The old man studied Anna, gave a nod and made a comment to the priests before he shuffled off again, and wearing smiles the priests approached her.

“Anna Moray!” called the tallest one again, “we have been looking for you. God be thanked, we’ve found you safe.”

She saw his eyes, and she did not believe him. And apart from that, he’d called her “Anna Moray”. No one seeking her who had been sent by anyone she trusted would have ever used that name.

She backed away a step, and then another, looking round one final time in hopes she might glimpse Father Graeme or his father in the vast confusing ebb and flow of unfamiliar faces.

One more backward step and she had bumped against the side of Captain Gordon, who said, “Steady,” in a voice that, while surprised, was not unkind. It was that hint of kindness, she thought afterwards, that gave her the idea, and the courage.

As the two priests drew yet nearer, Anna spoke up in a clear voice, with the ladylike and proper words that she’d been taught: “I do not know these men.” And then she turned and tilted up her head to look at Captain Gordon. “Do you know them, Father?”

He said nothing, staring down at her, and Anna held her breath.

If he denied her, if he did not play along, then she was lost. No one would stop two priests from taking charge of any child, no matter how that child might scream and weep.

She saw the smallest flicker of what might have been astonishment disturb the blue depths of the captain’s eyes. It seemed to Anna that he stood and looked at her a long time, as though he were seeing something he had not expected and could not believe.

She raised her chin a trifle higher, and allowed her eyes to mutely ask him, Please.

He told her, “No.” And then, his eyes still on her upturned face, he said, “I do not know them, either.”

Then he raised his head and told the priests, “Good fathers, I’m afraid you do mistake my child for someone else, for my name is not Moray.” With a firm hand he laid claim to her, and turned her so her back was to the strength of him, his one arm laid with fatherly possession on her shoulder.

Neither priest could stand against the calm ice of the captain’s gaze. The bolder one said, “Do excuse us, sir, we meant no harm.”

“No, I am sure that you did not. Come, child,” the captain said, “get you in the carriage, for we must be on our way.”

She let him lift her, numb, onto the seat, and there she sat, her little cloth-wrapped bundle clasped against her, while the priests bowed to the captain and backed off a step.

The Searcher standing nearest to the captain drew a paper from his coat and read it over with a frown, and told the captain, “But this pass is for—”