The boy thrust his jaw in the direction of the pale-blue tent. “Just passing through?”

“Temporary accommodation.”

“It’s been a while.”

“It has.”

Fionnlagh paused for a moment, to give his words emphasis. “Nine months.” And there was a definite accusation in them.

“I had a whole life to pack up behind me.”

Fionnlagh canted his head a little. “Does that mean you’re back to stay?”

“Maybe.” Fin turned his gaze over the croft. “This is home. It’s where you come when you’ve nowhere else to go. Whether or not I stay . . . well, that remains to be seen.” He turned green eyes back on the boy. “Do folk know?”

Their eyes locked for several seconds in a silence laden with history. “All that anyone knows is that my father died out on An Sgeir last August during the guga hunt.”

Fin nodded. “Fair enough.” He turned to open the gate and walked down the overgrown path to what had once been the front door of the old whitehouse. The door itself was long gone, a few remaining pieces of rotten architrave still clinging to the brick. The purple paint with which his father had once lavished every wooden surface, including the floors, was still discernible in odd, flaking patches. The roof was largely intact, but the timbers were decayed and rainwater had streaked every wall. The floorboards were gone, leaving only a few stubborn joists. It was a shell of a place, no trace remaining of the love that had once warmed it. He heard Fionnlagh at his shoulder and turned. “I’m going to gut this place. Rebuild it from the inside out. Maybe you’d like to give me a hand during the summer holidays.”

Fionnlagh shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe.”

“Will you be going to university in the autumn?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I need to find a job. I’m a father now. I have responsibilities to my child.”

Fin nodded. “How is she?”

“She’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

Fin ignored the sarcasm. “And Donna?”

“Living at home with her parents, and the baby.”

Fin frowned. “What about you?”

“Mum and I are still at the bungalow down the hill.” He nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the house that Marsaili had inherited from Artair. “The Reverend Murray won’t let me go up to see them at the manse.”

Fin was incredulous. “Why not? You’re the baby’s father, for God’s sake.”

“With no means of supporting either his daughter or her mother. Occasionally Donna can sneak her up to see me at the bungalow, but usually we have to meet in town.”

Fin swallowed his anger. No point in directing it at Fionnlagh. Time enough for that. Another place, another person. “Is your mother at home?” It was an innocent enough question, and yet they both knew how charged it was.