Waulk In The Park

Jamie pulls the Rover into the little Highland town just as the pale winter's day deepens into gold. The black and white cottages surrounding the icy village green are gilded orange and red, and the grey stone church glows almost pink. We swing around to the rear dooryard of the latter, hoping some accommodation will have been made for the horses. . .

With the official camera crew departing this morning, Jamie has taken an immediately more active role in the care of the animals. There is another horse besides Donas in the trailer – one I have not been introduced to – and apparently auld Alec came along with us too – at his own insistence, Jamie says.

With our conversation last night, he's resumed his active care of me, as well. When we headed out, he insisted on driving the Rover, and made quite a point of requesting me to ride with him.

We had a longer drive than usual today, up into some very isolated hills a good ways west of Loch Ness. This town looks smaller than most too, even than most of the ones too small to have an old converted manor house or castle to turn into a hotel big enough for a party of thirty odd. There is usually some sort of barn in these places, but here, it is instantly apparent, there is only a hastily prepared, very small, damp and drafty old church outbuilding. Its one door is open, and from here I can see few sprinklings of straw and a pitiful water bucket – accommodations that would hardly be adequate for one or two sheep, let alone for two horses and a cat.

Horses are no longer common in towns this size, if they ever were – a thing I have trouble visualizing, even though Jamie assures me that once they were the backbone of the economy. After seeing what Donas can do with just a swing of his head, I can almost believe it. Not quite, but almost.

In either case, it is clear no one in this town has had to take care of horses at any time within the recent past.

Jamie jumps out to make a quick inspection, but almost immediately jumps back in, rubbing his hands and folding them into his sleeves for a minute to warm away the chill.

"Hopeless," he shakes his head, "Cannae blame the villagers – they did their best – but I'm no' putting any creature I have tae do wi' in a hut like tha' on a night like this – no' in a million years. Evan if they'd fit – which they wouldnae – they'd freeze befoor the sun goes down, let alone all night."

"Then what can we do? They're putting us up in the church – just like usual when there's no big converted house, but where can the horses go?"

"We'll jus' haveta take them inta the church wi' us. There's usually a vestry or summat – we'll find a way."

We. It is nice to be a "we" again. . .

My lip twists with a thought that no doubt should have occurred to me weeks ago, but that I've been much too wrapped up in my own problems to have before now.

"Hosting such a large group of people must be a terrible burden on some of these places, isn't it?"

"Hmm?" He looks from the line of headlights announcing the approach of our other vehicles, to the large side door of the church, logistics clearly uppermost in his mind, "Oh aye, sometimes. Bu' the government pays for it all – supposed tae, a'least – an' it turns out tha' having a score or more armed Highlanders suddenly in yer village has other unexpected benefits."

"Armed?"

I've only seen the men with a few defensive Stunbows, and occasionally a small, shiny dagger, worn more like jewelry than a weapon. . .

"Oh, only wi' ceremonial stuff an' our officially allocated modern stun weaponry a'course, bu' the point still stands. We have an effect."

"An effect I'll grant you. But what benefits could there be?"

"Other than network broadcasts allus showin' Dougal's location when he participates in a network-wide debate? Therefore bringing the place to some usually positive attention?"

"Yes, other than that."

"Weel, there's the Watch tae consider."

". . . oh."

He has backed up the Rover with its trailer to his liking, and he jumps out again, shouting a few sharp words of Gàidhlig to several of the men, clearly ordering them to help us find a way to stable the horses in the church.

"Are the Watch really such a threat then?" I ask, when he gets back in.

"Tae a place this size? Aye. They rove in bands of ten or less, most days, but when they come across a tiny place like this they c'n all join up tae take the prize. I've heard tell of Watch raidin' parties of three hundred or moor. There's evan a few villages tha' ha' been totally wiped out."

I shudder at the thought.

"Nasty."

"Aye. It's one reason why the big Clan farms have been gaining traction these past few years. A'tennyrate, housin' and feedin' one of these political groups is a walk in the park next tae a raid by the Watch." He rummages in one of the console compartments for a moment, and pulls out a flask. He takes a drink, then hands it to me. "Have a wee nip, mo Sorcha. S'tae cold tae be outside for long wi'out it."

I roll my eyes as I take a sip, "You of all people should know alcohol doesn't actually help with that. . ."

