“Aye,” Andrew said, with a glance at the glowering sky, “we’re in for a devil of a downpour.”
“We are at that,” Dougie agreed as they led their horses from the stable to the fields. “It’ll be a wet few days.”
“Or weeks,” Andrew said.
I was as able to judge the weather as any Moray quinie, but local men who worked outdoors knew the weather-signs as well as they knew their faces. They could tell when the rain would come, and from what direction, and how long it would last. I listened to their conversation and wondered at the content, for rain is not uncommon in Scotland, whatever the season, and hardly worth mentioning.
The clouds gathered above the hills, grey at first, then gradually becoming heavier, and darker, bruising themselves on the summit-ridges of the braes before the rain cam
