War had been declared.

USUALLY, PEOPLE WOULD mill slowly after church, groups forming and splitting and re-forming as friends were greeted, news exchanged, cloths spread, food unpacked, conversation rising under the trees like the comforting buzz of a working hive.

Not today.

Families drew in upon themselves, friends who found themselves still on the same side sought each other out for reassurance—but the Ridge had split, and its shattered pieces drifted slowly away along the forest paths, leaving the hot, thick air to settle on the vacant church, empty of peace.

My last patient, Auld Mam, who had (she said) a rheum in her back, was led away by one of her daughters, clutching a bottle of extra-strong tonic, and I heaved a deep, unrefreshing breath and started putting away my instruments and supplies. Bree had taken the children home—plainly there was to be no picnic lunch under the trees on this Sunday—but Roger was still standing outside the church with Jamie and Ian, the three of them talking quietly.

The sight gave me some comfort. At least Jamie wasn’t alone in this.

Ian nodded to Roger and Jamie and went off toward his own house, waving briefly to me in farewell. Jamie came down to me, still talking to Roger.

“I’m sorry, a mhinistear,” he was saying, as they came within earshot. “I wouldna have done it in kirk, but I had to reach the Loyalists at the same time as the rebels, ken? And most of them dinna come to Lodge anymore.”

“Nay bother, man.” Roger patted him briefly on the back and smiled. It was a slightly forced smile, but genuine for all that. “I understand.” He nodded to me, then turned back to Jamie.

“Do you plan to go to Rachel’s Meeting, too?” He was careful to keep any sort of edge out of his voice, but Jamie heard it anyway.

“Aye,” he said, straightening himself with a sigh. Then, seeing Roger’s face, he made a small, wry grimace. “Not to recruit, a bhalaich. To sit in the silence and ask forgiveness.”

44

Beetles with Tiny Red Eyes

Savannah

Late August

WILLIAM HAD, OUT OF what even he would admit to himself in the depths of his heart was simple obstinacy (though he passed it off to his conscience as honesty and pride—of a shockingly republican nature, but still pride), taken up residence in a small shedlike house on the edge of the marshes with John Cinnamon. Lord John had—without comment—given him a room at Number 12 Oglethorpe Street, though, and he often slept there when he had come for supper. He had also continued wearing the clothes in which he had arrived in Savannah, though Lord John’s manservant took them away every night and brushed, laundered, or mended them before returning them in the morning.