"Oh, I ken – bu' it feels like it does. An' for the three minutes or so it's gonna take us tae get from here tae there, t'wilnae do any harm."

I heartily agree, and plunge out into the cold to help him with the animals. Donas is actually quite comfortable with me now, if not the other way around, but I leave him to Jamie tonight, instead searching back behind the feed buckets for auld Alec, picking him up by his scruff, and bundling him close in the breast of my jacket.

He miaows a little, annoyed with me, but he doesn't squirm or scratch. The cold wind on his nose told him why I'm cat-handling him so roughly. His dignity may be offended, but he's much too sensible a creature to actually damage his warm personal transport vehicle. . .

There is something of a hullabaloo in the church when we walk in leading two horses – one of which has the general size and demeanor of a Blackmark gun emplacement – but the local vicar is clearly a practical soul, and in less than an hour, the vestry has been cleared, and transformed into a tidy little stables, with deep straw, good feed, and nice clean water. Auld Alec even has a whole bale of hay all to himself in the warmest corner. He curls up there the minute I let him into the room, and he's soon snoring away, dreaming of whatever it is that good cats dream.

As soon as the animals are settled, Jamie and I wander back into the main hall. He goes in search of food, while I take a more general look around.

Nearly all of the pews have been heaped with pillows, sleeping bags, inflatable pads, blankets and feather beds, providing, at a quick count, thirty-six quite cozy looking sleeping spots. This has been a common tactic in towns too small for a hotel, and when I can manage to disregard the unavoidable amount of snide jokes and malicious snickering from the men, a relatively comfortable option, me included. I scope out the most private looking corner, and am about to claim it for myself when the vicar's wife comes up to me.

"Miss Moriston?"

I smile, but shake my head, "Beauchamp, actually. Mrs. Claire Beauchamp."

"Oh," she looks taken aback, "Ye're t'onlay woman among the MacKenzie party, sae I thought ye were Sorcha Moriston."

I ought to know by now – in the Highlands, gossip travels faster than light. It's only been a few days since that Red Sorcha article, and even a place like this – with thready access to the international network at the best of times, and less now with the strain our presence will put on their equipment – they'll still have heard nearly all the news, seemingly just as quickly.

I nod, "Moriston is my maiden name. And Sorcha is Claire in the Gàidhlig. That's all."

"Ah. I see," she says, expression clearing, "I jus' came tae tell ye that ye dinnae need tae sleep out heer amongst th'men, Sorcha – may I call ye Sorcha, or d'ye prefer Claire?"

"Either will do."

She smiles and takes me lightly by the arm, "We've made up one of t'auld bell tower rooms for ye – t'ere's a lock on t'door an' errythin'."

Rupert is passing by just then, a steaming bowl in his hand, and he barks a loud chuckle, "Goin' tae sleep in the bell tower, Sassenach? Now why does tha' sound sae. . ." his eyes glitter with his usual not-entirely-well-intentioned glee, ". . . excitin'?"

"Because you're a bellend, Rupert."

He walks away with another roar of laughter, but our hostess stops in her tracks, staring at me, a shocked look on her face.

Oh. . . right. After Leoch, it's easy to forget – or it is for me at least – that it's still the Second Victorian Era, and Ladies Do Not Swear. They may think crude language, but They Do Not Speak It.

"Sorry about that," I smile ruefully, "A lady has to develop a most unique set of defense tactics when traveling with so many men, I'm afraid."

She relaxes at this explanation, "Ah, yes, I doo imagine so."

"They're not so bad, really. Most of them are family men, if you can believe it. They've just gotten so used to the exclusive company of men on this trip that, well, they only think of me as a person if I also act like a man."

She shakes her head, "Same auld storey, aye?"

"I fear so."

She opens a door in a curved wall, and starts to lead me up some very narrow stone stairs.

"Sorcha, deerie, might I ask a bit of a favour?"

"I don't know – how much is a bit?"

She smiles, "Weel, ye see, some of our ladies an' I ha' made a reacord – a musical reacord – it's a collection of auld wool-waulkin' songs – and we'er sellin' it on a network site."

"Are you? Good for you."

