Death of an Adept

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I was brought up in the Episcopal church," Julia said. "I've read the Bible more than once, and thought I understood its teachings concerning the conflicts of good and evil. But I see now what a naive assumption that was. Up until the other night, I simply had no idea what real evil was like - or how terrifying it could be."

These observations were directed at Philippa. The two of them were taking tea together in the little upstairs parlor known as the Rose Room. Philippa poured herself another cup of her favorite Earl Grey tea from the hand-painted Sevres teapot which she liked to use for intimate occasions, glancing at Julia as she stirred in milk and sugar.

"You don't have to be ashamed of yourself for being unprepared," she said pragmatically, after taking a sip of the fragrant blend. "No sane person wants to know any more about evil than he or she has to. And don't make the mistake of confusing innocence with weakness. However frightened you might have been at the time, you acquitted yourself bravely when it counted - and have continued to do so, ever since."

Three days had passed since the sinister incident involving the Hand of Glory. Once the initial shock had worn off, Julia had insisted on returning to the gate lodge, firmly vetoing Peregrine's suggestion that she take up temporary residence with her uncle in Dunfermline.

Seeing that his wife was resolved to stand her ground, Peregrine had revised his schedule to enable him work at home as much of the time as possible. When his absence was unavoidable - as today, when he was doing a live sitting with a client up in Perth - Julia had consented to repair to the greater security of the main house, where she could count on having Philippa and the staff for company.

Declining Philippa's unspoken offer of a scone, Julia pulled a rueful grimace. "It's this sense of being completely out of my depth that bothers me," she sighed. "I don't know when I've ever felt smaller or more insignificant."

"Why is that?" Philippa asked.

Julia struggled for the words to express herself. "I suppose it's the realization that Creation itself is a lot more complicated than I ever previously imagined. The malice that went into making that thing you called the Hand of Glory was more than human - it was positively devilish. I know Scripture warns about there being forces of evil at work in the world, but I guess it never occurred to me to take those warnings literally in the context of the present day."

"On the contrary, those warnings were never more applicable than they are at present," Philippa said quite seriously. "It's one of the unfortunate side effects of modern-day materialism that a great many people have gotten complacent and allowed their spiritual defenses to slip. Certainly, we have legitimate cause to be afraid; the forces of evil are real, and they attack under many different guises. On the other hand, if you allow your judgement to be clouded by panic, you end up blaming all the wrong people."

"How does anyone tell the difference?" Julia wondered.

"Through an effort of discernment," Philippa replied. "Why else do you think we're commanded to love God with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our mind, and with all our strength, if we weren't intended to use all these faculties in seeking enlightenment?

"As for combating evil," she continued, "take comfort from the knowledge that we are not alone in the struggle. Where there are devils, there are also angels. And help is always available to those who aren't too proud to ask for it."

She put as much conviction as she could into this assertion, for she had an uneasy premonition that all of them were going to have to do their best to protect themselves and one another in the days to come.

Adam had already made good on his intentions to upgrade the estate's security system, installing new window locks and deadbolts at the gate lodge, lights activated by motion-sensors outside, and a secure telephone line that connected directly with the main house. The old cat-flap was replaced by a more sophisticated device requiring an electronic chip in the collar of the flap's one authorized user, and was temporarily closed off altogether.

As a further measure, until the present threat should be resolved, Adam had recruited the two stalwart sons of one of his tenant farmers to assist John, his trusty stableman, in patrolling the grounds at night, adding to the increased police drive-bys that now were making a point to watch for anything amiss at the somewhat isolated gate lodge. During the darkest hours of the night, when Peregrine and Julia were asleep, someone was always on duty downstairs in the Lovats' kitchen or sitting room, armed with a shotgun and mobile phone.

On less obvious levels, Adam and Philippa had spent an entire evening strengthening the esoteric defenses protecting the house and its immediate environs, doing their best to ensure that they and their associates could rely on finding a safe working haven within the confines of Strathmourne itself.

Once off the estate, however, security considerations became more problematical. No stranger to taking risks on his own account, Adam was more worried about Ximena's personal safety than he liked to admit, especially after the attack on the Lovats. Sometimes working double shifts, in the run-up to the wedding, and often obliged to return home late at night, Ximena presented all too tempting a target to the operatives who had tried and failed to snatch the Lovats - and those operatives undoubtedly answered to Francis Raeburn.

