Grilled Rabbit
Mrs. Fitz sends Annie to fetch me for supper. I'm just about to step into my dress when a soft knock sounds at my door.
"Come in!" I say, without thinking.
A tallish young woman, about my build, but younger, and intensely redheaded, steps in with a prompt, "Oh dear!", and immediately averts her eyes.
"It's alright," I say, contorting myself so I can pull up the zipper, "We're all girls together."
She looks up, a bit tentatively, "Aye. . . ah. . . Annie Campbell, Miss Claire," she holds out her hand.
I take it, with a grin, "Oh, it's you I have to thank for the clothes, I think?"
"Aye, do ye like them?"
"Very much." I settle the knee-length skirt of the tartan dress across my hips. "Of course, my personal tastes differ on some minor points. . ."
"Oh, a'coorse!" I reach for my crutch, leaned up against the desk, but before I can hop towards it, Annie rushes to hand it to me, "Ye wilnae forget tae say when ye want moor? There's a lovely little dress shop in Cranesmuir, an' two wee outlets for shoos, an' one just for makeup. There's even a spa over in Broch Mordha, iff'n ye want tae make a day of it, an' I've heard Mrs. Hart has a new girl in from Edinburgh who can do yer nails fair braw."
I smile, even though I only understand about half of what she's saying - and not just because of her accent. An "outlet" and a "spa" are places I don't understand, and I've no idea what "doing your nails" can possibly consist of beyond cleaning and trimming them properly. . .
"It all sounds lovely, but can you afford to do all that? Especially with a guest like me?"
She leads me through my rooms, and out into the house proper.
"Oh, aye! Uncle Colum takes good care o' his family. I'm assistant maid to Mrs. Fitz hersel' - I've more than a fair wage."
"Colum? He's the Laird, I take it?"
"Himself! Has nae'un named him to ye yet?"
"No. But that's alright. And your wages weren't what I meant, Annie."
"Were they no'?"
"No, I meant, can you afford to take a whole day off to show a stranger around?" I raise the crutch as emphasis, "I'm a bit slow-moving at the moment - any sort of trip into any town is likely to take all day."
"Well is'no' like I'm a searvant, am I? Colum is a distant cousin, actually, no' an uncle - but ee's been very good tae me. Ee's allus gi'en me a day off when'ere I wanted it before, and ye'er a best reason!"
"Am I?"
"Aye!" she goes and waits demurely in front of a large arched double door at the top of three shallow steps. As I slowly work my way up them, she opens the doors, and makes a bow to me that I think is called a "curtsy", "Hospitality to visitors is a matter of family honour, Miss Claire."
If that's so, then the dining room is a magnificent example of MacKenzie family honour. I've read about things like vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, wine coloured carpets, tables draped in snowy-white linen and adorned with rows of candles set in amid flowery centerpieces - and I've seen pictures - but. . .
I decide there aren't words to describe what I'm feeling, so I just follow Annie into the room, mouth closed, and eyes wide.
Apparently, the big double-leaved door is only a side-entrance to the dining room - one of six side-entrances - and there are seven in total. One immensely long table runs down the center of the room, seeming to fill the space, though I think the room itself is broad enough to accommodate two long tables in parallel. One much shorter table is set lengthwise at one end - to the left as I entered - like a cross to a "T". Everything is crowded with glittering tableware and colourful flowers, lit by bright flickering candles and the glowing crystal clouds above us.
If it were up to me, I wouldn't want to do anything so crude as eating in this room - I'd just want to sit and look.
Annie leads me over to what I assume is the "high table" - though it is on the same level as the other. Mrs. Fitz is there, speaking to a small crowd of men and women in very stiff-looking black and white livery, giving them instructions, and running down a few checklists. I'm not the only person dressed for dinner in the room by far - at least two dozen other people are gathered in small groups on either side of the long table, and their numbers are only growing - but I am the only one who has been led this close to Mrs. Fitz and the High Table. I briefly wonder if there are any other guests besides me here tonight, or if they are all employees and family.
Or both. . .
"Ah, good, ye're heer," says Mrs. Fitz, turning to us, slightly breathless, "It wouldnae doo tae be late yer furst night, Mrs. Beauchamp, an' I need tae tell ye aboot the ceremony of the Entrance-" her eye is caught by one of the men in black and white livery, "Ooo, Mr. Crane, a moment!" she glances apologetically and slightly frantically at Annie and me, then scuttles off to do her job.
