The old priest Father McDougall took the jacket from Shelagh’s shoulders. “Sit down, girl. I won’t even say I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, or that it is past my bedtime. I took a nap, as a matter of fact. There’s crackers and some real Stilton on the table there, and a decanter of port. Or there’s beer in the refrigerator if you prefer. Brandy later. Eat before you talk.” He limped to an antlered head that hung down into the glow of candles on the table and hooked the jacket delicately on a brow tine, then settled himself onto the hard bench with an almost-audible wince. He poured himself an inch of wine into a wide goblet at one side, spread some cheese on a cracker and began to eat. After a moment, she followed suit.
When she finished, he wordlessly poured her a
