“Out you go,” I murmured to Fergus, manhandling him to the edge of the bed, and rolling him into my arms. He was light-boned and thin for a ten-year-old, but still awfully heavy. I got him to his pallet without difficulty and plunked him in, still unconscious, then came back to Jamie’s bed.

I undressed slowly, standing by the bed, looking down at him. He had turned onto his side and curled himself up against the cold. His lashes lay long and curving against his cheek; they were a deep auburn, nearly black at the tips, but a pale blond near the roots. It gave him an oddly innocent air, despite the long, straight nose and the firm lines of mouth and chin.

Clad in my chemise, I slid into bed behind him, snuggling against the wide, warm back in its woolen nightshirt. He stirred a little, coughing, and I put a hand on the curve of his hip to soothe him. He shifted, curling further and thrusting himself back against me with a small exhalation of awareness. I put my arm around his waist, my hand brushing the soft mass of his testicles. I could rouse him, I knew, sleepy as he was; it took very little to bring him standing, no more than a few firm strokes of my fingers.

I didn’t want to disturb his rest, though, and contented myself with gently patting his belly. He reached back a large hand and clumsily patted my thigh in return.

“I love you,” he muttered, half-awake.

“I know,” I said, and fell asleep at once, holding him.

It was not quite a slum, but the next thing to it. I stepped gingerly aside to avoid a substantial puddle of filth, left by the emptying of chamber pots from the windows overhead, awaiting removal by the next hard rain.

Randall caught my elbow to save my slipping on the slimy cobblestones. I stiffened at the touch, and he withdrew his hand at once.

He saw my glance at the crumbling doorpost, and said defensively, “I couldn’t afford to move him to better quarters. It isn’t so bad inside.”

It wasn’t – quite. Some effort had been made at furnishing the room comfortably, at least. There was a large bowl and ewer, a sturdy table with a loaf, a cheese, and a bottle of wine upon it, and the bed was equipped with a feather mattress, and several thick quilts.

The man who lay on the mattress had thrown off the quilts, overheated by the effort of coughing, I assumed. He was quite red in the face, and the force of his coughing shook the bed frame, sturdy as it was.

I crossed to the window and threw it up, disregarding Randall’s exclamation of protest. Cold air swept into the stifling room, and the stench of unwashed flesh, unclean linen, and overflowing chamber pot lightened a bit.

The coughing gradually eased, and Alexander Randall’s flushed countenance faded to a pasty white. His lips were slightly blue, and his chest labored as he fought to recover his breath.

I glanced around the room, but didn’t see anything suitable to my purpose. I opened my medical kit and drew out a stiff sheet of parchment. It was a trifle frayed at the edges, but would still serve. I sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling as reassuringly at Alexander as I could manage.

“It was… kind of you… to come,” he said, struggling not to cough between words.

“You’ll be better in a moment,” I said. “Don’t talk, and don’t fight the cough. I’ll need to hear it.”

His shirt was unfastened already; I spread it apart to expose a shockingly sunken chest. It was nearly fleshless; the ribs were clearly visible from abdomen to clavicle. He had always been thin, but the last year’s illness had left him emaciated.

I rolled the parchment into a tube and placed one end against his chest, my ear against the other. It was a crude stethoscope, but amazingly effective.

I listened at various spots, instructing him to breathe deeply. I didn’t need to tell him to cough, poor boy.

“Roll onto your stomach for a moment.” I pulled up the shirt and listened, then tapped gently on his back, testing the resonance over both lungs. The bare flesh was clammy with sweat under my fingers.

“All right. Onto your back again. Just lie still, now, and relax. This won’t hurt at all.” I kept up the soothing talk as I checked the whites of his eyes, the swollen lymph glands in his neck, the coated tongue and inflamed tonsils.

“You’ve a touch of catarrh,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll brew you something that will ease the cough. Meanwhile…” I pointed a toe distastefully at the lidded china receptacle under the bed, and glanced at the man who stood waiting by the door, back braced and rigid as though on parade.

“Get rid of that,” I ordered. Randall glared at me, but came forward and stooped to obey.

“Not out the window!” I said sharply, as he made a move toward it. “Take it downstairs.” He about-faced and left without looking at me.

Alexander drew a shallow breath as the door closed behind his brother. He smiled up at me, hazel eyes glowing in his pale face. The skin was nearly transparent, stretched tight over the bones of his face.

“You’d better hurry, before Johnny comes back. What is it?”

His dark hair was disordered by the coughing; trying to restrain the feelings it roused in me, I smoothed it for him. I didn’t want to tell him, but he clearly knew already.

“You have got catarrh. You also have tuberculosis – consumption.”

“And?”

“And congestive heart failure,” I said, meeting his eyes straight on.

“Ah. I thought… something of the kind. It flutters in my chest sometimes… like a very small bird.” He laid a hand lightly over his heart.

I couldn’t bear the look of his chest, heaving under its impossible burden, and I gently closed his shirt and fastened the tie at the neck. One long, white hand grasped mine.

“How long?” he said. His tone was light, almost unconcerned, displaying no more than a mild curiosity.

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the truth. I don’t know.”

“But not long,” he said, with certainty.

“No. Not long. Months perhaps, but almost surely less than a year.”

“Can you… stop the coughing?”

I reached for my kit. “Yes. I can help it, at least. And the heart palpitations; I can make you a digitalin extract that will help.” I found the small packet of dried foxglove leaves; it would take a little time to brew them.

“Your brother,” I said, not looking at him. “Do you want me-”

“No,” he said, definitely. One corner of his mouth curved up, and he looked so like Frank that I wanted momentarily to weep for him.

“No,” he said. “He’ll know already, I think. We’ve always… known things about each other.”

“Have you, then?” I asked, looking directly at him. He didn’t turn away from my eyes, but smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I know about him. It doesn’t matter.”

Oh, doesn’t it? I thought. Not to you, perhaps. Not trusting either my face or my voice, I turned away and busied myself in lighting the small alcohol lamp I carried.

“He is my brother,” the soft voice said behind me. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands to measure out the leaves.

“Yes,” I said, “at least he’s that.”

Since news had spread of Cope’s amazing defeat at Prestonpans, offers of support, of men and money, poured in from the north. In some cases, these offers even materialized: Lord Ogilvy, the eldest son of the Earl of Airlie, brought six hundred of his father’s tenants, while Stewart of Appin appeared at the head of four hundred men from the shires of Aberdeen and Banff. Lord Pitsligo was single-handedly responsible for most of the Highland cavalry, bringing in a large number of gentlemen and their servants from the northeastern counties, all well mounted and well armed – at least by comparison with some of the miscellaneous clansmen, who came armed with claymores saved by their grandsires from the Rising of the ’15, rusty axes, and pitchforks lately removed from the more homely tasks of cleaning cow-byres.