“You’ll do that,” he said. “And now” — he was conscious of a tightness in his chest — “we’ll clear stage and get down to business. Oh! There’s one point I’ve missed. You will see that for our first week some of the rehearsals are at night. This is to accommodate Sir Dougal, who is shooting the finals of his new film. The theatre is dark, the current production being on tour. It’s a bit out of the ordinary, I know, and I hope nobody finds it too awkward?”

There was a silence during which Sir Dougal with spread arms mimed a helpless apology.

“I can’t forbear saying it’s very inconvenient,” said Banquo.

“Are you filming?”

“Not precisely. But it might arise.”

“We’ll hope it doesn’t,” Peregrine said. “Right? Good. Clear stage, please, everyone. Scene One. The Witches.”

It’s going very smoothly,” said Peregrine, three days later. “Almost too smoothly.”

“Keep your fingers crossed,” said his wife, Emily. “It’s early days yet.”

“True.” He looked curiously at her. “I’ve never asked you,” he said. “Do you believe in it? The superstitious legend?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Not the least tiny bit? Really?”

Emily looked steadily at him. “Truly?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“My mother was a one-hundred-percent Highlander.”

“So?”

“So it’s not easy to give you a direct answer. Some superstitions — most, I think — are silly little matters of habit. A pinch of spilt salt over the left shoulder. One may do it without thinking but if one doesn’t it’s no great matter. That sort of thing. But… there are other ones. Not silly. I don’t believe in them. No. But I think I avoid them.”

“Like the Macbeth ones?”

“Like them. Yes. But I didn’t mind you doing it. Or not enough to try to stop you. Because I don’t really believe,” said Emily very firmly.

“I don’t believe at all.