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about to prove their prowess by lifting.
    “It’s your son, is it, Rob?” Jamie asked, dodging a water-filled pine branch.
    “Aye,” Robbie answered, “or it was.”
    That sounded sinister. I saw Jamie’s hand brush the butt of his pistol; mine went to my medical kit.
    “What’s happened?” I asked. “Is he hurt?”
    “Not him,” McGillivray replied cryptically, and ducked ahead, beneath a drooping chestnut bough hung with scarlet creeper.
    Just beyond was a small open space, not really big enough to be called a clearing, tufted with dead grass and studded with pine saplings. As Fergus and I ducked under the creeper after Jamie, a large woman in homespun whirled toward us, shoulders hunching as she raised the broken tree limb she clutched in one hand. She saw McGillivray, though, and relaxed fractionally.
    “Wer ist das?”
she asked suspiciously, eyeing us. Then John Quincy appeared from under the creeper, and she lowered the club, her solidly handsome features relaxing further.
    “Ha, Myers! You brung me den Jamie,
oder
?” She cast me a curious look, but was too busy glancing between Fergus and Jamie to inspect me closely.
    “Aye, love, this is Jamie Roy—
Sheumais Mac Dubh
.” McGillivray hastened to take credit for Jamie’s appearance, putting a respectful hand on his sleeve. “My wife, Ute,
Mac Dubh
. And
Mac Dubh
’s son,” he added, waving vaguely at Fergus.
    Ute McGillivray looked like a Valkyrie on a starchy diet; tall, very blond, and broadly powerful.
    “Your servant, ma’am,” Jamie said, bowing.
    “Madame,”
Fergus echoed, making her a courtly leg.
    Mrs. McGillivray dropped them a low curtsy in return, eyes fixed on the prominent bloodstains streaking the front of Jamie’s—or rather, Roger’s—coat.
    “Mein Herr,”
she murmured, looking impressed. She turned and beckoned to a young man of seventeen or eighteen, who had been lurking in the background. He bore such a marked resemblance to his small, wiry, dark-haired father that his identity could scarcely be in doubt.
    “Manfred,” his mother announced proudly. “
Mein
laddie.”
    Jamie inclined his head in grave acknowledgment.
    “Mr. McGillivray.”
    “Ah . . . your s-servant, sir?” The boy sounded rather dubious about it, but put out his hand to be shaken.
    “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Jamie assured him, shaking it. The courtesies duly observed, he looked briefly round at the quiet surroundings, raising one eyebrow.
    “I had heard that you were suffering some inconvenience wi’ regard to a thief-taker. Do I take it that the matter has been resolved?” He glanced in question from McGillivray Junior to McGillivray Senior.
    The three McGillivrays exchanged assorted glances among themselves. Robin McGillivray gave an apologetic cough.
    “Well, not to say
resolved
, quite,
Mac Dubh
. That is to say . . .” He trailed off, the harried look returning to his eyes.
    Mrs. McGillivray gave him a stern look, then turned to Jamie.
    “
Ist kein
bother,” she told him. “
Ich haf den
wee ball of shite safe put. But only we want to know, how we best
den Korpus
hide?”
    “The . . . body?” I said, rather faintly.
    Even Jamie looked a bit disturbed at that.
    “Ye’ve killed him, Rob?”
    “Me?” McGillivray looked shocked. “Christ’s sake,
Mac Dubh
, what d’ye take me for?”
    Jamie raised the eyebrow again; evidently the thought of McGillivray committing violence was scarcely far-fetched. McGillivray had the grace to look abashed.
    “Aye, well. I suppose I might have—and I did—well, but,
Mac Dubh
! That business at Ardsmuir was all long ago and done wi’, aye?”
    “Aye,” Jamie said. “It was. What about this business wi’ the thief-taker, though? Where is he?”
    I heard a muffled giggle behind me, and swung round to see that the rest of the family McGillivray, silent ’til now, was nonetheless present. Three teenaged girls sat in a row on a dead log behind a screen of saplings, all