‘It’s all right for you, you live in Edinburgh, Auld Reekie.’ Her voice is veiled in insincerity, as though she is making fun of the world, always.

‘It isn’t that bad,’ says Lauren. ‘You’ll travel. Either in a real way or in your dreams. It’s a “maybe” card.’

Diane blinks. ‘Oh my God, that’s amazing. I fucking loved that, Lauren. And you’re only, like, eleven years old. Jesus.’

‘I’m ten and a half, actually.’

‘How good is that, Ann-Marie? Do you want yours done?’

‘No, I’m tired. I’m going to shout the dog again. Lauren, you should really be in your bed.’

Ann-Marie leaves and the flames in the fireplace flicker and drop and a cold draught passes through the room. The air feels sharper, as if it has metal edges. Lauren has a feeling there are still three people in the room.

‘Hey,’ says Diane. ‘Do you want to try?’ She holds out her smoking roll-up in the pinch of her thumb and finger. It doesn’t smell like the bus stop.

Lauren knows her father would hate her doing this. It seems dangerous, yet for a brief moment, she inhales the coarse smoke that burns a trail down her throat. The scent is good, like a dry, burning garden. It follows her up the stairs to bed.

That night her dreams are close and cold and she can hear someone walking over gravel. The capercaillie is stretching its throat out in its glass dome. There is a rising and falling of syllables, stretching in long waves of sound. The names of the dogs being called. The floor of the bedroom is covered in pebbles and someone in white is walking towards the bed. She sits up and the lace curtains fall from the window. The room is the same temperature as the woods before snowfall.

9

There are six men in the band, two Niall has not met before: one old and portly with a full grey beard and the other young and gangly with ginger hair cut into a mullet. Another man he recognizes from a Burns supper a few years ago, lean and rangy with a Rob Roy shirt. And Don from the ironmonger’s, a short, neat man. Niall watches them as they climb the small set of stairs to the stage and shake hands. The ginger-haired boy is wearing tartan trousers.

‘And what are those?’ asks the old man.

‘These? Thought they’re pretty good, like.’

‘This is the Nae Troosers Ceilidh Band, son! Did y’not think tae wear a kilt?’