Lily treasured this time of night. Treasured the feeling of being a part of a family.

There had been so many times she’d envied Jamie, and envied his cousins the Morays, because they’d had brothers around them, and sisters, to keep them from being alone. And now she had that also.

It would have been perfect if she’d had her grandmother here with her, too, but the house was not large. Maybe later this summer, when Argyll was captured and travel was safe, she could go north to visit. But not alone, Lily thought. Not alone.

Not anymore.

Something small landed lightly beside her leg, on the bed, making her startle before it curled carefully into the blankets. The kitten.

She dared not reach down for it, lest Jean see that it had jumped on the bed when it wasn’t supposed to, but silently she wished the kitten good night.

And she slept.

* * *

When she woke, it was dark. Baby James was in full-throated cry.

From out in the close came the discordant strains of a fiddle, played loudly.

“I’ll skelp him,” her father said.

Jean murmured, “Edward…”

He said, “There are laws against breaking the peace at this hour.”

Lily knew not the hour, but they were not the only ones having their sleep disturbed. She could hear some of their neighbors in Kinloch’s Close calling from windows now, bidding the violer, Watson, to stop playing.

Watson ignored them.

Jean tried to soothe baby James, who cried more lustily. And Lily’s father swore under his breath as he levered himself from the bed.

Jean said, once again, “Edward…”

But he had his breeks on already. His waistcoat. In darkness, he reached for the sword belt that hung on its peg at his bedside, and buckled the straps of it over his shoulder with fingers that, after so long, knew the motions and needed no light. “Jeannie, it is my duty,” he told her. “The town guard is here to keep order and peace, and there’s nothing that’s peaceful nor orderly happening out there the now.”

Lily heard the firm stride of his boots cross the floor, and the door opened in a swift rush of cool air and then closed with a hard, final slam.

There were voices. She struggled to hear them above all the shouts, and the sound of the fiddle that had not yet stopped, and the cries of the baby.

Her father was using the cold voice she hated to hear, though she did not know what he was saying. The strings of the fiddle played almost as though they were making a human reply. And her father called angrily back to it, moving wherever the violer led.

Although he couldn’t hear her, Jean begged, “Leave it now, Edward. Please, let it go.”

But the fiddle kept taunting him, leading him farther away, down the close to the High Street. The music and voices grew fainter, and then came a cry. And then silence.