“No, we should all go,” I say quickly. There’s not a chance Jamie will leave me here, and I can’t see Carrie separating from Fiona, the state she’s in. “If we leave the front door open, he can come straight in if he comes here. We can even leave a note to explain.”

“Well, dinnae write anything complicated,” Jamie says, and I hear the meanness in his voice that’s been hiding all along. Carrie looks at him in slight shock, then her eyes pass briefly over me, but she won’t allow them to stop. The fight still hangs in the air for her, but I am far, far past that. Centuries past that. In contrast, Fiona’s eyes are entirely fixed on me.

“Let’s go,” I insist.

But Carrie catches sight of the genetics report that Jamie left on the table. “What’s—?” she starts, but Fiona breaks in.

“Oh my God,” Fiona says quietly. She’s still staring at me, the blood draining out of her face. Even before she says anything, I can see that she knows what’s going on. I don’t know how, but she knows. “It’s that time.”

I whirl round to Jamie, hoping I can shove him, knock him off-balance, anything to get him away from the gun, but it’s too late. In one fluid movement he’s reaching behind him and slightly to one side, grabbing the smooth barrel, hitching it up into firing position in the same hand, then reaching for me, an easy grab because I’m moving toward him anyway. Which is how I find myself with my upper arm in his grasp and a shotgun butting at my stomach. I close my eyes briefly then look across the kitchen at Carrie’s shocked face, her hand at her mouth, half cutting off a shriek.

“I’m sorry,” I say helplessly. Her eyes have finally met mine. She shakes her head mutely, one hand still at her mouth. In my peripheral vision, Fiona is reaching out an arm to her, murmuring something, but my eyes can’t leave Carrie. For a moment, the Manse is entirely still, shocked, but then the creaks and bangs and loud rasping breaths return, more frenetic than ever before. The Manse is furious.

Carrie removes her hand from her mouth, and her shoulder moves in that strange wriggle it does whenever she slips into another skin, and for a moment I think I might break in two, because I know her now. I know who she is and what her movements mean, I know the trail she leaves through the house, I know how she sleeps, I know all of these things, and yet I have a shotgun trained at my stomach. “What is going on, please?” she asks, very politely but very calmly. It’s the persona she has chosen to assume. I suppose it’s as good as any other.