many to start with, Sassenach,” he pointed out. “I can leave Fergus, because of his hand, and Mr. Wemyss to look after our place. He’s a bond-servant, so far as anyone knows, and only freemen are obliged to join the militia.”

“And only able-bodied men. That lets out Joanna Grant’s husband; he’s got a wooden foot.”

He nodded.

“Aye, and old Arch Bug, who’s seventy if he’s a day. That’s four men--and maybe eight boys under sixteen--to look after thirty homesteads and more than a hundred and fifty people.”

“The women can probably manage fairly well by themselves,” I said. “It’s winter, after all; no crops to deal with. And there shouldn’t be any difficulties with the Indians, not these days.” My ribbon had come loose when I pulled off the cap. Hair was escaping from its undone plaits in every direction, straggling down my neck in damp, curly strands. I pulled the ribbon off and tried to comb my hair out with my fingers.

“What’s so important about Josiah Beardsley, anyway?” I asked. “Surely one fourteen-year-old boy can’t make so much difference.”

“Beardsley’s a hunter,” Jamie answered, “and a good one. He brought in nearly two-hundred-weight of wolf, deer, and beaver- skins to the Gathering--all taken by himself alone, he said. I couldna do better, myself.”

That was a true encomium, and I pursed my lips in silent appreciation. Hides were the main--in fact, the only--winter crop of any value in the mountains. We had no money now--not even the paper proclamation money, worth only a fraction of sterling--and without hides to sell in the spring, we were going to have difficulty getting the seed corn and wheat we needed. And if all the men were required to spend a good part of the winter tramping round the Colony subduing Regulators instead of hunting...

Most women on the Ridge could handle a gun, but almost none could hunt effectively, as they were tethered to their homes by the needs of their children. Even Bree, who was a very good hunter, could venture no more than half a day’s travel away from Jemmy--not nearly far enough for wolf and beaver.

I rubbed a hand through my damp locks, fluffing out the loosened strands.

“All right, I understand that part. Where do the tonsils come in, though?”

Jamie looked up at me and smiled. Without answering at once, he got to his feet and circled behind me. With a firm hand, he gathered in the fugitive strands, captured the flying bits, and braided it into a tight, thick plait at the base of my neck. He bent over my shoulder, plucked the ribbon from my lap, and tied it neatly in a bow.

“There.” He sat down by my feet again. “Now, as to the tonsils. Ye told the lad he must have them out, or his throat would go from bad to worse.”

“It will.”

Josiah Beardsley had believed me. And, having come near death the winter before when an abscess in his throat had nearly suffocated him before bursting, he was not eager to risk another such occurrence.

“You’re the only surgeon north of Cross Creek,” Jamie pointed out. “Who else could do it?”

“Well, yes,” I said uncertainly. “But...”

“So, I’ve made the lad an offer,” Jamie interrupted. “One section of land--wee Roger and myself will help him to put up a cabin on it when the time comes--and he’ll go halves with me in whatever he takes in the way of skins for the next three winters. He’s willing--provided you’ll take out his tonsils as part o’ the bargain.”

“But why today? I can’t take someone’s tonsils out here!” I gestured at the dripping forest.

“Why not?” Jamie raised one eyebrow. “Did ye not say last night it was a small matter--only a few wee cuts wi’ your smallest knife?”

I rubbed a knuckle under my nose, sniffing with exasperation.

“Look, just because it isn’t a massive bloody job like amputating a leg doesn’t mean it’s a simple matter!” It was, in fact, a relatively simple operation--surgically speaking. It was the possibility of infection following the procedure, and the need for careful nursing--a poor substitute for antibiotics, but much better than neglect--that raised complications.

“I can’t just whack out his tonsils and turn him loose,” I said. “When we get back to the Ridge, though...”

“He doesna mean to come back with us directly,” Jamie interrupted.

“Why not?” I demanded.

“He didna say; only that he had a bit of business to do, and would come to the Ridge by the first week of December. He can sleep in the loft above the herb-shed,” he added.

“So you--and he--expect me just to slash out his tonsils, put in a few stitches, and see him on his merry way?” I asked sardonically.

“Ye did nicely wi’ the dog,” he said, grinning.

“Oh, you heard about that.”

“Oh, aye. And the lad who chopped his foot with an ax, and the bairns wi’ milk-rash, and Mrs. Buchanan’s tooth-ache, and your battle wi’ Murray MacLeod over the gentleman’s bile-ducts

“It was rather a busy morning.” I shuddered briefly in remembrance, and took another sip of whisky.

“The whole Gathering is talking of ye, Sassenach. I did think of the Bible, in fact, seeing all the crowd clamoring round ye this morning.”

“The Bible?” I must have looked blank at the reference, because the grin got wider.

“And the whole multitude sought to touch him,” Jamie quoted. “For there went virtue out of him, and healed them all.”

I laughed ruefully, interrupting myself with a small hiccup.

“Fresh out of virtue at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“Dinna fash. There’s plenty in the flask.”

Thus reminded, I offered him the whisky, but he waved it away, brows drawn down in thought. Melting hail had left wet streaks in his hair, and it lay like ribbons of melted bronze across his shoulders--like the statue of some military hero, weathered and glistening in a public park.

“So ye’ll do the lad’s tonsils, once he comes to the Ridge?”

I thought a moment, then nodded, swallowing. There would still be dangers in it, and normally I wouldn’t do purely elective surgery. But Josiah’s condition was truly dreadful, and the continued infections might well kill him eventually, if I didn’t take some steps to remedy it.

