“Morag!” exclaims her younger friend. Perhaps not a friend; she has the demeanor of someone who is there out of duty. A family member, perhaps. But Morag is undeterred, her eyes locked on mine while Jack advances on us, drawn to the commotion. I could refuse to answer; of course I could. Nobody would think anything of it; the waitress already has apologies tumbling out of her mouth. But somehow Morag knows who I am. I can see that. And I won’t give her the satisfaction of thinking I’m ashamed of my name.

“I’m Ailsa Calder.” The words are distinct, strong. They mean to be heard. “The daughter of Martin Calder and Karen Innes.” The heads of the waitress and Morag’s younger companion swivel toward me in perfect, almost comic, synchronicity, their eyes wide and mouths open.

“You’ve got a nerve coming back here,” Morag spits. Her anger rocks me back. It’s hard and ugly and spiteful, and it seems to fill her whole body; she’s growing with it. The younger woman is scarlet with embarrassment as she tries ineffectually to tug her away—Morag!—but Morag isn’t done. “You’ve . . . got . . .” The words are difficult for her to form, and a visible tremor is running through her right side. She’s ill, I realize—seriously ill; and in an instant, every single cutting response that my brain is considering is rendered impotent.

“Morag, you can’t speak to other customers like that,” remonstrates the waitress with commendable calm.

“I’m so sorry,” Morag’s companion says. “Really, I’m—”

“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” Jack has reached us now and is looking from one face to another as if something in them might drag him up to speed.

“I think I’d better leave,” I tell him, with deliberate calm. “We can do the tour another time.” I wave away the waitress’s apologies with a rueful smile. I’m taking the moral high ground. I have to be absurdly beautifully behaved to maintain it.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Jack asks, keeping pace with me as I return to our table to grab my bag and coat. Morag’s companion has succeeded in getting her into a chair near the counter. She’s still shaking. “I don’t want, well, whatever this is to have put you off . . .”