The rough music had died down now, possibly because there was nothing for it to do, or perhaps because – and this was quite likely – if the rough musicians got back to the pub soon, there might be time for another drink before it closed.

Mr Aching stood up. ‘I think we should take this girl home, don’t you?’

‘Young woman,’ corrected Tiffany, leaning over her.

‘What?’

‘Young woman,’ said Tiffany. ‘She deserves that, at least. And I think I should take her somewhere else first. She needs more help than I can give her. Can you please go and scrounge some rope? I’ve got a leather strap on the broomstick, of course, but I don’t think it will be enough.’ She heard a rustling from the hayloft above, and smiled. Some friends could be so reliable.

But Mr Aching looked shocked. ‘You are taking her away?’

‘Not far. I have to. But look, don’t worry. If Mum makes up an extra bed I’ll soon have her back.’

Her father lowered his voice. ‘It’s them, isn’t it? Do they still follow you?’

‘Well,’ Tiffany said, ‘they say they don’t, but you know what little liars the Nac Mac Feegle are!’

It had been a long day, and not a good one, otherwise she would not have been so unfair, but – strangely – there was no giveaway reply from above. To her surprise, a lack of Feegle was suddenly almost as distressing as an overdose.

And then, to her delight, a small voice said, ‘Ha ha ha, she didnae catch us oot that time, aye, lads? We kept as quiet as little mices! The big wee hag didnae suspect a thing! Lads? Lads?’

‘Daft Wullie, I swear ye dinnae have enough brains to blow your nose,’ said a similar but angry voice. ‘What part o’ “nae one is tae say one wee word” did ye nae understand? Och, crivens!’