Effie walked around the bull house, raking the manure into a pile. She had let Tiny into the enclosure and he was grazing, the sun bouncing off his back and making his hide gleam. Below her in the glen she could see the women fussing with meals now some of the men were back, children being dispatched to others’ cottages on errands. They had safely carried Donald McKinnon to his own tabletop and rested him upon it – Lorna was still there with him, cleaning the wound – before the men went back to the boat and unloaded the bags of wool.

Effie shovelled the manure into the pails by the back wall, but as she glanced out, she caught sight of someone flying down the hill from Mullach Mor, dark skirt billowing, a red scarf tied around her waist. Effie frowned. There was only one person who would wear a headscarf like that . . .

‘Flora?’ Effie called, setting the fork against the wall and waving wildly. She’d not seen her friend in over two weeks, since she and Mhairi had taken the livestock over to the summer pastures in Glen Bay. To walk there and back again was almost four hours and she’d not enough hours in the day as it was. The best she could hope for was a chance visit such as this – no doubt the girls needed more food. ‘Flora!’

The girl’s head turned at the shout and she swerved in the direction of the bull house as she saw Effie climbing onto the wall and waving her arms above her head.

‘Where’s the fire?’ Effie smiled, hugging her excitedly a few minutes later.

‘Uff,’ Flora panted, leaning her arms and head on the wall and trying to get her breath back. She turned her head to smile up at Effie, her face flushed appealingly. It was commonly acknowledged that she was the most beautiful girl on the isle, with long raven-black hair that gleamed like oil, hazel-green eyes and a rosebud mouth. Her big brothers, David and Donald, called her ‘the Kelpie’; it wasn’t intended as a compliment, but Flora still knew the power she wielded. ‘I’m dead. She made me run the whole way here.’

‘Mhairi did?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why couldn’t she run? Is she hurt?’

Flora put up a hand to stem Effie’s fast-rising concern. ‘She’s fine. But we were over on Cambir when we saw the cuts on Boreray . . .’ She gave another sigh, unable to catch her breath. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Donald McKinnon—’

‘What?’ Flora snapped up to standing again.

‘He’s got a head injury.’

‘Is he going to recover?’

‘Aye. He fell catching a sheep and cut his head, but Lorna thinks he’ll be fine with some rest. She’s going to stay with them for the next few nights too.’

‘She is?’

‘Aye. Poor Mary’s not up to much.’