![]() Chilled drops of rain were blown through gaps between arched lead and glass but he did not appear concerned that the stark walls of the kirk failed to keep out all of the blasting shore wind. ![]() Reverend Finlay Macrae drew himself up on the pulpit above the congregation of more than two hundred souls. Cousin Fiona sat demurely, exchanging glances with her when the reverend paused. Like her father, Uncle John was a factor and managed tenantry for a laird. A stringy flock seated in rows, surely wondering why the minister could accuse any of them of either insufficient vigilance or excessive greed.Īcross the aisle were her uncle, aunt and cousin visiting from Harris. She was in the front pew with her family, where a smell of wet wool drifted from the congregation of Sunday tweeds and shawls. Jess Mackay had never encountered a roaring lion – and she doubted one would survive her wintry coast. ![]() ‘Be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom he may devour!’ ![]() *** Chapter 1 Winter 1848, Kilmuir Kirk, Island of North Uist, Outer Hebrides, Scotland ![]()
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