I'd come across many wool-waulking songs while learning things for Story Night. I'd enjoyed listening to them, but since most were written to be work-chants, the words mean much less than the rhythm and timing of the sounds. And since it's much easier for me to learn lyrics that mean something, I hadn't focused on learning many of the nonsense ones.

"Aye, an' it's been selling well – verreh nice foor us, an' all – but y'see," she grips my elbow a little tighter, "Ye'er the only woman in this group. We wanted tae do a demonstration for some of the men taemorrow – an' we will – bu' ye'er invited tae participate. At the table, ye ken."

"Oh. But I don't know anything about-"

She waves this away, "Nae a problem Sorcha, hen! Half ov us hae been teachin' th'other half for years annyway – one moor wilnae be a difficulty."

"Oh. Well, in that case I accept. Thank you."

She smiles, with a pleased, "Nae, thank ye," and unlocks the door to my room with a flourish. It's an adorable little round place, with curved windows, and a very warm-looking cot bed. She hands me the key, and bids me good evening with a cheery, "An' I hoop ye'el be verry comfortable deerie!"

I arrange my things for a minute, brush the cat hair off the inside of my jacket, and am just starting to wonder where the toilet facilities are, when a knock sounds at my door. It's Jamie, holding two bowls of hot, savoury-smelling stew, with a large hunk of bread balanced on the edge of each. I take one, gratefully, but do not open the door further, or invite him in – both of which he was clearly expecting.

I shake my head ruefully, "No Jamie. Not here."

"Why no', mo leannan?" he asks, his eyes mildly hurt.

"This isn't Leoch, Jamie. They're open-minded there. Broader-minded, at least. They're much less so here. I've just been reminded of that. If you come into my room here, both our reputations will be ruined. I won't do that to you, and I'm not terribly fond of the thought of doing it to myself either, honestly. And even though we're only spending two nights here, word will get around, we'd both better believe that."

"Bu'. . . last night? This morning?"

I pat his shoulder sympathetically, "Riding in the same car in broad daylight, and emergencies that no else saw are one thing – you spending more than a minute up here at night, when everyone knows where you are is quite another."

He sighs, exasperated, "Ye'er right, a'course – 'specially about the gossip - bu' it does seem silly when ye'ev spent all night on a pew or a cot next to the entire lot of us at least half a dozen times this trip, an' nae'un has said a single thing about it!"

I shrug, "I never said the rules made sense, my lad."

"Alright. . ." he pouts a little.

I raise my face to his, feeling much the same way.

He pecks me chastely on the mouth, then resolutely turns and goes.

I lock the door behind him with a sigh, and attempt to enjoy my stew.

The next morning dawns bright, clear, and very, very cold.

Jamie brings me a pot of tea, and a bowl of porridge and cream, once again only staying with me for a bare minute.

But he's talking to me, and we both know what's going on, so this separation doesn't hurt.

Not as much, anyway. . .

I lounge about most of the morning, anxious to keep out of Dougal's way. He has a nationwide debate he must participate in via network livecast this afternoon, but with last night being so fresh on everyone's mind, and Red Sorcha having reached all the way out here already, I think it would be a good idea if I stayed out of his immediate vicinity.

Reconciling with Jamie has drained me of all spite, and very nearly all of my desire for revenge.

The problem is, it's left me drained.

I read from one or two of the books I brought, staying under my cot's blankets even after I change clothes, in an attempt to keep warm. I can't seem to settle down to any of the stories in the books though – even the collection of short-form poems – and so I resign myself to a few hours of boredom.

I stare at the frost on the edges of the window and wish, very much, that I had something to do. Even during my worst times on the Rim, depressed, lonely and starving, I still had work to do. Pulling collector panels and being a power peddler may not be a living – or it is a highly precarious one at best – but it is, undoubtedly, always work. It kept me occupied.

Right now, I only have my own company, and worse, only my own thoughts.

If I was comfortable living inside my own head, that wouldn't matter, but I'm desperately trying to come back from a shocking depression – inside my own mind is the least comfortable place for me to be right now. My balance is still highly precarious - the blank freedom of nihilism still beckons around every corner, contrasted sharply with an aching, keening hope, and a sharp, lacerating yearning.

Hoping for what? Yearning for what? I don't know. And my mind is too unfocused to be able to properly investigate. Neither feeling is want, not exactly.