I grin, not at all worried. Not, that is, until Annie leans over to me, shamefaced, whispering fast and low-
"I didnae even think! What am I tae call ye? I jus' said Miss Claire wi'out askin', and-"
"Miss Claire is more than fine," I whisper back, "The way you say it, it makes me sound young, even pretty."
Annie stops with her mouth open, and looks me up and down, as though seeing me for the first time.
"And now you're going to be sentimental," I pat her hand, "Don't, my dear. Just take a little pressure off Mrs. Fitz, and show me where to stand and tell me what I'm supposed to say and do, there's a good girl."
By the time she's done explaining that I'm to stand until Himself sits, and I'm a High Table guest so Dougal has the honour of seating me, and he'll probably do so directly to Colum's left, but only after I've been formally introduced, the room has filled even further, and warmed with the presence of so many Human bodies. The low hum of conversation is more comforting and welcoming than I expected. No one speaks to me, but I don't feel excluded, only new, and somewhat small. Those things don't bother me. If they had forced a welcome on me, all glitter and hand gestures and empty smiles, then I would know I wasn't welcome here. But as things are, I think we might get on reasonably well, as soon as we get to know each other a little.
Slowly, the milling, murmuring crowd of people fall quiet, and arrange themselves in two long rows down the opposite walls of the room. I'm at the head of one, a short, bearded man I don't know is at the head of the other.
Quickly, I scan down the two long lines of us. Annie left me as soon as she had finished explaining, so I don't see anyone I know. Not Angus, not Murtagh, not Rupert, not Mrs. Fitz.
And not Jamie. . .
A gong sounds, and a man in livery stands, very upright and proper, in the center of the room above the High Table. The surrounding silence deepens as he intones -
"Be on your feet, for Himself, Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie, Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie, Laird of Leoch."
Then he walks off to the side, and another liveried man opens the big door in the middle of the back wall of the dining room.
A shape slowly materializes from the other side of the door. A man. Of moderate height, but majestic bearing, his long, dark, silver-grey hair pulled back, his classically cut blue waistcoat smooth across his well-developed shoulders and chest. His expression is Dignity, with the capital clearly written in his very eyes. He walks with a slow, precise pace - too slow and precise.
It is only then that I notice his legs. He is wearing a sort of shiny steel exoskeleton over his trousers, with leg plates and boots and motors at the joints.
I am reminded of old legends of power suits, and weapons blessed by the gods, of heroes that could fly and use magic, and saved the world. . .
A few steps into the room, he stops, and taps some unseen buttons.
With a hiss and several clanks, the exoskeleton opens, and he steps free of the device. His pace is even slower now, but far less precise. He rolls painfully from foot to foot, and no wonder, for the lower half of each of his legs is nearly as thin as a broomstick, and bent out of shape so severely, the wonder is that he can walk unaided at all.
So this is Colum Mackenzie. The Laird. Dougal's brother.
And Dougal himself did enter with his brother, along with a few others, but I don't notice them until Colum has seated himself at the center of the High Table. Then Dougal comes forward, leading a woman, who he seats at Colum's right hand. Then he seats two younger men down the table to her right.
Then he turns to me. He takes my arm lightly, knowing I'm moving slowly with the crutch. As we pass between Colum's mechanized leg-braces and the back of Colum's chair, I avoid looking at him, knowing all I'd be able to say to him at the moment is a screaming demand why he didn't tell me what an "audience with the Laird" actually meant, and knowing equally well why he didn't tell me.
It's to throw me off, to make my own injury seem petty, to make me feel insignificant and weak, and to shame me into answering questions more easily.
Well, the joke's on him.
I always feel petty, weak and insignificant. Dougal so deliberately pointing it out to me, and so forcefully drawing a line under it, only make me feel like both he and Colum are my equals, not my superiors.
A true superior doesn't need to point out just how much better they are than you. And they certainly don't need to belabour the point like this.
Dougal releases my elbow, and bows towards his brother. Colum turns to us.
"My Lord MacKenzie," says Dougal, formally, "I have the honour to present to you our official clan Guest-" He gestures at me to speak.
I balance on my good foot, and give an undeniably awkward bow, but I put out my hand with all good will.
