We ran from the burning raft to the farmhouse, with Mr Lunan as near to panic as I had ever seen him. Despite being at least twenty years older than the rest of us, Mr Lunan was first inside the farmhouse, nearly breaking the door as he barged in, yelling his wife’s name.
“Lizzie!”
We followed, with the bothy-boys well in front, gasping as they sought to reach the farmhouse. I was last, sliding on the rain-slicked cobbles with the ululation of the Whistlers soft in my ears.
I did not know what to expect as I ran in the door and pounded upstairs, but what I saw was worse than I had imagined. At least a dozen of the Sidh crammed the bedroom. Most were facing the men, their faces contorted in snarls as they slashed with bronze knives. Others surrounded the bed that Agnes shared with Baby R