But Ximena's personal and professional commitments were every bit as weighty as Adam's own, making it impracticable for either of them to remain at home, even if Adam had been willing to let himself be intimidated by fear of what might happen. Not to venture forth in pursuit of the Hunt would render him just as impotent as if Raeburn had already won. Accordingly, Adam was obliged to search out a workable compromise that allowed Ximena's life, at least, to go on with some semblance of normalcy.

After some initial objections, Ximena agreed to let Humphrey act as her personal escort and chauffeur, whenever her schedule conflicted with Adam's own or required late-night travel. For backup, McLeod volunteered the services of his aide, Donald Cochrane, as a substitute driver. Those members of the Hunting Lodge who had dealt with Raeburn in the past could only hope that these measures would prove sufficient to offset whatever shadowy scheme their adversary might be formulating.

Some inkling of the scope of Raeburn's ambition began to take shape only a few days later. When Adam returned to his office after a particularly difficult session with a long-time patient, McLeod was pacing outside the door.

"I take it this is not a social call," Adam said, unlocking his office, when McLeod only growled a perfunctory greeting.

As the door closed behind them, the inspector handed Adam a newspaper cutting paper-clipped to a fax flimsy. The cutting was from the previous day's Glasgow Herald, and the headline read: murder inquiry after body found.

"We think it's Taliere," McLeod said, as Adam lifted the article to glance at the faxed photograph underneath, clearly that of a corpse. "Donald spotted the article this morning, and followed up with a couple of phone calls. Strathclyde Police are listing him as a John Doe, but I'd bet my pension that this is our man. Compare that photo with the mug shot Evans sent us from Wales, and Peregrine's sketch on the next page."

Adam did so, then flipped back to the news clipping, skimming down its contents as he walked around to sit behind his desk.

"Strathclyde Police are carrying out a murder investigation after the body of an elderly man was found in a wooded area of Strathclyde Park near Motherwell yesterday," he read aloud. "A police spokesman declined to give details, but confirmed that the so-far unidentified victim had suffered horrific injuries….

"What kind of horrific injuries?" Adam asked, glancing up at McLeod.

The inspector gave a grimace, sinking down in the chair opposite.

"His throat had been cut - and not where the body was dumped. No blood anywhere in the vicinity. You want to know what else?''

"Probably not - but go on."

"I don't want to even think this, but the case seems to bear some startling similarities to Randall Stewart's murder." "Tell me," Adam said evenly, laying the pages on his desk. Sighing, McLeod proceeded to outline what he knew so far. "A hill-walker and his dog stumbled on the body. Police surgeon estimates he could have been dead anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks. The body was half-covered with snow."

"But not," Adam said, "in any kind of ritual setting, or you would have said so. What makes you compare it to Randall's murder?''

"Because the left jugular and carotid artery had been slashed through," McLeod said, his blue gaze not shifting from Adam's. "Because he had also been garrotted first - and hit over the head."

Adam closed his eyes briefly, trying to keep at bay the memory of Randall Stewart lying in the snow in his own blood - victim of a ritual slaying involving the so-called "triple-death" favored by certain elder gods of the past. Francis Raeburn had been responsible for that atrocity and several other deaths of equal abhorrence - and had eluded apprehension the one time Adam actually had met him face to face.

"There's something else," McLeod said, cutting short the flashback. "Postmortem analysis of the victim's stomach contents revealed significant amounts of a substance derived from miscum album. That's mistletoe, in case you'd forgotten. When Harry and I checked out Taliere's cottage, I found a jar of mistletoe berries among the herbals in his larder. As you doubtless recall, a decoction of mistletoe was a favored elixir among the ancient Druids, thought to enhance psychic susceptibility." Adam sighed heavily, suddenly feeling years older than when he had walked into the room.

"I shouldn't think there's any doubt that we need to look at that body," he said, glancing up at McLeod. "How soon can you arrange it?"

"I've already rung Motherwell," McLeod replied. "The body's being held in Carluke. They're expecting us in a couple of hours, if you can get away. I've got Harry lined up as well. Since we haven't yet got a location to pin down the slaying, it seemed to me that Harry's talents might be more appropriate than Peregrine's."

"They may well be," Adam agreed, standing to shuck off his lab coat. "Besides that, Peregrine's heavily booked with live sittings for most of this week. It would be awkward for him to break away."

Two hours later, Adam and McLeod were following a Strathclyde Police sergeant along a back corridor of Law Hospital in Carluke, Harry Nimmo trailing in their wake. Though scheduled for court that afternoon, the redoubtable Q.C. had seconded one of his junior associates to appear in his place, so that he could come along. En route, the three men had reviewed the aspects of the present case as they might apply to Callanish, where Harry had been, but no mention had been made of a possible connection with Randall Stewart's murder.