"Claire Beauchamp, sir."
He takes my hand, briefly but firmly, "Welcome, Claire Beauchamp. Are ye Married or Miss?"
His voice isn't unlike Dougal's, deep and full, but it is coloured with confidence and pride where Dougal's is devious and deliberately smooth.
"I am a widow. But I prefer Mrs."
He courteously inclines his head, and gestures to the woman beside him, "My wife, Letitia."
I bow awkwardly again. She acknowledges me with a prim, cold expression.
"Please ye tae be seated, Mrs. Beauchamp," says Colum.
Dougal seats me, then sits down to my left. As soon as he does so, the rest of the room erupts with motion and resumed conversations, as everyone else finally gets to sit down.
My place setting is magnificent - all gold leaf and ivory ceramic and clear crystal glimmering in the candlelight. I bless my Central Township upbringing, for if I've never seen a table setting quite as elaborate as this, I at least know what each utensil is for. A small plate with bread and butter sits next to my right hand, waiting patiently for the soup. As must I.
My seat is comfortable, and no one is interrogating me yet, so I carefully scan the room again. I notice many things - interesting details I didn't notice at first sight. But, chiefly, I notice again that Jamie is nowhere to be seen.
I decide it can't hurt to ask about him. It would be an excellent question to use to test the waters, anyway. I'm just turning to Colum, when he forestalls me with his own question.
"I may take it ye've nevar seen so advanced a case of Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome before?"
I blink. "No. I. . . don't even know what that is."
"It's the condition of my legs. I saw ye preparing to ask. And ye may ask - I'm no' ashamed nor shy of it."
No. He's proud of it. That is abundantly clear.
"Oh," I say, uncertain what response he wants, "Excellent. But that wasn't what I was going to ask about."
Colum looks at me indulgently, as if to a child caught in the clumsiest of lies, "Were ye no'? Then what was on yer mind when I made my entrance?"
I smile. That, at least, I can tell him, without lying at all. "Only the obvious, I'm afraid," I gesture behind us, "I was interested in those," I indicate the mechanized braces, "Beautiful, custom device. I imagine you have a devil of time keeping young boys away from them."
"Aye, that we do," He smirks a little, "But why do ye think so?"
"It's quite obvious. To you they are a necessity. Grudgingly accepted, openly embraced, neutrally acknowledged as a useful piece of technology - no matter how you might personally consider them - they are just something to make your life more functional. But to a growing boy?" I glance back at the shiny exoskeletal legs again, "You must seem like a superhero."
The soup arrives, and Colum looks down at it, a somewhat amused twinkle in the corner of his eye. I expect him to begin questioning me now, but he only turns his attention entirely onto his soup.
And it's worth attention - cream of potato with caramelized carrots and green peas, and tiny, feather-light curls of what I assume is cheese, sprinkled on top.
One of the men in livery comes through, and fills our wine glasses with a pale yellow, fruity smelling liquid. I take a sip, and know it's a moscato. Lightly fizzy, much less than a champagne, but sweeter, all effervescent high notes. A perfect accompaniment to the thick, rich soup.
I learned so many things as the only child of one of the leading Inter-City trade merchants on Skycity 15. But I had thought I'd forgotten nearly all of it. . .
It seems I remember more than I ever realized.
Speaking of children, and growing boys, the same little seven or eight year old scamp I saw greet Dougal this morning runs up behind Colum now.
"Papa, papa! Tammas and Lindsey say the new horses'll be here before the gathering, and I wanted too ask ye if-"
"Haud yer wheesht! Where are yer manners, Hamish?" Colum gestures at me, "Say hello to our guest."
The boy turns and regards me, with huge eyes and an uncertain expression.
"Hello," he says, reluctantly.
I smile, recognizing the same restrained formality of tone that I always used as a child whenever I was forced to meet a new adult.
"Hello again," I say, "I saw you greet your uncle this morning." I glance back at Dougal, then back to the boy, "Or, rather, him greet you," I pat his shoulder, gently, "Don't worry though, I once had an uncle who loved me like he was my third parent too. I know what it can be like."
He blushes, and bites his lip, small and adorably male when he realizes I saw him get kissed, "I. . . uh. . ."
Colum intervenes, "Go say goodnight to yer mother, Hamish."
He goes over and kisses Letitia briefly, and then disappears back the way he came.
