Without An Audience

Colum's office is the most dreary and chilly apartment I've seen in this house yet. The floor is an irregular dark grey tile, unglazed and uneven - uncomfortable and perilous to walk on. It suggests stone cobbles, which, I have to say, is an odd visual to use in an upstairs room. There is a wrought-iron marble-topped table just inside the door, set with three heavy glass jars full of unpolished chunks of semi-precious gemstones - amethyst, and lapis, and some cloudy yellowish green stone I've never seen before. Next to the jars is a large brass orrery that glitters under the recessed spotlighting. Three walls are entirely covered in a heavy-woven, dark red and gold tapestry. They're warm colors, and the cloth is thick and richly draped, so it's surprising how little the curtains dispel the room's oppressive chill. Colum's desk is at the far end, in front of two large windows that look out on the grey, drizzly afternoon. Only here are the tapestries pulled back, and the light from the windows is bright enough, even if muted by clouds and rain.

There's one chair behind the desk - large, covered in studded-leather, and imposing. And there is one chair in front of it - small, carved of wood, and upholstered in pale grey.

No extra points for guessing which one is the Hot Seat.

Or would be, if he was here. But he isn't here yet.

Which is odd, when I think about it. I've already seen how the man enters a room - slowly, painfully, and only with a great deal of mechanical help. There isn't much to be gained by subjecting me to the spectacle again, especially in private. And I have to assume he's had ample time to prepare for this meeting, since Mrs. Fitz gave me extra time to go change into something more formal than the random slacks and tunic I threw on this morning. I even had time to make a cursory search for the replacement cameras I know must be lurking in my room - and I found a microphone wire. It had been slipped into the hem of the neon purple jumpsuit I decided to wear, and I only noticed it because my foot brushed a cold, spiky thing sticking through where only soft cloth ought to have been.

I removed it, but only to the pocket of the jumpsuit.

If I need to tell Colum about his brother's. . . security activities. . . then it will make for good evidence. And it's not as if I'm going to tell Colum a different story in private than I've already told in public. Perhaps it'll be more detailed, but it won't be different.

Let Dougal listen in, if he wants.

But he won't be able to listen to anything unless Colum actually gets here. . .

I grow tired of standing in the middle of the room, and go sit on the small, grey-upholstered chair. His desk is an enormous, solidly-constructed block of a thing, just as imposing as the chair behind it. It really is very strange that Colum wasn't here long before I entered, sitting behind it, dignified and upright, like a falcon ready to pounce the minute his prey comes into view.

That would be an effective way of keeping me off-balance. But letting me into the room first, letting me slowly get accustomed to my surroundings, as cold and as depressing as they might be, with no supervision?

That isn't just odd. That's impossible. No, there's something else going on.

No matter. I have all day. And I haven't yet had a chance to really analyze last night's discussions anyway.

So. What can I suppose were the results of our game of rounders? I think I carried off that I was from present-day Oxford, at least. My asking why it even mattered seemed to satisfy them on that point. But there had been those probing questions about Boston, too. . .

And of course I had taunted Dougal with a mention of Boston, but that was in reference to the banner I left on his computer after I'd kicked the chat-app off the server. So, that was all that was. Taunting.

Right?

But Colum had said I sounded American before that. Whether I do sound American or not I have no idea, but Colum was very clearly leading the discussion in that direction before I bluntly brought it up.

So maybe that was why Dougal reacted so strongly to the word? He didn't think I would so boldly admit a connection to Boston in public like that, after having made so forceful a statement with it in private?

It's possible. Not very, but somewhat.

However, what statement he thought I was making there's no way to tell. What possible importance can Boston have to Scottish Clan leaders thousands of kilometers away?

I don't know. Moving on. . .

I'd clearly put my foot in it three times - once with the boy Hamish, once when I'd snapped at Colum for not using modern medicine, and once when describing my personal philosophy of humour. Unrelated things, that don't seem to make any sort of a pattern. . .

Right then. Take them one at a time.

Hamish. A cute boy, adventurous and lively. In the few seconds I've seen of him, he seems to have a more active connection to Dougal than to his father, but that is probably because Dougal is more active himself. Even his mother likely doesn't have much time for the boy, seeing as she is Colum's primary caretaker. . .

Oh.

Oh, of course . .

That would make a lot of sense.

