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He listened, then sighed. “Aye. There will be one⁠—”

“Can we call someone to come chase him away?”

He chuckled, “Och nae, Princess, who would that be beyond yer cat? And he is right here, ye daena need tae call him.”

I whispered, “Dude, don’t let him get near this bed, promise me.”

Torin said, “Close yer eyes, mo leannan. Dude is on watch, he promises.”

Dude got up, silently dropped off the bed, and the scratching thankfully stopped.

I woke to the sound of the waterfalls and the smell of smoke.

Our chamber was gray with early light. Torin was up, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots in a careful way, every movement measured against his shoulder injury.

“Need help with your boots?”

“Nae, tis much better this mornin’.” He finished pulling them on. “I barely feel it.” He gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder and did a careful turn of his arm. “All better.”

“Good.” I kissed his cheek. “Is it time to go?”

Dude sat on the saddlebag like a guard.

“Aye, we should get on the road while the glen is quiet.”

We didn’t linger. I bound my hair, put the veil over my head, and checked that the bag with the casket was still closed and ordinary-looking.

Torin shouldered our bags and lifted the bar on the door.

The common room beyond was half empty, last night’s fire burned down to glowing ash.

Breakfast was the usual simple fare: more bannocks, a little cheese, and ale watered down. We ate while standing near the door.

I joked, “Bannocks and cheese, your favorite.”

“Nae, now m’favorite is pizza. Och I miss it.” He wiped his hands. “And not this bannocks and cheese, this is a piss-poor medieval version, it inna right.”

The innkeeper took a bit more of Torin’s coin and pointed us toward the stable.

The horses were restive in the damp morning. Cathbarr blew steam. Mustang stamped until I put a hand on his neck to calm him. Dude went into his bag with only a brief protest and Torin made sure his favorite little leather strap was positioned inside, saying, “There ye go, cat, yer strap tae keep ye busy on the ride.”

Dude’s paws came up out of the bag, batting the strap, and pulling it in.

I said, “You’re a goofy cat, Dude.”

He meowed.

We mounted in the yard. The Dochart river was louder in daylight, white water splashing wildly on the rocks. Loch Tay lay pale beyond the last houses.

Torin looked once down the glen, then east.

“Clackmannan at the end of the day, if the road is kind.”

“And if it isn’t?”

He gave me a tired almost-smile. “Then still Clackmannan — only later.”

We rode out of Killin with the roar of the falls at our backs and the long day in front of us.