There were various signs on the shoulder-high white wooden gate; one said, 'La Mancha', another said, 'Private Property -Keep Out', and another said, 'Beware Of The Dog', and had a colour picture of the head of a very large dog on it, just in case the reader was under any illusion concerning what dogs looked like.

'This is it,' I said, looking through the bars of the gate for a slide or staple that would allow us to open it.

'Whoa,' Zeb said, tapping the 'Beware Of The Dog' sign.

I slid the gate's bolt and started to push it open. 'What?' I said. 'Oh, don't worry about that; they probably don't have any dogs.  Besides,' I told my two uncertain-looking companions as I held the gate open for them, 'I have a way with animals, especially dogs.' I closed the gate after us, then took the lead and headed for the house.

We were halfway down the drive when we heard the deep-throated barking.  We all stopped.  A huge hound came running round the side of the building, looking very much like the one on the sign at the gate; it was brown-black, its head was huge and there was spittle already flying from its jowls as it came powering towards us.  It looked about the size of a foal.

'Jeez!'

'Run!  I-sis; run!'

I glanced back to see Zeb and Boz - who was still looking back at me - heading smartly for the gate.

I felt calm.  I had faith.  And I really did have a way with animals.  I thought for a moment, weighing up the situation.  Behind me, the dog barked again; it sounded like a dinosaur with a bad cough.  I started to run.

A way with animals does run in our family; when my Grandfather persuaded Mr McIlone to become his first apostle and moved in to the farm of Luskentyre, he discovered a gift for working with cattle and horses; he was always able to calm them when they were distressed and often able to tell what was wrong with them even before the vet arrived.

My father inherited the same talent, and was largely in charge of the sheep and cows at High Easter Offerance even before he left school, though our Founder thought that animal husbandry was beneath an Elect.  Still, Salvador could refuse his son nothing, a trait that seems to have been made transferable to other Elects and become an article of faith, I'm glad to say (certainly I have benefited from it), and so my father was allowed to indulge his vocation for farming to his soul's content.

I do not share my father's love of animals, though I like them well enough and have inherited both a modicum of the facility for empathising and working with them to which he fell heir from my Grandfather, plus an ability to Heal them.

When I was happy that Zeb and especially Boz were convinced I was following them as they sprinted for the gate, I stopped, spun round onto the grass and went down on all fours with my forearms extended in front of me.  I crouched there on the grass, looking up at the giant dog as it bore down on me; I sort of flopped forward a little, bouncing up and then down, arms still extended, backside up in the air.  The dog looked confused, and slowed as it approached; I repeated the movement and to my enormous relief the beast dropped back to a walk and made snuffing, huffing noises.  I repeated the gesture once more.  The dog hesitated, looked around and then padded forward.  I made the same movement - it's dog for Let's Play - and lowered my eyes when it growled at me.  When I looked up again its tail was wagging.  It came up to sniff me.

I have, as I have said, a gift.  If a large dog comes running at most people, running smartly away is probably by far the best idea.

Whatever; a minute later I was squatting on the grass, patting my new slobbering, panting friend and looking at Zeb and Boz, who were on the far side of the gate, staring at me.

'Y'all right there with that thing, I-sis?'

'So far,' I called. 'I wouldn't come in just now though; I'll see if it's happy with me standing up, then I'll head for the front door.'

The beast growled when I made to rise; I could have sworn the ground shook.  I decided that dignity must bow to expediency, and so crossed to the front door on all fours, with the huge dog padding contentedly at my side.  I reached up and rang the doorbell.  The hound barked loudly, its voice echoing in the open porch, and then it ran away back the way it had come, disappearing round the side of the house.  I stood up.

It was some time before the door was half opened, by a tall young man with streaked blond hair whom I immediately guessed was not Mr Leopold; somehow the way Cimmeria: had talked about him, and even the place where he had his office, did not tally with the bronzed, fit-looking fellow standing in front of me; from the vertical half of him I could see he was wearing a peaked cap (like Boz's, worn the wrong way round), a T-shirt and jeans.

'Yeah?  What you want?'

'Ah; good afternoon.  My name is Isis Whit.' I put out my hand.  The young man looked me in the eyes, his brows furrowed. 'Pleased to meet you,' I said, taking off my hat with my other hand and smiling.  I used my eyes to indicate my hand, and cleared my throat delicately.  The young man went on scowling at me; my hand went unclasped. 'Excuse me, sir; I am offering to shake hands.  I had been given to understand that good manners extended to this part of the country.'

He frowned even more deeply. 'Wot?'

'Sir,' I said sharply, presenting my hand almost in front of his face.

Perhaps it is simply that persistence pays with such people; he looked at my proffered hand as though seeing one for the first time and finally, tentatively, put out his own hand and shook it.

'There, that wasn't so difficult now, was it?' I said, setting my hat back on my head at a jaunty angle.  The young man's frown had lifted a little. 'I'm very sorry to disturb you and your fine dog, but I'm looking for a young-'

'Where's Tyson?' he demanded, his frown deepening again.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Tyson,' he said.  He looked over my head to the lawn, eyes swivelling.  I hazarded a guess at who Tyson was.

'The dog?  He's fine, and in good voice.'

'Where is he, then?'

'He escorted me here to the door and then ran back round the side there when the bell went.'

'Wot you want?' he asked suspiciously, letting the door swing further open to reveal that he was holding a long, polished wooden stick.

'Gosh,' I said. 'What's that?'

He gave me a look not dissimilar to the one I'd received from Zeb on the train when I inquired about the directional orientation of Boz's cap. 'It's a baseball bat, innit?' he told me.

It crossed my mind to ask whether he was holding it the right way round, but I just nodded appreciatively. 'Is it really?' I said. 'Well, as I was saying, my name is Isis Whit; I'm really looking for my cousin, Morag Whit.  I was told that Mr Francis Leopold is her manager and that he lives here, so I'm sort of looking for him.  It's just that my family is rather worried about Morag and I'd really like to-'

'Spain,' the young man said suddenly.

'Spine?' I asked, mishearing.

'Spain,' he repeated. 'You know; the country.'

'Mr Leopold is in Spain?'

The fellow looked troubled. 'Well, no.'

'He's not in Spain.'

'No; we was supposed to go, like, but…' His voice trailed away and his gaze wandered over my head somewhere.

'Customs and Excise?' I ventured chirpily.

'How you know about that?' he asked, scowling as he focused on me again.

'Ah, bad news travels fast, doesn't it?'

He was looking over my head again.  He nodded. 'Who's that, then?' He hefted the baseball bat.

I looked round to see Boz and Zeb in the driveway, advancing tentatively.  Zeb waved. 'The skinny white one is my cousin, Zebediah,' I told the young man. 'The big black one is our friend Boz.'