Neither Dougal nor Colum would thank me for pointing out that it is only too obviously impossible for Colum to have fathered a child, or that it is equally obvious that Dougal loves the boy quite uninhibitedly. In my experience, men rarely show such open affection for children not their own, but with my memories of Lamb so clearly in my mind yesterday morning, I had instantly assumed that Dougal was what Hamish had called him. Uncle.

And so it might be. I have no proof, only a strong suspicion. But by the sour look on Letitia's face all evening, clearly Colum himself suspects something, and my comments, no matter how innocent, could all too easily have been taken as taunting.

Which I did do quite a lot of, so, no blame to Colum if he thinks that was just one more example.

Also no blame to him if he was offended at my snap-back about his refusal to use a CRISpRs treatment on his legs. That was entirely out of line of me, I fully acknowledge it.

Dougal came to my rescue after I said it, though. I still don't know why. . .

It can't be altruism, as he went immediately on the attack again. It couldn't have been a hidden attack of its own, since I had immediately apologized, and the incident smoothed over.

So what did Dougal gain from handing me an out?

Maybe. . . knowledge that I would take an out he gave me? Because he handed me at least three after that. And I took them all.

To his growing confusion.

Now, why would he be confused about that? A strange woman, who is only present in his home because he all but ordered her to be there, in the middle of a very pointed inquisition, takes any outs that are given her. Why is that cause for confusion? Especially when he was the one giving me the outs?

It would only make sense if. . . if. . .

If he was in fact the one defending himself.

What if Dougal thought I was attacking, and in self-defense handed me ways out of the conflicts, new angles on the discussion that steered away from dangerous subtexts? Things that looked like outs for me, but were actually outs for him? And I kept taking them, confusing him as to why I would never push my attacks.

That is possible. Very, almost extremely possible.

And, in ignorance, I may well have attacked. What I don't know, and how I don't know. The first time Dougal handed me an out, every word I'd said was a personal snap at Colum, nothing sub-textually threatening. . .

No. I had also said Scots were rebels.

Rebels. . . rebellion. . .

My breath catches in my throat.

Heaven help me, how could I have forgotten Culloden?

The Second Battle of Culloden isn't due to happen for over three years yet, but I'd bet my bone marrow they're planning it now. Planning it, and probably already gathering funding for it. Already bribing officials so they can pull it off. Already collecting information on all the Peace Agents they're going to slaughter.

I'd said Scots are rebels, and isn't that taking things a bit far.

Just about the worst choice of words possible, if they thought I was alluding to their plans. Just how far those plans have gotten as yet, there's no telling, but I wonder. . . yes I do wonder. . . if Colum is in it at all, how much has Dougal told him?

Because, clearly, it's Dougal who is doing the legwork, so to speak.

This would explain the third incident too. I had said a sense of humour is equal to a sense of justice, of right and wrong. . . that it was a rare man who could bend the rules but never break them. Ominous words, to people planning a gigantic revenge massacre. No wonder Dougal couldn't believe it when I said that I don't consider myself all that English.

And then, I finish up the night by actually telling him that broken spirits are a holy sacrifice!

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, by this point, Dougal probably thinks I work for Sandringham!

Forget rounders, we were playing Behead The Aristocrat with razor sharp battle axes, and I didn't even know it!

And there's the Boston connection. I've just remembered Bonnie Stewart.

American citizen. Boston socialite. Scottish princess.

A large cog in the very messy clockwork of the Second Scottish War of Independence.

No wonder Dougal got red in the face when he saw that banner. Practically everything I've done since stepping out of the side room in that garage has been, if not outright antagonistic, then at least highly suspicious, as far as Dougal is concerned. From his point of view, my inadvertently warning them about the checkpoint at Cocknammon might well have been a calculated gesture on my part, a play to try and earn his trust.

It's even clear why he so insisted that I accompany them home, and made me hide in that cupboard with Jamie instead of handing me over to the English right there at Cocknammon. A probable English agent, who was attacked by Black Jack, can repair a state-of-the-art plasma engine, and who knows about an unannounced checkpoint? Just how much does she know?

And until he finds out exactly what I do know, there's no way Dougal is letting me out of his grasp. She must be packed off to Leoch!

And then, almost the first thing I do upon arriving here is hack the computer he's specifically set up to monitor me. And then I tell off his top two minions, and shove the word "Boston" in his face.

But then, at supper, I wouldn't press my "attacks", and I insist I'm not patriotic, even that I consider it too dangerous a thing for me to use! He could be forgiven for thinking I'm world's most idiotic spy.

