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second, stepparents. Yet she resented her stepmother, though she’d never known her own. Only her father’s arms ever held her. It was his broad chest she cradled into, or beat her fists against. Her protector, teacher, comforter, he always forgave, always, always loved. She was still hollow from his loss. But it was a mother she wanted now, that tenderness, someone who might understand the need to walk without a shadow. Her fingers traced the date of her own birth, the day that was her mother’s last. From the clump of grass beside the stone, a chicken clucked and scurriedoff. Anne parted the clump to reveal a large brown egg, still warm.
    Voices called her from around the estate. The new couple required her approval so that the celebrations could begin. Anne picked up the egg, its warmth filling her hand, and rose, resolute. She was a Farquharson, her mother and her father’s daughter, and she would play her role.
    Little Catríona, the girl who had finally mastered the targe earlier, ran down the path to the graves, calling for her.
    ‘Anne, Anne, you’re wanted up at the house,’ she could hardly hold her excitement. ‘The man says we might be roasting the pig.’
    ‘Then she’ll be out from under our feet,’ Anne smiled and walked past the perplexed child towards the house.
    Aeneas turned nervously as the door opened and Anne came in. The doorway crowded with clansfolk, M c Intosh and Farquharson. News travels fast by word of mouth. Anne stopped beside MacGillivray, flashed him her brightest smile, took hold of his hand and laid the still warm egg in his open palm.
    ‘To keep it safe,’ she said. Then she walked over to her stepmother and Aeneas, words of congratulations ready on her tongue. On the floor beside her half-sister’s feet, the crystal decanter lay shattered in a pool of red wine. Elizabeth’s expression appeared to be frozen, giving nothing away. Well-known faces peered in the window, scuffling for space to see. Lady Farquharson seemed waxen, and stiff as an over-starched apron. Anne stopped in front of her and waited, expectantly. The older woman gulped.
    ‘Aeneas –’ she stopped, then started again. ‘Aeneas has something to say to you.’
    Behind Anne, Elizabeth squeaked and grabbed the tray of glasses off the table. Anne looked round at her sister, who cradled the tray in her arms. Did she expect her to explode with rage? It would be good, at least, to have Invercauld to herself and James. She turned her full glittering gaze on Aeneas. But he only stared back at her. No words came.
    ‘I presume you mean to say it out loud,’ Anne prompted.
    ‘Will you be my wife?’ he said. It burst out of him, like a sneeze he’d been fighting to control for some time.
    It was not what Anne expected to hear. But she had heard and did not need to ask him to repeat it. Everyone in the room had heard. They had heard it before, expected it. That was why the decanter lay broken, why her stepmother and sister stood frozen. Now they anticipated her response. Nobody breathed. The clansfolk in the doorway had heard and passed it on to those outside so it murmured round the house like the wind. Anne leant back on her heels, shocked and becoming more and more so. MacGillivray shifted the egg, still cupped in his hands, to safety behind his back. Elizabeth lifted a protective arm in front of the wine glasses and screwed her eyes shut. Anne let out her breath.
    ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I will.’
    The egg in MacGillivray’s hands shattered. Elizabeth’s tray tipped and the four wine glasses fell to the floor, breaking in turn like a peal of bells. Lady Farquharson’s spine gave way and she folded like a rag doll into the chair behind her.
    Aeneas, not knowing what else to do, moved towards Anne to kiss her. Then he realized his sword and dirk would get in the way and stopped to swing them both behind him. He took hold of her then, but realized he still had his bonnet on. Without letting her go, he