‘It’s just a matter of knowing where they like to roost. For puffins, it’s ground burrows ideally but also clefts in the rock. They’re also smaller than most people think.’ She turned back to face him. ‘We’ll need to be quiet or they’ll fly off. Just follow me and do as I do. Lean back and trust in your anchor.’ She smiled over at the earl, who was already sitting with his feet flexed, heels dug down. ‘Ready, sir?’

‘Ready when you are, Miss Gillies,’ he called back.

Effie pushed the snares down the length of her spine, held in place by the rope twisted around her waist, and positioned herself at the cliff edge. Poppit knew to lie down and wait. She tugged on her rope once, twice, then leant back. She stepped over the edge and looked across at him. ‘Legs straight, trust your anchor, hand over hand. Make sure the fists touch, keep the movements small,’ she murmured, lowering herself easily. She didn’t even need to look. They could fall from here and have a soft landing, so long as they didn’t roll.

He climbed down with apparent ease, giving two sharp tugs of the rope, as promised, to let his father know he was on the ledge. They could hear the puffins clearly now, over the screech of the skuas and guillemots. The sound was distinctive, like the lowing of a cow, followed by a clacking sound.

‘Keep the rope tied about you,’ she whispered, crouching down and reaching for the snares positioned along her spine. She pulled them out and handed him one.

‘What are they made from?’ he asked, inspecting his more closely.

‘The wing bones of gannets.’

He smiled. ‘Ingenious.’

She looked over at the bird. ‘Now, no rushing movements. The snare tightens like this.’ She showed him how pulling on the twine closed down the loop. Sholto nodded, watching her every move closely. They were sitting close, their bodies almost touching on the ledge. ‘I’ll get the first. You have to bring the snare in slowly, above the bird as it’s roosting. Then over the head and close the loop.’

‘Will that kill it?’

‘No, it’ll just trap it. You’ll have to wring its neck.’

‘I see.’ They both watched as a couple of puffins flew in, landing a short way down from where they were crouched, their distinctive brightly coloured bills filled with several limp mackerel held sideways.

Effie tiptoed into position by the edge of the ledge and waited, the snare held in one hand as she watched the puffins roosting, choosing the best bird to take. One came out of its nest, waddling on a rocky ledge, holding a short stick in its beak. Silently, fluidly, Effie moved closer, extending the snare out and down towards where it stood. She spent a few moments positioning the loop in the air above its head, then prepared to lower—