‘But the water’s like glass!’ she said hotly anyway. ‘You could run over there!’

‘Ah, good morning!’

They all turned at the hearty greeting. The minister was walking towards them, his guests and the factor a step behind. Had they all breakfasted together? Effie felt her stomach pitch and roll as she caught sight of the young lord again. If it hadn’t been raining so hard last night, he might have taken an evening walk down the Street; they might have talked. One whole precious evening had been lost already.

‘I trust we’re not too late for this morning’s parliament?’ the minister asked with rare brightness. Reverend John Lyon was a young preacher who had bitterly resented his posting to this remote outpost. He had been ordained only three months when the news came he was to sail to the ends of the earth and for the first year he had struggled with everything – the constant winds, the relentless sun, the roar of the crashing sea, the screams of the birds, the paltry diet. The islanders would sit in the kirk every evening and watch with scorn, pity and bemusement as he mumbled through his sermons, white with exhaustion, malnourishment and despair.

Gradually, though, in the manner of adapt or die, he had acquired a taste (of sorts) for roasted puffin and had come to realize that in a community of only thirty-six people, all of whom depended upon him alone for spiritual guidance, he could wield a certain power. His religious fervour began to rise, and his warnings of damnation and the eternal fight against sin saw the villagers sent back out into the nights with increasingly furrowed brows. They greeted him in the Street with raised caps and when important visitors came to the isle, it was with him that they were obliged to socialize. The minister was never happier than when mainlanders came over, bringing supplies and news of the wider world, and it was a new source of amusement for the villagers to watch him become more Kildan than the natives.

‘I’m afraid you are, Reverend,’ Uncle Hamish said. ‘We’ve decided to take advantage of the flat sea and make the expedition to Boreray.’

‘Boreray? Now that’s the large island over there?’ the earl asked, stepping into the meeting too and pointing an arm out to his right.

‘Aye, sir,’ Uncle Hamish nodded. ‘It’s where we keep our sheep. They need plucking before they moult.’

‘Your sheep moult?’

‘They do. A very ancient breed, sir. We pluck them, bring back the wool, then card and spin and weave it into tweed as rent for his lordship.’

‘Truly a cottage industry! Well, may we join you? My son and I are keen to experience your Hebridean ways.’

Effie saw looks skate from one man to the next.