When he is gone, Colum looks at me, a much harder expression on his face than I was expecting.
"Your son is luckier than he realizes," I say, baffled.
"Aye. Arenae we all?" says Colum, shortly, and turns back to his soup.
I must have said something wrong, but I am completely at a loss as to what.
And still, the questioning does not begin. Testing the waters is even more important now. Let's see how much Dougal has had time - or has chosen! - to tell his brother about events concerning me. I quickly scan the room again, making absolutely sure that Jamie is not here.
"Is Mr. MacTavish not joining us?"
"Nae," says Colum, sparing his attention from the soup and looking straight at me, "And what is Mr. MacTavish to ye?"
I smile, and make my voice sweet, "He's one of my rescuers, but that's hardly the point. You see, after I've been buried with a man, I usually find I'm somewhat interested in his. . ." I time my next word so that Dougal is taking a sip of wine, "Resurrection."
I don't quite score a spit-take, but he does splutter a bit into the glass.
Colum looks past me, questioning Dougal with his eyes.
"Aye, she alerted us to a unannounced checkpoint at Cocknammon, so I told wee Jamie to take her inta hiding with him," says Dougal, half-dismissively, "I thought she'd earned that much."
That much, and no more, is the clear unspoken implication.
Colum nods, neither in approval or censure, merely in acknowledgement.
"But now ye're an official guest of Clan MacKenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp," adds Dougal, suavely, "Ye must give us the honour of yer undivided attention this first evening."
By which he has made himself quite clear. I am going to be questioned. Thoroughly. Therefore, I am denied any allies. I am denied even any familiar faces, save Dougal's own. I must face whatever is asked of me tonight, and I must face it alone, unaided.
And what is more, Colum might be the Laird, and as such, will probably end up doing the majority of the questioning, but it is Dougal who is directing this inquisition, not his brother.
There's a game schoolchildren play on Skycity 15. We call it rounders, although I don't know if that is the official name or not. I don't know if it has an official name. It is a blend of word association and memory retention that requires you to be quick, clever, and ruthless. The first player chooses a word, like "fire". The second player must think of a related word, then repeat them both, "fire, hose". The third player must think of a word related to the second, but not the first, then repeat all three, "fire, hose, pipe". It goes on like that, bouncing back and forth like a ball of ever increasing weight, all round the circle of players. And not only must you remember the order of words and repeat them correctly, you must be clever about your additions. If more than one other player objects to your choice of word, you are out of the round. If you do not remember, or even stumble over the order of the words, you are out of the round. And when there are only two players left, all of the "out" players may point out the mistakes or object to the additions of the final two contestants. Each player must pay close attention to every other for the entire game, not only to call out mistakes, but to remember every detail when your own turn comes.
It is a cutthroat game, where spectacular wins are rare, and often, everyone loses.
I've loved rounders ever since I was old enough to speak.
I experience a certain excitement for the upcoming discussion that I did not expect. These men are not evil - they aren't even my confirmed enemies. They are, in fact, my equals, meeting me in fair combat, even if circumstances have given them a home-ground advantage. My Central Township blood rises at their open challenge, and the House of Beauchamp prepares to defend its honour.
The empty soup plates are cleared, and mushroom tarts arrive.
"Cook made yours 'specially," says Dougal, appropriating the bottle of red wine from the man in livery who was about to fill our glasses, "From the ones you gathered outside Inverness." He fills my glass with a dark ruby Bordeaux - Pinot Noir by the smell. The man in livery acquires another bottle, and fills everyone else's glass.
"Oh? I'm glad they didn't go to waste, then," I say, smiling at Dougal. I know he knows about my search for information on poisonous mushrooms, but he also knows I'm not stupid. This is just his first volley, and as such, is ridiculously easy for me to dodge. I cut into the lovely pastry, and begin to eat as though everything is entirely normal.
Which isn't quite true. The tart is impressively delicious, much more so than any made with the mushrooms we grow on Skycity 15 could ever be. As if I needed more proof that Skycity life is woefully lacking in so many areas of Human existence. . .
"So. . . Where are ye from, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Colum.
Here we go. . .
"Oxford," I say, as though I find it the most uninteresting place imaginable. I take another bite of my tart, and a sip of wine, and wait for the onslaught I know is coming.
"And what would an Englishwoman be doing picking mushrooms in the hills around Inverness, I wonder?" says Colum, drily.
