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last long in here. I’m surprised ye’ve lasted this long, but then, being put in the cell fer two days out of every three for fighting don’t leave much opportunity for the other lads to do mischief on ye, do it?”
    Ramsey didn’t bother answering. His mouth, both lips split from his latest battle, still hurt, and he felt weak and light-headed. The worst part of being put in the cell wasn’t the total isolation but being forced to subsist on the mealworm-riddled bread and water that provided the only nourishment during his incarceration. Still, the custodian’s advice was good. It would only be a matter of time before a few of the larger boys joined forces to overtake him.
    The custodian eyed him once again and shrugged, pulling open the door and pushing him through. He blinked in the sudden light. He’d been in the isolation cell for two days this time, and it was kept purposefully dark.
    “My heavens, child, what have they done to you?” The voice was Scottish, thick with a Highland burr. The unexpected accent nearly brought tears to Ramsey’s eyes. But he was nine years old, not a child, and the last time he had cried had been at his mother’s side, and he could think of no reason that he would be brought to tears again. He was done, he thought fiercely, with tears.
    “Nothing, sir,” he managed to mumble through his swollen lips, squinting up at the tall figure dressed in a monk’s robes. The man stood a little above medium height but was so thin he appeared taller. His thick hair had the sheen of pewter, and time had carved lines on either side of a wide mouth and hawk-like nose. But his eyes were gentle and clear, and Ramsey had the distinct impression that those eyes missed little of what was worth seeing.
    “I am Father Tarkin, the abbot of St. Bride’s, and I have come to take you there. To take you home.”
    The word brought a sudden rush of longing, but Ram quelled it. “I have no home, sir. Certainly I have never been to a place called St. Bride’s. You mistake me for another.”
    “I do not mistake you. You are Cora Munro’s son.”
    At the sound of his mother’s name, Ramsey’s interest sharpened. “How do you know my mother?”
    “Her family was once one of the greatest of the highland clans, and she a chieftain’s great-granddaughter. And I am a Highlander second only to being a priest. Of course I knew her. Eyes like mountain lakes and pride that only a warrior’s seed could produce. I came here, to England, as soon as I received her letter. I am only sorry I came too late to take you both out of here, and sorry too that once I learned of her death it took me this long to find you.”
    Ramsey stared at him, amazed at what he was hearing. Uncertainly he raked his hand over his scalp and was reminded again of his present straits by the short nap of hair left after the poorhouse barber had finished shaving his head.
    “My mother sent for you to come for us?” he asked incredulously. He had known she was growing daily more desperate, but…
    “She sent word that she was in difficulty and asked whether I knew of someone in this city that could give her aid. I came of my own volition. And now I would like to take you back to St. Bride’s.”
    “Why?”
    The abbot smiled for the first time, and his eyes lit. “How like a Munro to ask what is on the menu despite the fact that he is starving. Suffice to say that there is an old Jesuit dictum that says, ‘Give Me the Child Until He Is Seven and I Will Show You the Man.’ I know you are older than that, but I still hold out great hopes for your future. Now, will you come with me?”
    “What will I do at your abbey?” Ram asked, knowing he appeared churlish but unable to bend the spine he knew he’d inherited from his father.
    “Work at acquiring the knowledge and skills we will teach you. There are other boys at St. Bride’s. Anywhere from a dozen to twenty at a given time, and they all work very hard. I don’t suppose that has