“I said it—and we of the Highlands do not lie, as you of Logie do.”
The Master limped into his own house, forgetting the fret of the knee that had broken Rebecca’s bandages by now. A yelp of welcome sounded the moment he set foot indoors, and Storm left his hiding-place and pressed close against him, clamoring for attention.
Hardcastle held up a warning hand. “Kennel, lad. There’s Brant in the house.”
Storm’s tail fell limp. His whole body seemed to shrink and lessen as he crept back to the cupboard. He had learned that Brant was a word of evil meaning.
“Poor devil,” muttered Hardcastle, “there’s not much left for him in life, though he saved three of us. Brant or another will get him soon.”
He went into the room where Donald lay on the settle, his body tethered by weakness, but his eyes bright and eager.
“I wanted you,” said the pedlar. “Sit ye down in the chair here, and I’ll let some of my long thoughts out. They burden me.”
His glance roved from Hardcastle to the pike that hung above the mantel, and back again.
“I’ll not grudge you that any longer,” he went on. “They tell me of your stand against the Lost Folk, and I care for a man who can make music out of odds. I would that, here in Yorkshire, you had the pipes to hearten you.”
His mind wandered to the glens of home, to unforgotten pibrochs and his long fight with poverty—wandered to the gorsy braes that he had roamed with Causleen’s mother. Then he spoke again, smiling gently.