"Well, you might call it camping, I suppose." I look down at the sliced mushrooms on my plate, and remember how purely happy I was to find them. "But, really, I was trying to get away from Oxford."
"Outside Inverness is certainly a place where ye can do that. But not, perhaps, the most common place for a fine lady like yerself to do so."
"I believe you," I say, "But it wasn't exactly my plan, either. I just rented a car, and. . . well. . . drove. Inverness is where I ended up." I shrug, uncomfortably but not guiltily. It's close enough to the truth, really.
"Are yer parents from Oxford, then?"
"Yes," I say, the distant sadness that usually accompanies my mentioning them making it clear there there is no "are", only "were", "From around there."
"They had no French connections?"
"No, not that I'm aware of," I say, before I remember that my parents are now named Moriston. Luckily, I don't think that's French. . . "No more than any English family after 1066, of course."
"Of course. And yer husband?"
I sip my wine contemplatively as the remnants of the tarts are removed, and a huge platter of roasted potatoes, cooked greens, and tiny joints of meat is placed in front of Colum. A stack of six plates is set next to him, and he proceeds to serve up the main course. Dougal refills my glass with the Pinot Noir the second I've emptied it. He's all too obviously trying to get me tipsy.
But anyone who has regularly drunk South-1 farm labourers under the table on 'tiller vodka, isn't going to be felled by a few glasses of high-class wine.
Not that Dougal has any way of knowing that. . .
"Frank? Perhaps he did have some French ancestors," I say, "He must have, I suppose. It was never something he was interested in."
A liveried man takes each plate as Colum fills them, and delivers them to the rest us sitting at the table. When my plate arrives, Colum says, "Cook's specialty this time of year - roasted rabbit."
"It smells delicious," I say. I've never had rabbit - I barely know what a rabbit is - but it's easy to feign mild eagerness, because it really does smell very good. The potatoes are so steaming hot that after I cut them open, the butter I put on them melts in seconds, and pools around the greens like a sweet, golden moat. My first bite of the meat is rich, strong, and slightly metallic, but after a second bite it tastes like a mix of the chicken I'm used to, and the incredibly filling stew I had for lunch.
More than acceptable, and quite worthy of the term "specialty".
"So ye're just from Oxford, then, are ye?" says Colum, finally filling his own plate, and getting back to the issue at hand - interrogating me.
"So far as I know," I say.
"Well, ye dinnae sound like ye're from Oxford at all. Ye sound American."
Now, that's an angle I didn't expect. . .
"Do I? Well, I can't help that."
Dougal breaks in, "Ye ever been to America?"
Ah yes. I understand now. I should have understood from the first. A bit of vindictiveness rises up in me. Dougal will pay for that.
"I've been to Canada, a few times. And once. . ." I carefully time my next word again, "Boston."
This time Dougal almost chokes on a mouthful of rabbit, but he recovers quickly.
"And what did ye do on this one trip tae Boston?" says Colum, not acknowledging his brother's mild coughing fit, though I'm certain he noticed it.
"It was a school trip when I was fifteen. We toured MIT."
And indeed, this is true. My one trip to New Boston, that's what we did.
"And is that all ye d-"
He breaks off suddenly, and pours himself a water tumbler full of wine. He drinks down half of it with an intense urgency that's disturbing to see in a man so dignified. I turn back to my plate, giving him that much privacy, at least.
"Sometimes the pain takes him in the middle of a word," says Dougal, soberly, "All will be well in a minute or two."
Colum has questioned me hard, but he hasn't been cruel. I hate knowing he is in such constant suffering.
"Is there nothing that can be done?"
"Aye, there's a CRISpRs treatment now, but my brother doesnae believe in it."
CRISpRs! I know them well. They figured in over half my job in Lower South-5. So they have them here! It's a relief to find something technical that I can talk openly about.
"But why not? CRISpRs are so easy, so reliable! Schoolchildren can learn the isolation and purification processes, and, granted, you do need someone who knows what they're doing to administer the serums effectively, but-"
Dougal's eyes sharpen, "And you're offering, I suppose?"