But - he knows I'm not stupid.

Small blame to him if he's endlessly confused by it all.

Oh well, there's no fixing that just now. Dougal thinks what he thinks, and somehow, I'll just have to convince him I'm not a threat to him. I don't know how, yet, but this is only Day 3. There's time.

But Colum though. . . Colum, I might still have a chance with right now. It's obvious now that he went into last night's interrogation only half informed, and thanks to his and Dougal's differing ideas on the sanctity of hospitality, he will have to remain less-than-fully informed. If I don't bring up Hamish or currently-modern medical procedures, I might be able to get through a conversation with him successfully.

If he ever shows up, that is. . .

I realize I've been staring at the things on his desk without really seeing them. An empty blue enamel vase. A lamp shaded with a half-globe of green and white glass. An actual fountain pen next to an inkwell containing real ink. An elaborate bronze filigree picture frame, the picture facing away from me. A stack of pale cream-coloured folders to one side of the central work area, and an empty info-screen stand to the other.

Nothing of even mild interest to me.

Then, my eye catches a strange something on. . . or in. . . the elaborately geometrical stand of the picture frame. A little sliver of glimmering, glowing red, encased inside a small cube of bronze filigree.

An active camera. Here. In the family's wing of the house.

So that's their game, is it? They want to see what I'd do if left alone in Colum's office, do they?

No. . . no that's not it at all. Rupert and Angus would have learned by now - active cameras glow. And if either one of them was monitoring this camera specifically, I highly doubt they'd take a chance I wouldn't notice it. Not after yesterday's debacle. Also, there is such a small sliver of a glow, it is clearly pointing away from me, towards whatever is on the desk. Towards that stack of pale folders. Maybe they're meant to bait me? If I was a spy, I'd probably be tempted to go look at them. But I'm not, and I don't care what they are. Which was probably clear to anyone watching ten, fifteen minutes ago - so what's the holdup?

Then again. . . rich metal filigree isn't the sort of surface that can be easily replicated with a sheet of contact paper and a standard in-house printer, like wood grain can. It would take precise, delicate, skilled work to make a piece like that indistinguishable from the rest of the picture frame. This camera wasn't put here this morning.

No, for whatever reason, that camera is here to watch Colum. It's probably been here for weeks or months, if not years. Perhaps its presence is the reason Dougal even has access to spy cameras in the first place. And that's why Colum has been kept in the dark about any information gained on me this way. Perhaps he doesn't know about the presence of any spy cameras at all.

If so. . .

Well, if so, then "gaining the whip hand" as Mrs. Fitz put it, might be far easier than I ever realized. . .

And if those folders are meant as bait for me, then that trap was set by Dougal, and no one else. Colum has no reason to be leaving me alone in his office like this, and most likely no way to know he could be spying on me right now.

So, what is it that's taking him so long?

A section of the tapestry in the far right-hand corner of the room whips back so suddenly, I jump in surprise. It's Dougal himself, but he only sends one dark, sneering, exasperated look in my direction, before snapping to attention, pole-straight, back to the rear wall.

"Be upstanding for Himself," he says, formally.

I stand, and Colum enters, the servomotors of his mechanical braces whirring and straining slightly over the uneven surface of the cobbled floor.

As soon as his brother is seated, Dougal leaves, without another glance or word, the deep red curtain pulled closed as sharply as it was pulled back. Clearly, he is upset.

Colum isn't, though. But he does look somewhat abstracted, as though his mind is on far greater matters than one random Sassenach. This is evidenced by the fact that he has yet to say a word to me, or even look at me straight on.

I sat down again as soon he did, and since he raised no protest, I assume that was okay. Now he has shifted the pile of folders to his main work-space, opening them each in turn and reading their contents, almost as if I am not here at all.

That's fine with me. Being snubbed is far better than being probed.

But I know a sibling rivalry when I see it. Only child that I am, I had ample chances to observe this exact same sort of contention all the time at school. Brother versus brother, sister versus brother, brother versus sister, sister versus sister. It's the only confrontation I know of that could possibly leave Dougal visibly upset, and Colum so icily calm. Stone may sharpen iron, but it can strike sparks from it too. If I had to guess, I'd say he and Dougal have been arguing since breakfast, and that's the reason for all the delay. What they've been arguing about, I have no idea, but I have to assume I figured in at least part of their tête-à-tête.

