“That’s almost six packets a day, plenty to keep us going!” He grinned at the dogs, ruffling fur in a companionable way. They were all in this together and might as well make the best of a bad thing. The red sand still spilled in a minute waterfall through the hourglass, a gentle trickle from one glass container to the next. He made a bet with himself there and then, believing he’d be found and let out before the sand completely filled the lower glass.

Hours passed, the sun shone for a while and a narrow rectangle of light traversed in slow motion across the opposite wall until obscured by trees. One of the dogs released its bowels on the floor, completely ruining the transcendental state he was trying to achieve as a way of passing time. The acrid smell filled the room, it had nowhere else to go. He moved as far away from the unpleasant stench as he could, burying his nose in his tweed jacket to moderate the odour, and realised for the first time that he was thirsty. A light bulb went off in his head – thirst! They had no source of water, both he and the dogs would be needing to drink before too long. He desperately tried to remember how long someone could survive without water, was it three days? That seemed an awfully short time. Surely nomads crossing deserts managed longer than that?

An uncomfortable thought occurred to him: suppose whoever had left the hourglass and the crisps had done so in the knowledge that he would be trapped here without water? The salt-laden crisps would hasten death, of that he had no doubt. He searched the room for anything that could be used to force the door, not even a loose stone in the wall. The roof offered a possible way out, if only he could pull himself up using the metal hooks. After twenty minutes of launching himself into the air and cutting his hands on the rusty metal he was out of breath, collapsing on the cold stone floor and coughing from the exertion. No way out. He’d have to wait until someone found him.

As the laird was contemplating his prospects for survival, Margo had returned to the cottage only to find her knickers lying on top of the chest of drawers. She felt physically sick, violated in her own home. Without thinking she threw them in with the rest of the dirty washing, shutting the laundry basket lid as if that might help eradicate the vision of the laird fingering her underclothes. The nausea returned in waves and she bent double over the toilet, dry retching racking her body as she convulsed. As the sickness passed, she made her way back down the cottage stairs to the kitchen, putting on the kettle. “Everything’s alright with a cup of fucking tea,” Margo advised the empty room, murdering another of her mother’s favourite adages.

With the mug of steaming liquid clasped to her body, Margo picked up the envelope left propped on the kitchen table. It was written in legalese, but the meaning was clear enough – she only had a month to find somewhere else to live. Margo sat looking out of the cottage window as the wind shook the frame in a sudden gust. She couldn’t stay here; the laird was either going to stalk her like he did his deer or throw her out. Neither option held any particular attraction. She sipped at her tea, unconsciously cradling her womb with the other hand – still too early for any outward sign but she felt decidedly pregnant. The foetus was already beginning to control her life. Margo wouldn’t have welcomed the comparison but, much in the same way as parasitic wasps turn their caterpillar hosts into zombies, whatever decision she took now had to be in her unborn child’s best interests.