“Aye, I know.” He moved beside me and put an arm round my shoulders, pulling my head to his chest, while he gently wiped my face. “But ye couldna weep for the bairns. Or the house. Or your wee garden. Or the poor dead lass and her bairn. But if ye weep for your cheetie, ye know ye can stop.” “How do you know that?” My voice was thick, but the band round my chest was not quite so tight. He made a small, rueful sound. “Because I canna weep for those things, either, Sassenach. And I havena got a cat.” I sniffled, wiped my face one last time, and blew my