It's more like my mind is moving one way, but my soul is moving in another.

I shake my head. Even I don't know what I mean. I have to start thinking of something else, or I'm going to be in danger of slipping sideways into depression again.

But the neutral, thudding grey boredom of this morning is not helping. . .

I want home. I want to stop having to battle the people around me. I want to stop needing to explain my existence.

I want to stop feeling like a. . . a. . .

An accessory. An add-on. A plus-one.

An optional extra.

If I can't be loved, it would be nice to be needed.

There was a brief amount of time there where it felt like Jamie needed me. He even felt like home for a minute. He's certainly the closest friend I've made.

My arms suddenly ache for Fergus. He, at least, had certainly needed me once. But he needs stability more now, and I clearly cannot give him that.

Knowing that doesn't stop me wishing I could hug him one last time. Kiss him on his hair one last time. See him smile one last time.

After I go home, no one will ever call me maman again. . .

I can't stand it. I get up, and go in search of the kitchen, the chance of running into Dougal be damned. I find it built on to the other side of the church from the vestry-turned-stables, in a big stone room I'm fairly certain was not originally intended to be a kitchen, but is obviously very much up to the task anyway.

Our hostess and the cook greet me cheerfully. I wave politely at them, and go sit in a corner next to the antique wood-burning stove. I warm my hands over it, marveling once again at how different the quality of the warmth is when it is a real fire. . .

If it had been a shock to me that people burned wood for warmth in this era of history, then it was not shocking at all to learn they cooked food with it, as well. Much less commonly so, of course, but Marc had even cooked pig food with it.

I look around the charming, cozy kitchen, a bittersweet feeling rising through my soul.

I wish I belonged here.

There is a knock at the outer doors, and the cook goes over to let in a team of four villagers, as they labour to deliver what looks like a whole dead cow.

It is a whole dead cow.

A whole, recently slaughtered, all-the-bits-still-on-it, cow.

A heifer, if my time interacting with Marc has taught me anything at all. . .

Well then.

That's a bright good-morning, and no mistake.

There is a whole section of the kitchen clearly dedicated to things like this, with specialty tables and racks and tools on shelves across an entire wall and everything. Our hostess directs them to a certain spot, and after they finally get the carcass situated to her liking, she offers them some fresh-brewed tea and a chat.

They've been chatting the whole time, naturally, but in a unique and charming blend of the Gàidhlig and English that I haven't heard anywhere else on our trip so far. Not quite like this. I know I technically shouldn't, but I can't help listening, trying to parse the meaning of the half of the conversation I don't understand from the half I do.

Apparently this is the last cow from. . . someone. . . and they'd be – grateful? - if. . . there is no immediate need, of course, but the children you see. . . and the mother is. . . burdened? I think. Or maybe laden. . .

There is a long set of sentences I don't understand at all, and then money changes hands, and the men leave, unhurriedly.

I sit on a little kitchen stool and watch them go, my jaw clenched, my hands forming fists in my lap.

If I don't know all the words they said, I do know what it sounds like when you have to sell your last resource, just to get by, even when you actually need that very thing if you're going to get by. It happened every day to someone on the Rim, and very nearly happened to me more times than I can comfortably count.

I might know extremely few things about the beef industry, but two months at Leoch has taught me that heifers are almost never slaughtered. Not in this time and place, and not healthy, well-grown, well-fleshed ones like that dead one over there. Like hens, what female cows can produce far outweighs their direct market value, and a heifer has produced none of it yet. Not calves, not milk, not manure. Well, some manure, obviously, but nowhere near as much as even the average well-tended milk cow would produce during her lifetime.

They needed that cow. Probably the whole village needed that cow. Needed it more than any of the men on this trip ever will, and there it hangs, sold to feed thirty men who will almost certainly never know what it means to be really, truly hungry.

The universe has a sick, vicious sense of humour. . .

The fact that the whole village is clearly willing to help and support each other through it all doesn't make me any less furious.

And less than forty-eight hours of dubious protection from The Watch is no fit compensation, either.

