“Maybe. Or maybe there’s one person posting lots of malicious reviews online.”

“Maybe.” But his face tells me I haven’t convinced him.

“What did you mean by what you said about Callum and animals?”

“The wee lad has a gift with them. He’ll be a vet, or a horse trainer, or something,” Ali says. It doesn’t surprise me. I can imagine a grown-up Callum as a vet. There’s something straightforward and calming about him. The animals would surely sense they’re in safe hands.

Ben nods. “If he says they won’t come in here, I would bet serious money he’s right.”

“So you think someone brought the raven and the fox here.”

Ben’s nod is a slow considered movement, Ali’s a hurried jerk. It’s startling how unalike they are, in every way. There’s Ben with his caramel hair and face as open as a windswept moor, sitting back in his chair, facing the table squarely, his mug cradled in his palm. Whereas Ali, dark and twitchy as ever, is hunched over his mug, his eyebrows so low they blend with his eyelashes. “Obviously the question is who,” Ben says.

Ali grunts. “To state the bloody obvious.” He looks at his coffee, then mutters, half to himself, “I suppose if someone brought it here, it could have come from anywhere.” Then he looks at his coffee again. “You got anything stronger? That is, if I can crash at yours, Ben, and Ailsa, you dinnae mind us leaving our cars here overnight?”

I push my chair away from the table and head for one of the kitchen cupboards. “Fine by me. I think we’ve got—ah, here.” I pull out a bottle of Glenmorangie and put it on the table in front of them, and take a seat again.

Ali picks it up immediately with an appreciative nod. “I thought you didnae like whisky.”

“I don’t. Carrie picked it up.” Beer, whisky—Carrie’s drinking habits have been full of surprises for me.

“Good taste, your sister,” comments Ali. Half sister. And it doesn’t look like I know even that much of her. “She willnae mind?”

I settle back at the table with a shrug. “She’s not here.” Where is she? I wonder again. “I can always buy a replacement bottle.”

“Glasses?” asks Ben, standing up. “No, don’t worry, I’ll get them.” He heads to the cupboard I’m pointing at. Ali’s hooded eyes follow his friend across the kitchen with an intensity that catches me by surprise. Then his gaze stutters back to me and the moment is gone.

“So, who?” says Ben again, when he and Ali each have two fingers of amber in their glasses.

“You tell me. I’m the newcomer; the only people I’ve spoken more than three sentences to are those I met in the Quaich the other night. And Callum, and Glen McCue.”