“Aye, I’m sure of that. And, as for his ghost, it needn’t trouble me.”
Rebecca finished her task, and gave the bandage a rough, ill-tempered pat. “There! If fire and slaughter’s coming, it’s as well to have two legs to stand on instead of one. Men are feckless, left to themselves.”
And now a silence crept about the house, and into the hearts of these three. They longed for the wind to rattle at the casements; but it, too, had fallen dumb. Logie was a house aware—its every stone and rafter-beam—of a peril sinister and urgent.
The brindled cat, catching the stealthy unrest of the house, had gone to Storm for comfort, only to find his ancient ally prisoned for the night. He wandered back to the kitchen now, and sprang to the table. His eyes were big, his fur stiff and ruffled, as if he waited for rats to come to Logie.
Rebecca glanced at him. “You, Jonah? Drat you for another male that’s stepped into my kitchen, looking warlike—and finding no sort of battle.”
She swept him from the table, with a sudden gust of spite, and the cat, gathering himself up, showed teeth and claws and spat at her.
Then Rebecca laughed and cried, and gathered the great cat into her arms.
“I didn’t mean it, Jonah—but my heart’s just breaking with the trouble of it all.”