She looked up at that, instantly alert, unsettling me a little. This child had had a lot of experience in detecting and interpreting tones of voice, probably as a matter of survival.

“But,” I repeated firmly, “not everyone who lives on the Ridge has had such experiences, and many of them have never met anyone who has. Most of them have lived in small villages in Scotland, many of them aren’t educated. They would be shocked, perhaps, if you told them very much about … where you lived. How you and your sister—”

“They’ve never met whores?” she said, and blinked. “I think some of the men must have.”

“Doubtless you’re right,” I said, trying to keep my grip on the conversation. “But it’s the women who talk.”

She nodded soberly. I could see a thought come to her; she looked away for an instant, blinked, then looked back at me, a thoughtful squint to her eyes.

“What?” I said.

“Mrs. MacDonald’s mother says you’re a witch,” she replied. “Mrs. MacDonald tried to make her stop, when she saw I was listening, but the old lady doesn’t stop talking about anything, ever, except when she’s eating.”

I’d met Janet MacDonald’s mother, Grannie Campbell, once or twice, and was not overly surprised to hear this.

“I don’t suppose she’s the only one,” I said, a little tersely. “But I’m suggesting that perhaps you should be careful about what you say to people outside the family about your life in Philadelphia.”

She nodded, accepting what I’d said.

“It doesn’t matter that Grannie Campbell says you’re a witch,” she said thoughtfully. “Because Mr. MacDonald is afraid of Mr. Fraser. He tried to make Grannie stop talking about you,” she added, and shrugged. “Anyway, nobody’s afraid of me.”

Give them time, child, I thought, eyeing her.

“I wouldn’t say that people are afraid of Mr. Fraser, really—but they do respect him,” I said carefully.

She ducked her head a little, indicating that she knew better but wasn’t going to argue with me.

“Sometimes,” she said, “one of the girls would find a protector. Once in a very long while, he would even marry her”—she sighed briefly at the thought—“but usually he just would make sure that she had good food and nice clothes, and nobody would hurt her or use her badly.”

I didn’t know quite where this was going, but tilted my head inquiringly.

“When my sister met William again near Philadelphia, he th-said that he would take her and me both under his protection. She was so happy.” Her small, clear voice was suddenly thick with tears. “If—if we could have stayed wif him …”

Jamie had told me exactly what had happened to Fanny’s sister, Jane—and had done so in the bare minimum of words, his terseness betraying just how deeply it had shocked him, and how deeply it had wounded both him and William. I got up and knelt down by Fanny, gathering her into my arms. She wept almost silently, in the way of a child hiding grief or pain for fear of attracting punishment, and I held her tight, my own eyes stinging with tears.