"No! That's what I'm trying to tell you. On my own I've only ever administered CRISpRs serum to plants, though I have assisted a specialist while he administered some to chickens. I wouldn't know the first thing about how and when and where to give them to a Human, but the point is, I bet someone could-"
"Nae!" says Colum, his peremptory tone almost entirely concealing the waver of pain in his voice, "T'was meddling of that sort put me here, I wilnae believe the same meddling can get me oot! Is tha' clear?"
"Oh, so you'll use the very latest in technology, but won't even look at modern medicine? I know Scots are supposed to be rebels, but isn't that taking things a bit far?"
It was a mistake to say that. The air gets very cold around the High Table. I'm not quite sure why, either. But at least it was a clean mistake, something any ignorant Sassenach might have said, and not related to my knowledge of the future.
I expect them to press the attack, but, to my complete surprise, Dougal comes to my rescue.
"Our mother had an experimental set of broad-spectrum inoculations while she was carryin' my brother, lassie," he says, significantly, "And none while she was carryin' me. Can ye blame us if the difference between technology and medicine strikes us as a bit stark?"
I sigh. "No, I can't." I look Colum directly in the eyes, "I'm sorry."
He nods, blankly.
"Now would you mind telling me why it's so important where I'm from? Oxford or France or Boston or freaking Ulaanbaatar - what does it matter?"
"Well, it doesnae, strictly," says Dougal, "But. . . blood tells."
I think of my parents, and the bombing of Central Township.
Home. . .
"Yes. Yes it does. But so does experience."
Dougal nods, "Aye. Ye're right, lassie." A devious look comes into his eyes, "An' what does yer experience tell ye aboot stayin' heer wi' us?"
Dougal's accent only deepens like that when he intends it to. He couldn't be sending a clearer message. He is Scottish. And where I'm from matters to him. No matter what I say next, he will never stop trying to figure me out.
Well, at least that last part is mutual. . .
"I figure now is a good time ask for access to your library. I'm going to need a good encyclopedia, at least."
After this afternoon, there's no way they're letting me have any sort of info-screen ever again. . .
"She wants a library!" laughs Colum, harshly, "Do I haveta tell ye tae stay out of the west wing?"
I recognize this as a reference to a famous adaptation of the de Villeneuve classic story of Beauty and the Beast. In this scenario, I wonder which one of us is the Beast. . . I fall back on my Skycity propensity to be obtusely literal.
"The guest rooms are in the west wing."
"A woman with a sense of direction! How rare!" Colum sneers.
"In fact, that's a myth," I say, as though he had said it in good faith, "Women with highly developed spatial awarenesses are quite common. Almost as common as men with no sense of humour."
"Och, please, and what is a sense of humour, exactly?" says Dougal, smoothly intervening.
"Oh, that's easy. A sense of humour is a sense of the fitness of things. Of the rules of life, if you will. A sense of. . . right and wrong, of justice and equity so ingrained, so essential to a person, that they can sometimes bend those rules, and yet, never break them. That is a sense of humour."
A chill tightens the air around us again. And again, I'm not sure why.
Once more, it is Dougal who breaks the tension, saying softly - "Then the miracle is that ye know anyone with a sense of humour, Mrs. Beauchamp."
"Isn't it?" I say, broadly.
Colum changes the subject.
"What is it ye do, Mrs. Beauchamp? I mean when ye arenae repairing errant plasma engines, that is."
"Well, I'm a botanist by training, but I'm a farm technician by trade."
"Oh, aye? And what is a farm technician?"
"Well, at various times it means you're a chemist, a geneticist, a bio-engineer, a mineralogist, a botanist of course, and a mechanic, programmer, field labourer. . . and occasionally a surrogate mother to baby chickens. Whatever it takes to make a farm a productive place."
"It sounds remarkably similar to a farm manager," says Dougal.
I nod, "I have worked with many farm managers, and the jobs are not unalike. However, a tech is almost always working hands on with the produce. A manager is almost always working hands on with the people."
"And ye prefer produce to people?"
I pause a long time. Long enough for things to get very uncomfortable around the High Table again.
"I have found. . ." I say finally, swallowing hard, "That it is generally less painful when plants die."
I finish my glass of wine, and Dougal fills it up again. I kick back the replenished glass in one long draught, knowing it's probably unwise to do so, but needing, like Colum, something to dull the pain. I think Dougal sees something sincere in this, because he refrains from filling my glass up again.
He's either given up trying to get me drunk, or has realized I don't need to be drunk to say stupid things.
