dungeon at Lochy Castle. On this dank fall evening the place reeked of rot and neglect.
Rory growled again, louder and fiercer. 'It's a disgrace, an absolute outrage!'
'Who is supposed to look after it, sir?' Hamish asked in a very small voice.
'The keeper, of course! The Reverend Murray Campbell. Your dear cousin is a first-class miser. All pilgrims make offerings to the spirit, but most leave money for the upkeep of the shrine, too. He must have a king's ransom buried somewhere, but he won't spend a farthing of it.' Rory had dropped his frivolous manner; for once he sounded as if he really cared about something other than his precious rebellion.
'But, sir… doesn't the laird have any say in how the shrine is maintained? Doesn't it reflect on the whole glen?'
'Mind your tongue, lad! Remember who's laird here.'
Toby was no Campbell. 'Just because a man's an earl doesn't mean he isn't a fool.'
Rory swung around violently, his hand snaking to the hilt of his sword.
'Does it?' Toby added, putting his fists on his hips.
Rory seemed to consider a little punitive bloodletting and then decide against it. 'I know more fools who aren't earls. I also know that the Campbell has more than once sent workmen to restore this shrine. The keeper scares them away by telling them they are annoying the spirit. I assume he then uses the lumber for firewood, or sells it. Have you any helpful suggestions to offer?'
It was a fair question, more than fair. They were all tired and hungry and short-tempered. 'No, sir. And I will apologize to His Lordship… when I meet him.'
'You do that!' Rory said, releasing his sword.
Hamish said, 'Um?'
'Yes?'
'If the laird were to allow the keeper to charge pilgrims for the use of the repaired cottages, sir?'
Rory stared at him for a moment, and then chuckled. 'Ingenious! Suggest that to the earl… when you meet him!'
'Yes, sir.' Hamish grinned, but briefly. He was understandably more depressed than any of them by this first sight of his new home. 'What about food, and fires, and dry clothes?'
'Ha! What do you think? Pilgrims are supposed to bring their own. You've never met your esteemed cousin?'
'No, sir.'
'Ah! Well, Murray can be awkward. He's more or less a hermit. He hates men, and women terrify him. I'm not sure how he reacts to boys. Take that feather out of your cap before he sees it.' The rebel had become ominously sympathetic all of a sudden.
'Do I call him 'Father'?'
'If you want. He's not a full acolyte, so you'll be flattering him. You can call the spirit a tutelary, too. Again, that's just a courtesy.'
Toby had removed his sword and was stretching his shoulders luxuriously. 'What's the difference between a spirit and a tutelary? Strength?'
Rory hesitated. 'Strength? No, not at all. Talk with Father Lachlan if you want to discuss theological niceties. You will not go too far wrong if you think of a hob as a child, a spirit as an adolescent, and a tutelary as an adult. It has nothing to do with age, because they are all immortal. Just… experience.' There was warning in his eyes.
'Oh — thanks!' Being familiar with the Fillan hob's tantrums, Toby should not have asked such a question here in the precincts of the shrine. Hobs could be touchy and unpredictable, even dangerous. So could adolescents.
Rory turned his attention back to Hamish, who was looking more apprehensive than ever.
'Did you bring any money, laddie?'
'Pa gave me some.'
'Hang on to it! Murray has never learned that the stuff can be spent, too. Go and see if any of the other cottages are any more habitable. Brawny laddie, you go find some firewood.'
Toby shrugged and followed Hamish out into the rain. He strode over to the cottage that had been named as the keeper's. Finding a miserably small woodpile there, he began stacking logs on his arm.
The door opened and Father Lachlan emerged. He said, 'Oh!' Then he said, 'No one there, I'm afraid.' He had taken a surprisingly long time to hunt for a man in a one-room cottage, and his guilty air showed that he thought that Toby thought that.
Toby said, 'Would you mind giving me a hand, Father?'
He held out both arms so the acolyte could load logs on them.
'No fire lit, but the house is inhabited. I was trying to establish how long the keeper has been gone. One always worries that he might have fallen sick or had an accident.'
One always thought, Toby thought, that the spirit would take care of the keeper. He couldn't think of anything tactful to say, so he said nothing. He assumed that acolytes were capable of being nosy, like anyone else. Father Lachlan had likely just been measuring the staleness of crusts and estimating the thickness of dust.
Bearing a good third of the woodpile, Toby returned to the cottage. Hamish and Meg were sweeping the floor with handfuls of broom, while Rory knelt at the hearth, nurturing a seedling of fire. He glanced up, apparently back in his usual irreverent good humor.
'Any signs of the holy Murray?'
'No fire lit,' Father Lachlan said. 'From the warmth of the fireplace, he must have been here last night. He may have gone down to the loch for supplies.'
'Then we shouldn't expect him back tonight. Can we raid his larder?' Rory bent to blow on his fledgling blaze.
'Larder? I saw no larder! Fasting purifies the soul.' The acolyte beamed cheerfully over his spectacles.
'My tastes run more to cannibalism. Shall we draw lots?'
A shadow darkened the doorway.
Everyone jumped, except Rory, who rose, beaming amiably. 'All good spirits be with you, Father Murray.'
'Trouble! You always bring trouble.' The newcomer lumbered forward into the pale flicker of the lantern. He leaned on a thick, gnarled staff, moving as if his joints hurt. He was old and gaunt, even skinnier than Hamish — it must run in the family. His faded, waterlogged plaid revealed arms and legs like twigs. His face was a craggy construction, all nose and high cheekbones and protruding jaw, its weathered texture visible through wispy white whiskers. Streaks of silver hair had escaped from under his bonnet, plastered to his face by the wet.
Hamish's mouth had fallen open and his eyes showed white all around the irises.
'Trouble is the lot of us mortals, is it not?' Clearly, Rory was intent on being insufferably angelic. 'You know the Reverend Father Lachlan of Glasgow, of course. You will also recall that my name is Rory of Glen—'
'Your name is Trouble!'
'Thank you. Rory of Trouble, I must remember that. I am also happy to present—'
'Who are you fleeing from this time?' The old man's voice creaked like Iain Campbell's mill. 'I saw you running to hide down by the road. Who was that after you? Where are they? English, I'll be bound, ready to hang you at last. Outlaw!'
Rory sighed. 'I am so sorry to disappoint you, Father. Yes, we were pursued. No, they were not Sassenachs. Most of them were not mortal. They were demons, led by a notorious hexer.'
The keeper thumped his staff on the muck-littered floor. 'Balderdash!'
'Father Lachlan?'
'I'm afraid he speaks the truth, Father.'
Obviously Father Murray's worst suspicions had fallen short of the mark. For a moment he just chewed, his craggy face writhing as if about to fall apart from sheer outrage.
'Shira itself diverted them and thus gave us refuge,' Rory said sweetly. 'I suggest you check with it before you order us out of here. Now, may I present—'
'Where's your gear, huh? No victuals, no bedding? I suppose you expect me to provide those? You think