Considering the unconcealed hatred I saw in Dougal's face when he sneered at me, perhaps they've been arguing about Hamish. . .

"It has come tae my attention," Colum says at last, though still not looking up from his papers, "That I ought to ask ye how ye came tae be limping through the woods of Upper Inverness, despoiled of all yer goods, save yer clothes, a bag, and a bottle." He looks up, finally, a pointed expression on his face.

I smile, ruefully, "It was when. . . when I finally stopped driving - and realized where I was - that I knew it was too late to go back into Inverness and find lodgings for the night. . . if I could even have afforded them. Which I doubt."

"And yet ye could afford a rental car?"

"Yes. . . and that about emptied my account. I had just enough left over to get some tea in Inverness," I swallow, remembering just how close to the edge of starvation I've lived these past few months, "But, anyway, I pulled behind some trees, and made a bit of a camp. Then I went into the woods to try and find some food."

"Jus' like that?"

"Oh yes," I say, knowledgeably, "Food is everywhere in the wild, if you know what to look for."

"And ye do?"

"Certainly. I'm a trained botanist, sir."

"Ah yes. I had forgotten. Go on."

That is a lie. He hasn't forgotten a word of our previous conversation, I'm absolutely certain. He wanted me to say it again, to see if he could poke any holes in my story.

"Well, I filled my bag with some mushrooms, chestnuts, and alisanders, I found and ate some hawthorn berries, I filled my bottle with water, and went back to camp."

He nods, solemnly, "And then?"

"Well, I barely know! There were people - men! - all over my camp, trashing my car, taking my things. And when they saw me, they yelled, and started chasing me. I barely got away. I spent the night in the woods." It's a likely enough story, and nothing I've done since tells against it. I lift my crutch, "I turned my ankle the next morning, before I found a road again."

"Yer car - did it have English plates?"

"Yes. I rented it in Oxford."

He nods again, positively this time. "It sounds like The Watch's work. Renegade devils. Any car with English plates would be more than fair game, and so would ye."

"Oh. . ." A roving band of renegades! For a moment I can hardly believe my luck.

"Where did ye cross the border?"

I blink. I hadn't considered that.

"Uhm. . ." I shake my head, "I don't remember. I had a lot of other things on my mind." Well, the last part is true, at least.

"Were there any distinctive things that were stolen from ye?"

"No. They were clothes, mostly. And a pair of boots. All I had in the world. . ." I cast my mind back to the small canvas bag still in Mrs. Graham's charge back at the manse, and feel a strange, distant longing for a certain half-crate deep in storage on Skycity 15.

"Weel, that bein' t'case, thare's nae way tae tell when they picked up yer trail, and probably nae way tae track 'em after."

I'm beginning to get Colum's measure. He is a man of dignity and pride, yes, but his accent deepens when he is confident.

Which means he isn't always confident.

"Oh well," I say with false brightness, "Time to begin again, I suppose."

"Aye," says Colum, a glint in his eyes, "And what can ye tell me about Black Jack?"

I huff an incredulous, scornful grunt. "Only two things. First, what I know. He's a bastard. And secondly, what I've been told. He's a bastard."

"Aye." He taps a finger slowly on the topmost folder in front of him, "An' who told ye his name?"

I furrow my brow, confused at such a question, "Murtagh. When he was carrying me away."

Colum considers this for an unaccountably long time. When he finally speaks again, his voice is kinder than I've yet heard it.

"Very well. Have ye considered what ye're going tae do next, Mrs. Beauchamp?"

"A little bit," I say, treading carefully around my computer activities of yesterday, "I've sent a request for a copy of my birth certificate, so I can start the process of getting a new ID card. And until then I don't think I qualify for a work permit."

"Nae. Ye don't," he says.

"Not that I'm going to be good for much for a week or so anyway," I say, lifting my crutch a little.

"Nae good fer outdoor work, mayhap," he says, smiling austerely, "But ye may keep yerself well indoors fer many days wi' what I have in mind."

"And. . . what is that?"

"Ye may be unaware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that official Guests of Scottish Clans have privileges not afforded tae the ordinary tourist."

"Indeed. I didn't know that."

"These privileges include workin' on Clan property - volunteerin', more like - as a gift in thanks for hospitality."

I nod, but say nothing.

"Wi' yer room and yer board provided as a matter o'coorse, ye may mix wi' the residents, and in yer exchanges gather tae yerself what niceties remain - clothes and suchlike. An' a'coorse ye may be gi'en coin for product made or searvice rendered - tho' no' beyond the common price, nor beyond the common askin' of yer station."