"The police surgeon who did the postmortem wasn't available on such short notice," the sergeant told them, as he opened the door to the hospital morgue, "but I asked today's duty surgeon to go over the report, after you rang. Dr. Singh, here are your visitors from Edinburgh."

Dr. Robert Singh proved to be an amiable Pakistani, veteran of nearly thirty years' service as a consultant to the Strathclyde Police. When courtesies had been exchanged, he wasted no time in getting down to the business at hand.

"I tell you, Dr. Sinclair, this is a strange one," he said, as he rolled out the metal drawer housing the remains of the deceased. "Never have I seen such violence done to a frail old man. He looks like someone's grand-papa."

The face of the corpse on the stainless-steel table showed signs that death had not been easy or peaceful, with a deep gash in the left side of the scrawny neck. Across the broad chest, still surprisingly muscled for a man of this age, faded blue tattoos defined a series of ancient Pictish symbols, some familiar and some not, many of them of darkling import. Bending closer, Adam noted ligature marks across the throat and along the sides of the neck, confirming a ruthless throttling of the victim during the killing process.

Noting Harry's tight-jawed focus on the body, Adam shot a speaking glance at McLeod and drew the other physician aside to discuss details of the autopsy report, leaving the inspector and Harry to carry out less conventional inquiries.

"Come around here, so our backs are to them," McLeod murmured, drawing Harry around to his side of the metal table.

"Adam will get him out of here, if he can, but I think we can manage this without raising any alarm, if you take it slowly."

Harry nodded, swallowing visibly as he set his hands with care on the edge of the table.

"I hope I don't disappoint you, Noel," he whispered. "Now that I've worked with Adam, I know a bit more what to expect, but I'm not sure I'm up to this."

"You'll do fine," McLeod reassured him. "I'll talk you down. I believe Adam set you some posthypnotic triggers, to help you settle?"

"Aye."

"We'll assume they're the usual ones for our mob, then. Close your eyes and take a deep breath, Harry, and let it all the way out," he said, setting his hand on the counsellor's wrist as he complied. "That's it. Let go and relax, let yourself center and focus."

He paused as Harry took another deep breath and softly exhaled.

"How're you doing?" he asked.

"All right," Harry said with a faint nod.

"Good. Now reach out with your right hand and touch his shoulder."

Harry obeyed, his hand immediately recoiling as if stung, his eyes popping open.

"Jesus!" he whispered under his breath.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, but there's some nasty stuff here," came the whispered reply. "I don't know if I can do this, Noel - not and have to worry about our friend back there."

McLeod glanced over his shoulder, then back at Harry.

"All right. There's a way to do this that might offend your dignity, but it should get the job done. Do you trust me?''

"Aye, you know I do."

"All right, we're going to shift to advanced student mode," McLeod replied, reaching into his pocket for his Adept ring, which he slipped onto his finger with the stone turned inward. "I'll try to buffer some of this for you. I want you to close your eyes again and settle back deeper into trance. When this is over, you're not going to remember any of this until I tell you to," he added, as Harry's eyes closed obediently. "There's going to be some backlash, by taking the information this way, but it's going to look like you just got queasy from being so close to a dead body, and passed out. Don't back out on me now, Harry. Are you willing to do this?"

Harry's head dipped minutely in assent, clearly deep in trance.

"All right, when I take your wrist, you're going to go twice as deep as you are now; and when I lift your hand and touch it to the body, I want you to imagine a door opening - and it won't close until I lift your hand again. What comes into your mind while the door is open may be shocking, even horrifying, but it can't touch your essence. You're perfectly safe." He glanced again at Singh, who was bent over the autopsy report with Adam. "Nod when you're ready to do it."

Harry drew another deep breath and slowly let it out, then gave a faint nod. Without hesitation, McLeod seized his wrist, making certain his ring made contact with bare flesh, and lifted Harry's hand to touch the corpse's shoulder.

Harry stiffened, a faint gasp escaping his lips. McLeod let him tremble for a count of five, then lifted Harry's hand from the contact, shifting to catch him under the elbow as he reeled and buckled at the knees.

"Sleep now, Harry," McLeod whispered, "and lose this until I tell you otherwise." And then, in a louder voice, "Jesus, Harry, haven't you ever seen a dead body before?"

The inspector's cry, plus the flurry of motion as he caught Harry under the arms and began hustling him to a nearby chair, brought Adam and Singh at once.