"And what do you do?" I ask Dougal, "Besides drive around in a Rover with a state-of-the-art plasma engine, of course."
"Dougal is my War Chief," says Colum, as though that explains everything. And perhaps it does, but not to me.
Fortunately, I am spared asking what he means, as Dougal again speaks up, and explains, "You may as well ask me now - what a War Chief is doing on the campaign trail - everyone does. There's not many in this family think I have what it takes to be a politician."
Why does he keep smoothing things over? Every time Colum begins to gain the advantage over me, Dougal cuts in, and gives me just enough information so that I can rally. Every time the tide shows signs of turning against me, he diverts the tension - and then turns onto the attack again himself. I've never seen a man blow hot and cold like this before. Does he want to be my ally, or not?
I have a very strange impression that by the end of the night, he's either going to murder me, or ask me to marry him. Or both.
"Politics instead of war? Well, I'd say you just graduated to the truly difficult battles."
There is barely a semblance of Colum being in charge of my questioning any longer, his attention divided mostly between his wine and his wife. I assume his pain must be bad at the moment, and let him retire gracefully from our battlefield. But I don't kid myself. He's still listening, more sharply now than ever.
"Aye, ye arenae far wrong with that, lassie," says Dougal, smiling a tight little wolfish grin, "To be honest, it's a bit of a shock ye arenae somewhat in the same line yerself."
"Politics?" I scoff, "That would mean having some kind of positive emotional attachment to the idea of being English. Which is really the last reaction I have to that idea."
We are served a glistening peachy-pink blancmange, and Colum is handed a bottle of port, or so I assume by the colour.
"Ye. . . dinnae consider yerself English?" Dougal asks, a faint note of incredulity bleeding though his studied smoothness.
"Well, I can hardly be anything else, since I was born there. But, then again, being born in a stable doesn't make you a horse."
It truly is amazing, how many seldom-used words and phrases I'm remembering tonight. The blancmange tastes of almonds, and plums, and some other fruits I don't recognize, but it is quite good. I have always hated fortified wines, so when Colum passes me the port, I hand it straight to Dougal.
"Are ye no' a patriot, then?"
"I don't think so. Not that kind, anyway."
"Then what kind can ye be? Ye were loyal to yer husband, or so I quite naturally assume - is loyalty to a country so far removed from that?" He pours himself a measure of port, and we settle down to the evening's most improbable discussion yet.
"It is to me. That would mean being loyal to a government. I find there's quite a difference between a government and an individual, don't you? An individual you can get close to, come to know, and eventually come to trust. Even when one or the other of you makes mistakes, and you will, there's always that connection between you. I find such a connection very difficult to form, or maintain, with mere groups of officials."
"But, lassie, have ye no sense of. . . well. . . honour?"
"Oh, that? Yes, I think I do. But patriotism. . . that's the kind of honour one wears, like a sword, or chain mail. Such a thing can be good, and useful - even beautiful, in its way. But the drawback is, others can take it from you. Change its colour, change its shape. Even use it against you. In a world where there are those without honour, patriotism. . . Well, in my opinion it's the most dangerous weapon ever created. No less so to the one who wields it than any it might be used against."
"If that is so - and I don't say it is, mind - then what is a man to do?"
"He must put off wearing his honour, and instead, become it. To the marrow bone, be must be what he believes. And not just men. All of us. No one can take your spirit, unless you hand it over."
"Ah. Aye. But spirits can be broken, lass," says Dougal.
Long forgotten words from some ancient, only half-learned liturgy rise up in my mind.
"A broken spirit is a sacrifice unto God, holy and precious."
Dougal puts down his wineglass, and stares at me, unblinking, for far longer than I find acceptable.
I finish my blancmange in silence.
There are a few more perfunctory questions after that, and one or two more jokes at my expense, but it's clear the inquisition is over. For the time being, anyway. Soon after the port has gone around, I rise, take up my crutch, and make my awkward bow to Colum again, saying, truthfully, that I am tired, and must be off to bed. He acknowledges me, barely, with a nod and raised pointer finger.
At the side door I entered from, I look back, and see Dougal is staring at me again, his face as bland as usual, giving very little away, but even from here I can see the look of utter confusion in his eyes.
I don't know if I won this round, but if Dougal Mackenzie also doesn't know? Well, then I'd call that a success.