Slowly, I clench and unclench my fists in growing, impotent rage. There's nothing I can do. I have no money, no influence with Dougal, and little enough influence with the men. I could speak to Jamie about it, but he's in the same predicament as myself at the moment. Murtagh? Perhaps. Jamie told me this morning that I'm back in his good graces now he knows our three week estrangement wasn't me trying to break up with his godson. Which is encouraging. But I heard the weight of the coins our hostess paid over, and I very much doubt Murtagh casually walks around with that much on him.

No, there's nothing to be done. Except rage silently at how unfair the world is.

The vicar's wife comes up to me, smiling, "I am glad ye'ev come down, Sorcha, hen. The waulking demonstration is set tae start soon."

I hastily tamp down on my fury. "Oh, is it?"

"Aye. D'ye still wan'tae participate?"

"Of course. Lead the way."

For the longest time I didn't understand these days in between the departure of the camera crew and our arrival in Inverness. If all the effort put in to these tiny Highland towns seemed low-reward at best beforehand, then one might think they'd be entirely negligible now.

But I finally realized, that's the point. These places are entirely negligible – at least as far as the final vote tally is concerned. Dougal will connect in for his nationwide debates, and the rest of the party will still make a show of themselves, but, essentially, by planning it just right, we've been given almost two weeks off in the middle of a grueling ten-week campaign push. Left solely to English organizers, I have no doubt the whole group would be entirely exhausted by the time of the final big in-person debates in March. It's really quite brilliant – once again, the Scots have found a measure of freedom within their oppression.

But it's a good thing I'm not hung up on spite anymore, because there won't be much of Dougal's thunder to steal out here. . .

There is a big pavilion set up in the car park. It is quite large, and looks to be military grade. Which is good, since it is freezing out here, and the only way a tent is keeping any of us warm is if it has some built-in insulation.

And it is much warmer inside it, but also. . .

"Eugh," I choke back an instinctive need to vomit, "It smells like piss in here!"

"Aye," says the vicar's wife, "We use commercially produced ammonia now, but et used tae be stale piss – men's foor preference. It was called maistir."

"Ag-ufm. . ." I cough a little, "Appropriate," my head is reeling, and my eyes are stinging, but I manage to control my stomach through sheer force of will, "So what do you want me to do?"

"Weel put this on, an' jus' sit at the end there." She hands me an apron, and gestures at a long table where ten or eleven other women are soaking a huge roll of tweed with the ammonia mixture. "An' then do as I doo – an' sing along if ye think yec'n manage et."

A few musicians file in – one with a hand drum, one with a small flute, and one with a violin – and they set up next to the long table. With a few taps of bow against chair leg, the music starts. A few seconds later, the singing begins. Each woman takes a large handful of the wet cloth, and starts rhythmically slapping it against the table, singing old, cadenced words, in time with the music.

It is barely thirty seconds before the men start appearing. First Ned, then Angus, then Colum's boys, then Peter, then several of the men who wrangle the horses when Jamie can't do it, and on and on, in one and twos, they hear the music and come over, curious what is happening, and interested when they see it.

Most of them take out their coms, and I hear the snapping of pictures, and see some taking video of the waulking too.

I wait until after the first song is finished before I join in, but then I am fully confident of at least not being in anyone's way. It is easy to pick up on the chorus of each song, and the motions of the waulking are quite intuitive, actually – once you've gotten past the thought of putting your bare hands in the piss-chemical, of course.

We're just starting the fourth song when I overhear at least two of the men speaking into their coms, using much lighter and softer voices than usual. They take more pictures and video too, clearly discussing the waulking with whoever it is they are speaking to.

And then I recognize the names they're saying.

They've called their sons.

Dougal has duties today, but for most of the rest of the men, this is a day off. Our weekly ration of personal network time must have dropped last night.

I manage to stay at the waulking table until the song finishes, but then I leave the pavilion as quickly as is politely possible.

I can talk to Fergus one last time. Heaven only knows what he thinks of me for not doing so for the past three weeks.

My chest hurts, and even the persistent smell of ammonia could not make me nearly as nauseous as I feel now.

I forgot to call him. Forgot. And only even wanted to when I felt lonely and selfish enough to want someone to commiserate with me.

This. This is why I must go home. Depression turns me into someone I do not want to be. And I don't have Frank anymore, to show me to myself, or hold me to my own higher standards. So the only way I'm ever going to get better is if I face up to the world as it is.

Not the world as it used to be. . .

But, until I can get to Craigh na Dun. . .

