“Do you know what a hyoid bone is?”
“If I had to guess, it’s something in the throat.” Roger cleared his throat hard and rubbed at it, feeling the roughness of the scar under his palm. “Why?” He wasn’t sure whether to be offended at the personal intrusion or—something else. His skin tingled slightly where McEwan had touched it.
“It’s just there,” the healer said, pressing with his thumb, high up under Roger’s chin. “And if it had been here”—he moved the thumb down an inch—“you’d have been dead, sir. It’s a fragile wee bone. Easy to strangle someone by breaking it—with your thumbs or a rope.” He drew back a little, eyes intent on Roger’s; the curiosity was still plain on his face, but the wariness had returned. “Are you and your friend fleeing from . . . something? Someone?”
“No.” Roger felt at once very tired, the strain of everything catching up to him, and looked round for something to sit on. There was nothing but a few dark chunks of rock that had fallen from the cottage’s wall when the burning thatch had been pulled down. He pushed two blocks together and sat on one, knees up round his ears. “I—this—” He touched his throat briefly. “It was a long time ago, nothing to do with what we—we—we’re looking for my son. He’s only nine.”
“Oh, dearie me.” McEwan’s broad face creased in sympathy. “How—”
Roger lifted a hand. “You first,” he said, and cleared his throat again. “I’ll tell ye everything I know, but . . . you first. Please.”
McEwan pursed his lips and glanced aside, thinking, but then shrugged and lowered himself, grunting, to his own rude seat.
“I was a doctor,” he said abruptly. “In Edinburgh. I came up to the Highlands to shoot grouse with a friend. Do folk still do that, a hundred years hence?”
“Aye. Grouse are still tasty,” Roger said dryly. “It was at Craigh na Dun that ye came through, then?”
“Yes, I—” McEwan halted abruptly, realizing what that question implied. “Dear Lord in heaven, do ye mean to be telling me there are other places? Where . . . it happens?”
“Yes.” The hairs rippled on Roger’s arms. “Four that I know of; likely there are others. How many stone circles are there in the British Isles?”
“I’ve no idea.” McEwan was clearly shaken. He got up and went to the doorway, the jamb of it scorched and the lintel burned almost away. Roger hoped none of the stones above it would fall on the man’s head—at least not until he found out more.
Dr. McEwan stayed for a long time, staring out into the rain, which had gone the silvery gray of cat’s fur. Finally he shook himself and came back, mouth set in firm decision.
“Aye, nothing to be gained from secrecy. And I hope nothing to be lost by honesty.” This last was not quite a question, but Roger nodded and tried to look earnest.
“Well, then. Grouse, as I say. We were on the moor, just below that hill where the standing stones are. All of a sudden a fox shot out of the bracken, right by my foot, and one of the dogs lost his head and chased it. Brewer—that was my friend, Joseph Brewer—started after it, but he has—he had,” McEwan corrected, with an expression of mild irritation that made Roger want to smile, because he was so familiar with the feeling that dealing with the phenomenon caused, “a clubfoot. He managed all right with a special boot, but climbing and chasing . . .” He shrugged.
“So you went after the dog, and . . .” Roger shuddered involuntarily at the memory, and so did McEwan.
“Exactly.”
“Did the dog . . . go?” Roger asked suddenly. McEwan looked surprised and vaguely affronted.
“How should I know? It didn’t turn up where I did, I can tell ye that much.”
Roger made a brief gesture of apology.
“Just curious. We—my wife and I—we’ve been trying to puzzle out as much as we can, for the sake of the children.” “Children” caught in his throat, coming out in no more than a whisper, and McEwan’s expression softened.
“Aye, of course. Your son, you said?”
Roger nodded and managed to explain what he could, about Cameron, the letters . . . and, after a moment’s hesitation, about the Spaniard’s gold, for, after all, he’d have to give a reason for Cameron’s taking Jem in the first place, and his sense of Dr. McEwan was one of solid kindness.
“Dearie me,” the doctor murmured, shaking his head in dismay. “I’ll ask among my patients. Perhaps someone . . .” He trailed off, his face still troubled. Roger had the distinct impression that the sense of trouble wasn’t all down to Jem, or even to the staggering discovery that there were other—
He stopped, seeing plainly in his mind’s eye the soft blue glow surrounding McEwan’s fingers—and the look of surprised delight on his face. Cognosco te. I know you. Delight, not just shock. He and Buck weren’t the first time travelers this man had known. But the doctor hadn’t said as much. Why not?
“How long have you been here?” Roger asked, curious.
McEwan sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Maybe too long,” he said, but then pushed that away, straightening up. “Two years, about. Speaking of too long, though . . .” He straightened, pulling the cloak over his shoulders. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour. I’ll need to go, if I’m to reach Cranesmuir by nightfall. I’ll come again tomorrow to tend your friend. We can talk a bit more then.”