“We were just doing the rounds, checking on folks given the power’s down everywhere. Your dad and Callum are okay, Fi; they’ve got the generator going. He said you might be here.” He plays the torchlight over to Ali, who raises a hand to shield his eyes.

“He’s dead,” Ali says shortly, shaking his head. The light pauses, then swings away.

“Where was Callum?” I ask into the silence.

Ben clears his throat. “The barn. The cat had kittens. He was fascinated and lost track of time.”

Fiona—Fi—gives a short rueful laugh. “I’m not really in a position to get mad at him for losing track of time. How many kittens?”

“Never mind the fucking kittens. Why is Jamie dead?” Ali’s voice is rising, both in pitch and volume.

“There’s a skeleton upstairs too,” Carrie pipes up. “It’s Ailsa’s dad.”

“Jesus, fuck.” The shock in Ali’s voice is unmistakable now. “Cannae one of you give a straight answer to a question? What happened? This is like the fucking three witches.”

“Macbeth.” This is Carrie.

“And look how that turned out,” I murmur. I don’t feel well. I don’t feel well at all.

Carrie turns to me. “Are you okay—”

“I might throw up,” I blurt. And then I do.

•   •   •

It’s three days before I’m discharged from hospital, not on account of my collarbone, which is indeed broken, but because it’s discovered by my very thorough doctor that I have carbon monoxide poisoning and therefore need to be oxygenated for at least forty-eight hours. Apparently the boiler in the bathroom has been silently pumping out invisible lethal fumes right next to my bedroom for who knows how long. Yet another thing the Manse was trying to tell me, with the smoke alarm incident—if you believe in that sort of thing. More of me does than before. The doctor lists the symptoms and I nod to almost every one: headache, fatigue, nausea, depression, confusion, feeling better whenever out of the house. Ever since I got to the Manse, I’ve been slowly undergoing poisoning. Carrie has only the mildest of symptoms, because her room is farther away and she sleeps with her window open, but she still has to spend twelve hours on oxygen to be safe. We both endure several lectures on the importance of testing smoke alarms and how stupid I was not to have replaced the batteries after the fly incident, about which Carrie and I feel equally guilty but for different reasons—her for not believing me, and me for putting her at risk by not immediately buying new batteries.