They had brought a parcel of food, and bottles of water from the spring behind the house. They ate with the bench between them for a table, threw crumbs for the gulls. Slowly, the light shifted. The day settled into endless afternoon. Emily put on the green glasses; Lacroix gave up his describing. They had spent the night in a township on the south-east coast of the island and boarded the boat before first light when all the water of the loch had a carpet of mist over it, perfectly smooth and about the depth of a man’s arm. They were tired now and moved in and out of cautious sleep, not quite leaning against each other but sitting close enough on the bench for her shawl, in stronger breezes, to lift against the green of his coat.

By the time they entered the harbour at Oban the night was already well advanced. They tied up at the side of another vessel and with Emily’s hand on a sailor’s shoulder they clambered over hatchways and coiled rope and finally up an iron ladder on to the harbour wall. The sailor passed up their bags. They had brought just one apiece: for Lacroix the remaining leather bag, for Emily, a thing sewn from heavy fustian, the material worn to a shine by time and the world’s grease.

Among the matters they had not discussed—a great deal had not been discussed, almost everything—was where they would spend the night in Oban before taking the morning flyer to Glasgow. Now, with Lacroix carrying the bags, they walked along the front towards a large building with a lamp outside and the word HOTEL written in tall, Gothic letters between the first- and second-floor windows. The street was empty, and to Lacroix’s ears, the whole town was silent. On the door of the hotel a poster had been nailed up and he stopped to read it. Under the heading General Information for Emigrants, was news of the Chiron, a first-rate ship bound for Cape Breton, coming down from Scalloway and taking on passengers at Oban at the end of the first week in July. There was a picture of the ship—of a ship—all sails hoisted, her pennants streaming.

“Another emigrant ship,” he said. “For Canada.”

“I would like to see it,” said Emily.

“I saw the last one,” he said, “when it sailed by the island. I was with Ranald. A sad sight.”

“I meant Canada,” she said.

“Mmm?”

“I should like to see Canada.”

“Nothing there but snow and bears,” he said.

They went through an unlit hall into the parlour. Empty glasses on uncleared tables, a fire burned down to the bones of a big log, a lamp on the serving hatch barely bright enough to do more than show itself.

“Hello?”

They waited, bags at their feet, slightly dazed from being suddenly inside after so many hours in the open air.