Both women were silent as they walked, their bare feet treading over ancient sunken rocks, moving past the beehive stone structures that had first been built by men thousands of years before. Effie couldn’t imagine a life beyond here, she simply couldn’t see what it might like look like – the lie of the land, the houses, all those crowds of people? They moved into single file, walking down the narrow path between her cottage and Old Fin’s. Lorna lived in number 16, at the furthest western end of the Street. It had been one of a few cottages available after Dougie MacDonald’s family of thirteen had emigrated to Australia a few years earlier. Logic might have dictated – Effie’s father always muttered – that as the village’s nurse she should be more centrally located, but the privacy seemed to suit her and the abandoned neighbouring blackhouse, which predated her 1870s cottage, was in good enough condition to serve as a clinic.

They turned onto the Street, to find the visitors being entertained by Effie’s aunt Mary Gillies, several cottages down at number 10. She was sitting in her chair by her front door, spinning the yarn as she spoke, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they spoke no Gaelic and she no English. Effie could see she was giving a demonstration, hoping to earn a coin.

Effie and Lorna swapped bemused looks as Effie handed her back the other pail.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Lorna said brightly on her way past, looking demure in her skirt that only moments before had been tucked into her undergarments.

‘Good morning,’ the earl said brightly, doffing his hat. His son did the same, but his gaze was already casting around. It stopped as he found Effie, standing by the narrow alley.

‘Miss Gillies,’ he said, coming straight over to her. His skin had tanned a little already after yesterday’s exposure on the slopes and it had the effect of brightening his teeth and eyes further. ‘We were looking for you.’

If she hadn’t seen him standing outside her cottage in the moonlight, she would never have known it from his casual demeanour here now, which picked up from their adventure together yesterday afternoon. But she did know, and she couldn’t forget it. She felt as wooden as he was languid. ‘My apologies if I kept you waiting. I’m just back from feeding the bull.’

‘You were feeding the . . .?’

She saw how the corners of his mouth twitched, wanting to turn into a smile. She supposed it might make for an odd image – a scrawny thing like her, tending the bull – she’d never stopped to consider it before. But only his eyes gave away something of his contained laughter. ‘Does the bull have a name?’

‘Aye. Tiny.’

‘Tiny.’ The corners of his mouth twitched further. ‘Splendid. Well chosen, I’m sure.’