"I expect it's the smells," Adam said to Singh, improvising as he came to bend over Harry with McLeod. "He said on the way here that he was feeling a little fragile today. Something about a friend's bachelor party last night, I believe." He patted his pockets, then turned to Singh in appeal. "I don't suppose you've got some smelling salts around here somewhere? I should imagine this happens all the time."

Singh snorted and went over to a desk to rummage in a drawer.

"Yes, but it's usually young police officers, fresh out of training."

He returned to bend beside Adam, snapping an ammonia capsule between thumb and forefinger and passing it under Harry's nose.

"Steady, Harry," Adam murmured, laying his hand across the counsellor's brow as the dark head jerked back in reflex from the pungent smell, eyelids flickering on the edge of consciousness. "This happens sometimes. Take a deep breath. You'll be fine."

Singh made another pass with his ammonia, and Harry came fully awake, though his eyes had a vague, unfocused quality about them.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Adam," he murmured. "I don't know what came over me. Noel and I were talking about the case, and suddenly everything began to spin."

"No matter," Adam said. "I think we're about finished here anyway, aren't we, Noel? Dr. Singh is letting me take away a copy of the forensic report."

"Aye, I'm done," McLeod replied. "And I don't think you'll get any argument from Mr. Nimmo."

Out in the car park, Harry collapsed into the back seat with a bewildered sigh, still rubbing at his temples from time to time, making room for Adam to sit beside him as McLeod turned to face them from the driver's seat. They were parked well over toward the side of the car park, and not apt to be disturbed.

"We might as well retrieve this now," McLeod said, with a speaking glance at Adam. "It's clear he got an almighty wallop in there. We did an open-door capture, Adam. You want to handle it, or shall I?"

Smiling faintly, Adam reached up to brush a hand downward over Harry's eyes, which closed as his head lolled forward.

"Go back to sleep, Harry," he murmured, though Harry had already done that. "Lay your head against the seat-back." His hand pressed Harry's head back to a reclining position. "In a moment, when I touch your wrist, you're going to remember what you saw and felt when you touched the body, but you'll find yourself able to keep a distance from it, no matter how intense the memory might get. These weren't your experiences; they belonged to someone else. I'll be your anchor; you've nothing to fear. Remember - now."

His hand clasped Harry's wrist on the final word, and the counsellor's eyes stirred beneath closed eyelids, lips parting slightly.

"What do you see, Harry?" came Adam's quiet prompt.

"Stone walls all around…"

"Go on."

"They - give me to drink from the divine elixir… the wine of vision and sacrifice. By - by water and earth, by fire and air, they summon one - best left sleeping… He comes… but the blood is required… And it is mine…."

Harry's breathing was coming faster now, his heart rate increasing, and Adam stroked his free hand across Harry's brow to deepen his trance.

"Step back and observe, Harry," he murmured. "Do not feel - only see."

"They - they force me to my knees. I know what is to come! The triple-death! A blow to my head, profaning my office - the cord drawn tight around my throat!"

As his mouth started to gape in obvious distress, his free hand lifting vaguely, Adam barred it with his own.

"Only see, Harry. Only see."

"Aye. Only… see… I see the blade above me in the torchlight… the flash of iron like lightning, just before the coup. The kiss of darkness as the blade strikes here!" Harry's hand lifted again toward the side of his throat, but he had now managed to distance himself from his reporting. "Blood - blood gushes into the cauldron… to feed him…."

"To feed who, Harry?" McLeod whispered.

"Dark presence… long discarnate…"

"His name, Harry…" Adam breathed.

Slowly the dark head shook. "I don't know. He has no name where he now dwells. His touch corrupts. Feeding, he besmirches souls… And he will walk again, if Francis be not stopped…."

Blanching, McLeod darted his gaze to Adam, mouthing the surname, Raebtirn!

"Francis who, Harry?" Adam whispered. "Francis Rae-burn?"

"Aye. The great Betrayer… He betrayed the Head-Master… and now he has betrayed me. Death - is welcome, to escape him…."

Harry shuddered then, anguish rippling across his face, and Adam pressed his wrist harder.

"Harry, withdraw from the memory now," he ordered.

"You've done very well. Go deep asleep now, and hear nothing until I touch you on the wrist again."

As he released Harry's wrist, he turned his gaze to McLeod in wordless invitation for comment.

"Bloody hell," McLeod murmured. "Raeburn sacrificed his own man. And what was this shit about a presence with 'no name where he now dwells,' who feeds on blood and besmirches souls and is about to walk again?"

