And that was when she saw her father’s sword, still hanging in its sword belt on the peg upon the wall, beside the bed.

Lily’s mind cleared. That was what was out of place, she thought. He’d gone from them in such haste he’d forgotten it, but he could not fight Argyll and the rebels if he did not have his sword.

She could not go to Jean, who was still praying with the minister, for it was rude to interrupt a person when at prayer.

Instead she went to Robin’s mother.

“If ye please,” she said, “my daddie needs his sword, if he’s been called to fight the rebels. It’s just there.” She pointed. “I can run and take it to him, if ye like, at Captain Graeme’s house.”

She did not know why Robin’s mother’s eyes should fill with sudden tears. “There is no need, my dear, he is no longer there. But fear not, Mr. Cant will see that he is armed with all that he requires, for where he will be going.”

Which made little sense to Lily.

Mr. Cant was their own minister, from their own church—Trinity Church, where they went for the service every Sunday, and he’d always seemed a very peaceful man who wished to take no part in war. But Robin’s mother was a clever woman, and if she said Mr. Cant was giving arms and armor to her father, then it stood to reason he would know the way to get the sword to him, as well.

Lily would have mentioned this, but Robin’s mother at that moment noticed the dead mouse, and praised the kitten for such bravery, but, “Robin, I must get this cleared away. Will ye please take the bairn?”

Wee James did not approve of being passed from Robin’s mother to her son, and made his disapproval known in a full-throated cry, and Bessie was not pleased to have her game of knucklebones disturbed, and Robin’s mother had her back turned as she swept the mouse into the hearth.

In the confusion, Lily took the sword belt from its peg and slipped out, very quietly.

She could not wear it as he wore it, she was not so tall. She could but sling the belt high over her thin shoulder so the scabbard of the sword hung down her back, its point just knocking at her heels as she ran pell-mell down into the neighboring, narrow, steep confines of Halkerston’s Wynd. At the foot of the wynd, through the old dry stone gate, lay the orchards and gardens of Trinity Church.

She would always remember the scent of those orchards, years afterward. Always remember the sound of her own breathing mingled with swift-running footsteps some distance behind her, and Robin’s voice calling her name.

She’d remember, as well, her first sense of surprise upon seeing the churchyard.

Why, here are the men of the guard, she thought. This is why they are not watching our house today. They are all here, standing in a formation, and aiming their guns…