It was a beautiful bright autumn day, with air like cider and a sky so blue you could drown in it.

Blood of my Blood," he whispered, "and bone of my bone. You carry me within ye, Claire, and ye canna leave me now, no matter what happens, You are mine, always, if ye will it or no, if ye want me or nay. Mine, and I wilna let ye go.

Men would eat horse droppings, if ye served them wi' butter.

This was nonsense, he thought. The need of her was a physical thing, like the thirsty of a sailor becalmed for weeks on the sea. He'd felt the need before, often, often, in their years apart. But why now? She was safe; he knew where she was - was it only the exhaustion of the past weeks and days, or perhaps the weakness of creeping age that made his bones ache, as though she had in fact been torn from his body, as God had made Eve from Adam's rib?

He was dead. However, his nose throbbed painfully, which he thought odd in the circumstances.

Oh, womanly sympathy, love AND food?" I said, laughing. "Don't want a lot, do you?

If it was a sin for you to choose me . . . then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it.