“Those who wish to join me today—come and speak wi’ me outside. Those who wish to think on the matter may come to my house at any time. Day or night,” he added, with a wry twist of the mouth that made a few people titter nervously.

“Your servant, sir,” he said, turning to a stone-faced Captain Cunningham, “and I thank ye for your courtesy.”

He walked steadily down the aisle between the benches, put down a hand to me and pulled me up, gave me his arm, and we walked briskly out, leaving a dropped-pin silence behind us.

HE DID THE same thing at the Presbyterian service, Roger standing gravely behind him, eyes cast down. Here, though, the audience was prepared—everyone had heard what had happened at the Methodist service.

No sooner had he finished speaking than Bill Amos was on his feet.

“We’ll ride with ye, Mac Dubh,” he said firmly. “Me and my lads.”

Bill Amos was a handsome, black-haired, solid man, both physically and in terms of character, and there were murmurs of agreement among the people. Three or four more men rose on the spot to pledge themselves, and I could feel the hum of excitement stirring the humid air.

I could feel the sense of cold dread among the women, too. Several of them had spoken to me during my surgery between the services.

“Can ye no persuade your man otherwise?” Mairi Gordon had asked me, low-voiced and looking round to be sure she wasn’t overheard. “I’ve only my great-grandson, and I’ll be left alone to starve if he’s kilt.” Mairi was near my own age and had lived through the days after Culloden. I could see the fear at the back of her eyes, and felt it, too.

“I’ll … talk to him,” I said awkwardly. I could—and I would—try to persuade Jamie not to take Hugh Gordon, but I knew quite well what his answer would be.

“We won’t let you starve,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. “No matter what.”

“Aye, well,” she’d muttered, and let me dress the burn on her arm in silence.

The sense of excitement followed us out of the church. Men were clustering around Jamie; other men were in their own clusters, under the trees, in the shadow of the pines. I looked, but didn’t see Captain Cunningham among them; perhaps he knew better than to declare himself openly.

Yet.

The coldness I had felt in church was a shifting weight in my belly, like a pool of mercury. I went on talking pleasantly with the women and children—and the occasional man with a crushed toe or a splinter in his eye—but I could feel what was happening, all too clearly.

Jamie had split the Ridge, and the fracture lines were spreading.

He’d done it on purpose and from necessity, but that didn’t make the fact of it easier to bear. In the space of three hours, we had gone from a community—however contentious—to openly opposing camps. The earthquake had struck and the aftershocks would continue. Neighbors would be no longer neighbors, but stated enemies.