“Foxes,” Ian said, with a one-shouldered shrug. “Come to—ah—” He broke off, noticing Aidan, who was breathing like a steam engine.

“Sanguinem culum lingere,” Jamie said tersely. “Bluebell! Come to me, a nighean.”

All the dogs were interested in the foxes, tugging at their leashes and whining, but not barking.

To lick the blood. Roger’s mind made the Latin translation and rapidly readjusted itself to events, presenting him with a stomach-dropping sense of what had happened here, only a few hours ago.

Jamie was talking to Ian and Gillebride in Gaelic now, gesturing along the ridge. Jem and Aidan clustered close to Roger, silent and big-eyed. The breeze had changed direction, and he heard the squealing and barks of the foxes.

“Did you see what happened to Mrs. Higgins?” Roger asked Jem, low-voiced.

Jem shook his head. “Mandy did,” he said. “Mam came up the grapevines and got us. Like Tarzan,” he added.

“Like what?” Ian had picked that up and turned to look down at Jem, puzzled. Roger made a dismissive gesture, and Ian turned back to the discussion. This lasted no more than a few moments, and they set off along the edge of the gorge, the dogs sniffing eagerly to and fro.

29

Remember, Man …

“GO,” HER MOTHER HAD said firmly. “You need to move, and someone needs to go and tell Tom MacLeod that we’ll be needing a coffin. As soon as possible.” Her mother cast a quick, haunted glance back into the house. “If we can have it by tonight, for the wake …”

“So soon?” Brianna had thought she was numbed by the shocks of the day, but this was a fresh one. “She’s—she—it was only a few hours ago!”

Her mother sighed, nodding.

“I know. But it’s still warm out.”

“Flies,” Mrs. Cunningham added baldly. She had come to the door, presumably looking for Claire. She nodded bleakly at Brianna. “I’ve been to wakes in hot weather where there were maggots dropping from the shroud and wriggling across the floor. At least if there’s a coffin, they—”

“We’ll put her body in the springhouse for now,” her mother said hastily, with a reproachful look at Elspeth Cunningham. “It will be all right. Go, darling.”

She went.

TOM MACLEOD BOASTED that he was the only coffin maker between the Cherokee Line and Salem. Whether this was true, Brianna didn’t know, but as he told her, he did usually have at least one coffin a-building, in case of sudden need.

“This one’s near finished,” he said, leading Brianna into an open-sided shed smelling of the fresh wood shavings that covered the floor. “Higgins, you say … not sure I know which lady that might be. How big would you say …?”

Brianna mutely held a hand at the level of her chest, and Mr. MacLeod nodded. He was old, leathery, and mostly bald, with a half-sprouted gray beard and shoulders stooped by constant bending over his work, but he exuded a sense of calm competence.