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neatly, and filled his glass with precision.
    "The least I can do, after spilling it the last time," she said, smiling in answer to his thanks.
    Seeing her now, poised and relaxed, Roger was inclined to doubt his earlier suspicions. Maybe it had been an accident after all? That lovely cool face told him nothing.
    A half-hour later, the tea table lay in shambles, the decanter stood empty, and the three of them sat in a shared stupor of content. Brianna shifted once or twice, glanced at Roger, and finally asked if she might use his "rest room."
    "Oh, the W.C.? Of course." He heaved himself to his feet, ponderous with Dundee cake and almond sponge. If he didn't get away from Fiona soon, he'd weigh three hundred pounds before he got back to Oxford.
    "It's one of the old-fashioned kind," he explained, pointing down the hall in the direction of the bathroom. "With a tank on the ceiling and a pull-chain."
    "I saw some of those in the British Museum," Brianna said, nodding. "Only they weren't in with the exhibits, they were in the ladies' room." She hesitated, then asked, "You haven't got the same sort of toilet paper they have in the British Museum, do you? Because if you do, I've got some Kleenex in my purse."
    Roger closed one eye and looked at her with the other. "Either that's a very odd non sequitur," he said, "or I've drunk a good deal more than I thought." In fact, he and Claire had accounted very satisfactorily for the Muir Breame, though Brianna had confined herself to tea.
    Claire laughed, overhearing the exchange, and got up to hand Brianna several folded facial tissues from her own bag. "It won't be waxed paper stamped with ‘Property of H.M. Government,' like the Museum's, but it likely won't be much better," she told her daughter. "British toilet paper is commonly rather a stiff article."
    "Thanks." Brianna took the tissues and turned to the door, but then turned back. "Why on earth would people deliberately make toilet paper that feels like tinfoil?" she demanded.
    "Hearts of oak are our men," Roger intoned, "stainless steel are their bums. It builds the national character."
    "In the case of Scots, I expect it's hereditary nerve-deadening," Claire added. "The sort of men who could ride horse-back wearing a kilt have bottoms like saddle leather."
    Brianna fizzed with laughter. "I'd hate to see what they used for toilet paper then," she said.
    "Actually, it wasn't bad," Claire said, surprisingly. "Mullein leaves are really very nice; quite as good as two-ply bathroom tissue. And in the winter or indoors, it was usually a bit of damp rag; not very sanitary, but comfortable enough."
    Roger and Brianna both gawked at her for a moment.
    "Er…read it in a book," she said, and blushed amazingly.
    As Brianna, still giggling, made her way off in search of the facilities, Claire remained standing by the door.
    "It was awfully nice of you to entertain us so grandly," she said, smiling at Roger. The momentary discomposure had vanished, replaced by her usual poise. "And remarkably kind of you to have found out about those names for me."
    "My pleasure entirely," Roger assured her. "It's made a nice change from cobwebs and mothballs. I'll let you know as soon as I've found out anything else about your Jacobites."
    "Thank you." Claire hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. "Actually, since Bree's gone for the moment…there's something I wanted to ask you, in private."
    Roger cleared his throat and straightened the tie he had donned in honor of the occasion.
    "Ask away," he said, feeling cheerfully expansive with the success of the tea party. "I'm completely at your service."
    "You were asking Bree if she'd go with you to do field research. I wanted to ask you…there's a place I'd rather you didn't take her, if you don't mind."
    Alarm bells went off at once in Roger's head. Was he going to find out what the secret was about Broch Tuarach?
    "The circle of standing stones—they call it Craigh na Dun." Claire's