"I really don't think I want to know," Adam replied, "though we're going to have to find out. Do you think it's time we levelled with Harry?"

"Aye," McLeod replied. "I think it is."

Before bringing the counsellor around, Adam gave him access to the memory of that night at Strathmourne when he had helped deal with the Hand of Glory - for that was information Harry needed, in order to make an informed decision regarding his future with the Hunting Lodge. Emerging from trance, Harry sat silently for several minutes, hardly looking up as McLeod started the engine and set them on the road back to Edinburgh. Adam remained in the back seat beside him, watching him closely, imagining he could almost hear the thought processes as Harry's nimble legal mind turned over all the permutations available from the information presented thus far.

"I think I need to know more about the Randall Stewart murder," Harry said at last, turning to look Adam fearlessly in the eyes. "The parts the papers didn't talk about at the time. And then I think I'd better hear about this Francis Raeburn."

They gave him a thorough briefing during the hour it took to drive back to Edinburgh. By the time they were approaching the Gogar interchange, Harry appeared anything but daunted. On the contrary, the gleam in his eye bespoke a keen commitment to the challenge offered.

"I appreciate your candor in trying to warn me off," he told his two listeners, "but now that I've heard you out, I don't really think I have the right not to take up this gauntlet, even if I may be stepping in over my depth - at least in the beginning. Somebody's got to stop this Raeburn and his ilk. If I have the wherewithal to help - and it appears I do have something to offer - not to lend a hand would be criminally irresponsible of me."

"Thank you, Harry," Adam said with real warmth. "We'll be speaking more about all of this, as you surely realize. Your help has already made a difference, and may well become critical before this is over. Just remember that the more often you use your talents, the more likely it is that you'll be noticed on the astral. So from here on out, be careful and watch your back. We already know that Raeburn has stepped up his efforts against us, and that he won't scruple to eliminate anyone who stands in his way."

The timeliness of that warning was brought home the very next day, though not against Harry himself. While driving home late from a synod meeting in Dunkeld, Christopher Houston was run off the road, saved from serious injury or death only by the heavy safety features of the family Volvo, which was totalled. Though the police attributed the accident to black ice, Christopher had seen the black van that came up fast from behind and forced him to choose between a ditch and a bridge abutment. The next day, on McLeod's recommendation, Christopher and Victoria took the precaution of sending their two daughters to stay with their grandmother, in Dundee. In the girls' absence, Victoria moved in with Lady Julian, for strength in numbers, and Christopher took up nighttime residence at Strathmourne.

"I think we've probably made the right decision, where the girls are concerned," Christopher told Adam, over brandy in the library with McLeod and Peregrine. "But I'm not entirely convinced that the accident connects to Raeburn. There are lots of crazy drivers in black vans. It could be just coincidence."

"It was no coincidence when he had Adam run off the road two years ago," Peregrine pointed out. "Why should we assume that Raeburn will only use occult methods to get at us? If we're standing in his way, what's to stop him from simply hiring a professional hit man? One shot from a high-powered rifle - or one well-placed car bomb - could save him a lot of time and trouble."

McLeod shook his head. "There's no glory or profit in that kind of crude execution. I doubt he'd delegate the job to a contract killer when the deed, done properly, could buy him a lot of credit among the Patrons of Shadow."

"I agree," Adam said. "We mustn't forget the mind of the man we're dealing with. Whatever else is going on, Raeburn is out for a measure of revenge. That undoubtedly was part of the motive in going after Peregrine and Julia. The fact that he tried to have them kidnapped rather than killed suggests that he had an even worse fate in mind than mere death. We have only to remember Randall's fate - and Taliere's - to imagine what he may be planning. When he strikes again, you may be certain it will be with the intention of making an occasion of it."

Christopher shuddered, his hand going to the cross around his neck.

"How do we stop him?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Adam replied. "First we have to find him."

"Or he finds us," Peregrine murmured.

"You can stop that kind of thinking right now!" McLeod retorted. "Whatever we do, we can't let ourselves be driven into inactivity for fear of what he might do."

"He didn't try to kidnap your wife, Noel," Peregrine said plaintively.

"No," Adam said, "but we aren't in this business to keep ourselves safe at the cost of abandoning our greater directive to uphold the Law. Sometimes there are casualties; we all know that. And we'll do the best we can to protect those we hold dear, while still doing our jobs. But if we hobble ourselves through too much caution, Raeburn has already won. Whatever the personal risks involved, we have to press on with the Hunt. I doubt we've ever had a more dangerous quarry."