I pull out my com, and dial Leoch.

As I wait for the connection to go through, I look around the churchyard, and the little snowed-over streets of the town. In a corner of the car park, Rupert is flying his drone, attended by the usual small crowd of children who always appear whenever he plays with it.

My com pings, and Fergus's face appears on the little screen.

"Maman!" he exclaims, before I can say anything, "You are better!"

"Better. . . yes," I say, keeping my voice blank in an attempt to hide my confusion.

"Papa said you could not speak, and that was why you had not called."

Jamie?

What. . .

"Oh. . . when did he say that?"

"Three times – when he called every week. It is good to see you, maman."

My heart hurts even more. Even when he wasn't talking to me, he still had my back. . .

And I kneed him in the groin. . .

Depression really is a bitch.

"It's good to see you too, sweet lad. And yes – I had completely lost my voice."

True. If not exactly literal. . .

"But it is back now?"

"Yes darling. Tell me what your favourite class was today."

He launches happily into a long recital of all the noteworthy happenings at Leoch since we've been gone – including all the books they've read in Literature class, all the puppies that have been born in the barn, all the times they've had cheese and broccoli for supper and Hamish has refused to eat his portion, so Fergus ate it for him, all the things they've made in art class, and how the teachers might let him take archery in the springtime.

I listen, more than a little fascinated, and deeply, deeply grateful, both for Jamie and for our lovely little prince.

It's a good half hour before I realize I am shivering, and nearly frozen to the spot.

A big warm cloak suddenly folds over me, and Jamie says over my shoulder,

"Aye, I ken ye'ev had a busy week, lad, but it's cold an' we mus' go in. Say goodnight for now, aye?"

Fergus smiles even more broadly at Jamie's voice, "Aye, papa! Goodnight maman." He kisses his hand at me, and I do so back, "Until next time!"

The screen goes dark.

I huddle the cloak around me, and lean into Jamie's side.

"Thank you," I say, very quietly.

"Agch. S'jus' a wee cloak."

"Not that. For not letting Fergus know the state I. . . we. . . were in."

He smiles, and throws an arm around me, "The only decent thing to do, mo Sorcha."

I flinch a little at the name. He notices.

"Problem?"

"Oh. . . no. Not as such. It's just that after that article, the vicar's wife here is calling me Sorcha too, and it sounded odd coming from you all of a sudden."

Slowly, we start making our way back inside the church, the rhythm of the waulking songs still sounding from the tent behind us.

"Weel, my advice would be tae get used tae it if ye can. Ye'ev convinced a lot of folks ye'er no' jus' an outlander, but a Scot too." He nods at the sliver of Moriston tartan dress that can be seen beneath the cloak, "Tha's nae small thing, an' a goodly number of folks will wantae gi' ye a more Scots name than Claire. There's worse ones than Sorcha, aye?"

"That there certainly are," I say, chuckling.

He escorts me up the stairs to my room. "Dougal is on his network debate jus' now – sae will ye come down for lunch, oor will I bring it up heer for ye?"

I pause a second before I open my door, "Well, I was actually thinking we-"

The sight of my cot drives all words from my mouth, and all thoughts from my head.

All other thoughts.

Because the bed is piled with offal. Brains and lungs and tripes and kidneys and liver. . .

Still in their fat. Still with tendons and sinews attached. Still oozing whatever bloodlike things are left in a body after having been totally bled. . .

I stand frozen for long moments, washed in the vicious red haze of my own rage. Jamie tries to say something, but one look from me stops him. I take one full step towards the cot, and scoop up an enormous handful of the cow parts. Then I stomp down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I yank a long butchery knife from the wall, and then storm into the main room, where the men not still watching the waulking are having lunch.

I scan them, and find the one with the most malice in his eye.

I stride up to him, and slap him across the face with my handful of offal.

Not surprisingly, the room goes silent. I speak into the sudden quiet, my voice hard, and vibrating with righteous fury.

"How dare you waste food!"

That's not what any of them expected me to say. I take full advantage of their bafflement.

"There are Scots in this town – and probably every other small Highland town we've been in – who are starving themselves for you!"