Jamie nodded, satisfied.

“I’ll see to it, then.”

My feet had thawed, even wet as they were, and I was beginning to feel warm and pliable. My belly still felt as though I’d swallowed a large volcanic rock, but I wasn’t minding all that much.

“I was wondering something, Sassenach,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Speakin’ of the Bible, ye ken.”

“Got Scripture on the brain today, have you?”

One corner of his mouth curled up as he glanced at me.

“Aye, well. It’s only I was thinking. When the Angel of the Lord comes along to Sarah and tells her she’ll have a bairn the next year, she laughs and says that’s a rare jest, as it’s ceased to be wi’ her after the manner of women.”

“Most women in that situation likely wouldn’t think it at all a funny idea,” I assured him. “I often think God’s got a very peculiar sense of humor, though.”

He looked down at the large maple leaf he was shredding between thumb and forefinger, but I caught the faint twitch of his mouth.

“I’ve thought that now and again myself, Sassenach,” he said, rather dryly. “Be that as it may, she did have the bairn, aye?”

“The Bible says she did. I’m not going to call the book of Genesis a liar.” I debated the wisdom of drinking more, but decided to save it for a rainy--well, a rainier--day, and put the stopper back in the flask. I could hear a certain amount of stirring in the direction of the campsite, and my ears caught a word of inquiry, borne on the chilly breeze.

“Someone’s looking for Himself,” I said. “Again.”

Himself glanced over his shoulder and grimaced slightly, but made no immediate move to answer the call. He cleared his throat, and I saw a faint flush move up the side of his neck.

“Well, the point is,” he said, carefully not looking at me, “that so far as I ken, if your name’s not Mary and the Holy Ghost isna involved in the matter, there’s only the one way of getting wi’ child. Am I right?”

“So far as I know, yes.” I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a rising hiccup.

“Aye. And if so...well, that must mean that Sarah was still bedding wi’ Abraham at the time, no?”

He still wasn’t looking at me, but his ears had gone pink, and I belatedly realized the point of this religious discussion. I reached out a toe and prodded him gently in the side.

“You were thinking perhaps I wouldn’t want you anymore?”

“Ye dinna want me now,” he pointed out logically, eyes on the crumbled remains of his leaf.

“I feel as though my belly is full of broken glass, I’m half- soaked and mud to the knees, and whoever’s looking for you is about to burst through the shrubbery with a pack of bloodhounds at any moment,” I said, with a certain amount of asperity. “Are you actually inviting me to participate in carnal revelry with you in that mound of soggy leaves? Because if you are...”

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I didna mean now. I only meant-- I was only wondering if--” The tips of his ears had gone a dull red. He stood up abruptly, brushing dead leaves from his kilt with exaggerated force.

“If,” I said in measured tones, “you were to get me with child at this point in the proceedings, Jamie Fraser, I would have your balls en brochette.” I rocked back, looking up at him. “As for bedding with you, though...”

He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. I smiled at him, letting what I thought show plainly on my face.

“Once you have a bed again,” I said, “I promise I won’t refuse it.”

“Oh,” he said. He drew a deep breath, looking suddenly quite happy. “Well, that’s all right, then. It’s only--I wondered, ye ken.”

A sudden loud rustling in the shrubbery was followed by the appearance of Mr. Wemyss, whose thin, anxious face poked out of a nannyberry bush.

“Oh, it’s yourself, sir,” he said, in evident relief.

“I suppose it must be,” Jamie said, in resignation. “Is there a difficulty, Mr. Wemyss?”

Mr. Wemyss was delayed in answering, having become inextricably entangled with the nannyberry bush, and I was obliged to go and help release him. A one-time book-keeper who had been obliged to sell himself as an indentured servant, Mr. Wemyss was highly unsuited to life in the wilderness.

“I do apologize for troubling ye, sir,” he said, rather red in the face. He picked nervously at a spiny twig that had caught in his fair, flyaway hair.

“It’s only--well, she did say as she meant to cleave him from crown to crutch wi’ her ax if he didna leave off, and he said no woman would speak to him in that manner, and she does have an ax...”

Accustomed to Mr. Wemyss’s methods of communication, Jamie sighed, reached out for the whisky flask, uncorked it, and took a deep, sustaining swig. He lowered the flask and fixed Mr. Wemyss with a gimlet eye. “Who?” he demanded.

“Oh! Er...did I not say? Rosamund Lindsay and Ronnie Sinclair.”

“Mmphm.”

Not good news; Rosamund Lindsay did have an ax; she was roasting several pigs in a pit near the creek, over hickory embers. She also weighed nearly two hundred pounds and while normally good- humored, was possessed of a notable temper when roused. For his part, Ronnie Sinclair was entirely capable of irritating the Angel Gabriel, let alone a woman trying to cook in the rain.

Jamie sighed and handed the flask back to me. He squared his shoulders, shaking droplets from his plaid as he settled it.

“Go and tell them I’m coming, Mr. Wemyss,” he said.

Mr. Wemyss’s thin face expressed the liveliest apprehension at thought of coming within speaking range of Rosamund Lindsay’s ax, but his awe of Jamie was even greater. He bobbed a quick, neat bow, turned, and blundered straight into the nannyberry bush again.

A wail like an approaching ambulance betokened the appearance of Marsali, Joan in her arms. She plucked a clinging branch from Mr. Wemyss’s coat-sleeve, nodding to him as she stepped carefully round him.

“Da,” she said, without preamble. “Ye’ve got to come. Father Kenneth’s been arrested.”