I understand him very well. But I draw myself up, and put on my most stoic attitude. He won't offer charity, and it must not seem as if I am accepting such from him. Either would be an unforgivable insult at this juncture. This must be a business arrangement, beneficial to both.

"Make your offer plainly, sir, so that I might consider it properly."

He presses both hands flat on his desk, "Weel then. Heer ye are. And heer am I, wi' a large arable farm, on the edge o' wintar, and wi'out anyone tae manage it fer me. Th'last manager was Davie Beaton, of Beaton and Sons, dead three months gone from a weakness o' the heart. His shoos will no' be easy tae fill." He looks me directly in the eyes, though not unkindly, "Will ye make the attempt?"

I pause for a long moment, as though deeply considering it.

"With all humility, I will, sir."

He nods, and extends a hand.

The moment I've been waiting for. The knitted yellow poncho I'm wearing comes down past my hands, and because of the crutch, I have an excuse to stand somewhat sidelong. With one hand I reach out to shake his. The other is near the bronze picture frame, hidden behind a drape of yellow cloth. With one smooth motion, I pluck away the filigree camera cube. It is stowed away in my pocket next to the microphone wire, the second our handshake is completed.

I'm glad it came away so easily, because right then Colum presses a hidden button, and Dougal is back in the room so instantly, it is obvious he was waiting just beyond the door hidden by the curtain. I wonder if he was listening at the keyhole too.

No matter if he has. I have all the ammunition I need, now. Dougal will probably never stop being a thorn in my side for the duration of my stay here, but after today, the dynamic between us will change drastically, I promise myself that.

"Take Mrs. Beauchamp tae the Manager's buildings, an' give her the keys tae Beaton's auld workshop," he orders, "Show her the lay of the land."

Dougal looks at me coldly, "Aye."

"And arrange for a runner or two tae be put at her disposal for the next fortnight at least - or until Mrs. Beauchamp informs us her foot is sufficiently healed."

"Aye," Dougal says again.

Colum turns back to his folders, instantly forgetting me and Dougal, focused entirely on whatever he has in hand.

Dougal gestures me towards the door. I carefully tap my way across the tile cobbles. He leads me down stairs and through long passageways, waiting indifferently as I navigate more slowly. We don't speak.

A doorless runabout is waiting near a side entrance. The late autumn air strikes cold though the thin clothes I'm wearing, but it's only for a minute. The manager's barn is one of the nearest outbuildings to the house, between a covered garage, and the thick grove of fruit trees that lie just beyond the kitchen garden.

Dougal unlocks the door to a side room of the barn, and ushers me down several steps to a large, extremely untidy office.

Apparently, Davie Beaton didn't believe in filing cabinets.

I've just taken one step towards the junk-covered desk, when Dougal grips me roughly by one shoulder, and pushes me up against a cupboard.

"D'ye have any notion the morning I've had? The morning ye'ev caused me?" His eyes crackle with anger, and he leans his face far too close to mine. "Ye'ev no idea what I'm going tae do tae ye, now I have ye alone. . ."

He's expecting me to be the fire-eater from yesterday. Fortunately, I have fuel to stoke my smoldering flames, or I don't know how I would have dealt with this spitting-mad Highlander, seeing as he's all too willing to get physical with me. I muster all my contempt, and sneer at him.

"But are we really alone, Dougal?" I hold up the microphone wire and the little filigree cube. He recognizes both immediately, flinching away from me before making a shocked, clumsy grab at them I evade easily. "And do you really expect me to believe you haven't already bugged this room to hell and back too? I have a tale to tell Colum if I choose. One that would make this morning seem as easy as pissing on daisies."

I raise my crutch, and brace myself as well as I can on my bruised ankle, ready to strike back at him if he lunges at me.

His beard bristles and his eyes narrow. When he speaks, his voice is tight, and completely unapologetic.

"So," he growls, "What now?"

I push some random papers off the nearby desk chair with the foot of my crutch, and sit down, as dignified as Colum ever was. I gesture to the chair across from mine.

Slowly, Dougal removes the junk from it, glaring at me fiercely the entire time.

As soon as he sits, I ostentatiously open the top drawer of the desk, and drop the camera and wire into it, slamming it shut with a satisfying bang.

"Now," I say, fixing him with a stare, "It's war."