Having Christopher Houston take up residence at Strathmourne only underlined the tension that had been building over the previous week and more. Sandwiched in with her heavy work schedule, Ximena had continued trying to carry on with wedding preparations as if nothing were amiss, but she could sense that there were things Adam either would not or could not tell her. Remembering the promise she had given him shortly after their arrival, she kept a tight rein on her curiosity and refrained from questioning him. But by Monday afternoon, arriving home before Adam, she went in search of Philippa.

Adam's mother was ensconced in the library with a book and a cup of tea, and laid her book aside as Ximena entered. The younger woman lost no time in getting to the point.

"Philippa," she announced grimly, "there's something I have to ask you. It's bad enough to have everyone around me walking about under a cloud, without knowing what there is to be afraid of. I know I promised not to pry, but if I have to put up with being guarded day and night, surely that entitles me to a few explanations. How dark is this whole thing likely to get? How much danger is Adam in?"

"Enough," Philippa said.

"Enough to cost him his life?"

"I hope not," Philippa said. "But there may not be much room for error."

Ximena sank down in the nearest chair and gnawed moodily at her lower lip. "Why does it have to be Adam?" she wondered aloud bitterly. "Why can't somebody else see about bringing this malefactor to justice?"

"Because Adam is the one appointed for the task," Philippa said. "These things don't happen by chance. On the contrary, Adam's responsibilities, like his talents, are his by birthright. He was born to them, and he couldn't turn his back on them without betraying his own nature.

"Ximena," she went on, at the younger woman's crestfallen expression, "believe me when I tell you that your husband is no novice when it comes to dealing with the servants of Darkness. This isn't the first time he's crossed paths with this particular adversary. He knows what he's up against. If he goes into danger, it will be with his eyes wide open."

"I'd feel better if there was something constructive I could do," Ximena said. "I've never been a pacifist. I'm not used to sitting on the sidelines. I wish I had some psychic talent of my own - something that would be of some use!"

"Count yourself lucky to be what you are," Philippa retorted, smiling. "Being psychically gifted is a mixed blessing. You can't just turn your perceptions on and off, like a tap. On the contrary, the psychic must teach himself to handle the pain that comes with unwelcome knowledge. If he doesn't, his mind can crack under the strain."

"That's all hypothetical," Ximena insisted, spreading her hands before her in frustrated appeal. "What good am I to Adam if I can't see what he sees?"

Philippa found herself thinking back to her own long and happy marriage with Adam's father. "You are an island of quiet in his life," she told the younger woman. "You are a place of refuge from the tumult of the outside world. Without you, he would have nowhere to go to escape, even for a little while, from the constant noise that surrounds him every waking minute of the day. You are the rock of his repose."

"I'm also something else for him to worry about," Ximena said, shaking her head. "Especially in a situation like this, where I don't have the means to defend myself."

"Your defenses are different from Adam's. In one sense, they're stronger," Philippa told her. "If psychics are more open to the subtler impressions from the world around them, they're also more susceptible to forms of attack that would have little or no effect on an ordinary person. It's no accident that Julia proved more resistant than Peregrine to the effects of the Hand of Glory.

"Let me put it this way," she went on, constructing a medical analogy as she saw that Ximena still looked uncertain. "Individuals who are psychically impressionable are like people whose immune system has broken down. Lacking the usual natural defenses, they have to create defense systems of their own, building them up from scratch. And that, I can assure you, is bloody hard work. Be glad you've been spared the effort."

"All the same," Ximena said, "I feel as if I've blundered unwittingly into a war zone. How do you live with the possibility that your life could be blown apart in an instant by some danger lurking unseen just around a corner?"

"How do you live with it?" Philippa asked. "The same way policemen's wives and soldiers' wives live with it: by taking each day as it comes.

"No, listen to what I'm saying," she went on, as Ximena started to shake her head. "Adam's father was a serving officer during the Second World War. There were three things I learned during the hours I sat up waiting to find out if he was going to come back to me. The first rule is, Don't poison your life by speculating vainly about what might happen. The second rule is, Make each day together count as a celebration. And the third rule is, Never forget that whatever befalls the body, the spirit itself is imperishable."

"You're talking about faith," Ximena declared.

"Yes, I am," Philippa agreed. "And hope. And love. 'Now abideth these three - faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.' Just love him, Ximena. That's the greatest gift you can give him, and one of the most powerful weapons he will ever have at his command."