I point the butcher's knife, enjoying the men's timid reactions to it far, far more than I should, "Just because you've gotten used to Leoch does not mean everyone else has it so good. The people who feed and care for you at these places might have to go hungry and cold in order for you to be fed and warm. Your fellow Scots – your countrymen."

One of the men tries to say something. I round on him and, almost accidentally, slice off a button from his jacket.

Almost accidentally.

He decides not to say anything.

"But instead of being grateful for what you have been given, you decided that it was more important to play a prank on the damn Sassenach, did you?"

"We were onl-" starts the one I hit with offal.

"Only what? Following orders?"

He looks dubiously at the knife, and gives a very, very small nod.

"Well, since you seem to be good at that, here are some more. You will get up now, every man jack of you, and you will clean up your mess, and you will find out who donated that cow, and you will pay them – full market value for their animal. I don't care if you have to sell your own shoes to do it either – that is what you will do. And you will thank them, each and every one of you, will thank them, for their generous and loyal hospitality."

I feel a great deal of resistance still, so I swing around and remove another button, "And if any of you even think of doing otherwise, then let me assure you," I gesture with the knife at the scattered bits of organ meat, "This poor creature will not be the only one butchered today."

I lean in to the leader, pulling my arm back as if to thrust with the knife, and I say, very clearly and distinctly, the one Gàidhlig phrase I've made it my business to be able to pronounce correctly.

"Tha thu gam thuigsinn a-nis, nach eil?"

I have rarely seen so many big men move so quickly.

When the room is empty, Jamie comes over, carrying a bowl of hot water, a towel and some soap. He sets them on the table near me, and then, gently, takes my knife.

He waits silently while I wash.

I am still breathless with residual fury, but I manage to clean my hands without shaking so much as to overturn the bowl.

He doesn't speak when I'm finished either, instead taking my arm, and leading me back outside.

We go across the street, and down a ways, to the cottage that has been given over to Dougal for an office while we're here.

He doesn't notice us when we enter, being actively busy with his network debate. Jamie goes over to the nearest wall, and after scanning it a little while, finds what he's looking for. He stoops, and unplugs this cottage's network connection.

Dougal curses, then looks up and notices us.

"The hell d'ye think-"

Jamie holds out a fist, and opens it in front of his uncle's eyes.

In his hand are the spy cameras and microphone wires Dougal tried to use Jamie to blackmail me to get.

Dougal's jaw clenches, and his eyes go icy cold.

"I wasnae there when Jenny came hoom from her first tour abroad, ye ken," says Jamie, almost conversationally, "Bu' I was there when they sent her hoom from her second. The one where she lost her leg. It tore her up in moor ways than one, that did. I was glad I was there. But d'ye know what she was most afraid of those days? It wasnae the nightmares, oor the pain – oor anythin' else tae do wi' war. She was most afraid tha' Ian wouldnae feel the same for her annymore. An' d'ye ken what I told her when she shared that wi' me? I said tha' the furst thing annyun' needs tae ken about themselves is what they're worth. Tae themselves, an' tae erryun' else."

Jamie closes his fist again, "Weel. I ken my worth tae ye, uncle. An' it's time ye kent Claire's."

He turns to me, "D'ye ken what a Burns Supper is?"

I look back and forth between the two men, more impressed by the sudden terror on Dougal's face than Jamie's words to me.

"Um. . . yes, I think so. You meet and dance and eat haggis and recite the poetry of Robert Burns, yes?"

"Yes," he may be talking to me, but he has locked eyes with Dougal now, "There's a big supper bein' held taenight in a farm house not five miles up the road from heer. It's outside ov our campaign borders, an' it's illegal for us tae go. Five of us are goin' anyway. Would ye care tae come along?"

The horror has only been growing in Dougal's eyes. For once, I actually agree with him.

What is Jamie doing?

He raises his voice a little, but still looks fixedly at Dougal, "Claire? Would ye care tae come?"

"Uhm. Yes. I would."

"Good."

Then he opens his hand again, and, staring at Dougal, he drops the cameras on the floor.

"Ye have my price, then. That's all debts paid."

Oh.

Oh.

He was making sure I had new leverage over Dougal before he gave away our old leverage. . .

"Once moor into the breech, Dougal. An' then nevar again."

His voice is cold, and his eyes snap with icy fire.

Dougal says nothing.

Jamie takes my hand, and leads me out of the cottage.