When I had finished, Zhobelia just sat there, hands clasped, looking unsurprised. 'Well,' she said. 'That's him.  He was always like that.  You're an attractive girl.  He was always a one for the ladies.  We knew that.  Didn't begrudge him it; it was just his nature.  As well have complained that he snored; he couldn't help it.  Couldn't help himself.' She nodded. 'Helped himself.  Yes; helped himself.  Wouldn't want me now.  I'm old and dried up.  Prunes they give us for breakfast sometimes, yes.  No, good for you, little Isis.' She looked up at the ceiling, frowning and seemingly trying to remember something. 'That Mohammed.  You know what I call him?' she asked, sitting forward and fixing me with a stern look and tapped me on the knee. 'Do you?  Do you know what I call him?'

'A liqueur Moslem?' I ventured.

'No!' she barked, so that I put my finger to my lips again. 'I call him a very silly boy!' she said in a hoarse whisper. 'That's what I call him.'

'I think he's sorry,' I told her. 'Mohammed doesn't want to upset you.  He wants to give up drinking, but he can't.  Not yet, anyway.  Perhaps he will, one day.'

'Huh.  When I see it I will believe,' she said, dismissively.  She looked away, shaking her head. 'This Allan, though.' She looked at me, squinting. 'Such a quiet child.  Colic as a baby, you know.  Yes.  But after that, very quiet.  Always watching.  Always thought he was listening, knew more than he let on.  Had a funny look sometimes.  Sly.' She nodded. 'Sly.  That's it.  Sly.' She seemed very happy with this word, and looked at me with an I-told-you-so sort of look.

I despaired of ever getting my great-aunt to appreciate the seriousness of the situation.  Well, my situation, anyway.  I felt exhausted.  It must have taken a good hour to tell the recent history of the Order and Community and the full tale of my adventures over the last fortnight.  I had to stifle my yawns, clenching my jaw and pretending I was just stretching.  Zhobelia gave no sign of noticing.

'The thing is, Great-aunt,' I said, 'he's lying about me.  Allan; he's telling lies about me and I think he wants to take over the Order; I'm not just worried for myself, I'm concerned for everybody at the Community; for the whole Order.  I think Allan wants to change it, make it… less than what it has been.  More… commercial, perhaps.  They have started to send out letters begging for money,' I said, trying to bring us back to that subject. 'We have never done that!  Can you imagine, Great-aunt?  Us; asking for money.  Isn't that disgraceful?'

'Tsk,' she said, nodding in agreement. 'Root of everything, and such.  Tut.  Hmm.  Yes.'

'We have always managed to do without money from others, that is what is so terrible.'

'Terrible.  Yes.  Hmm.  Terrible,' she said, nodding.

'Money has played almost no part in our Faith's history,' I persisted, feeling desperate and slightly underhand.

Great-aunt Zhobelia sat there, gathered her cardigan around her and leaned forward, tapping my knee again. 'Do you want me to tell you about the money?'

'Yes, please.  Do tell me.'

'You won't tell anybody else?' she whispered, glancing to either side.

What to say?  She might not tell me if I refused to give such an assurance, yet - if this somehow affected my situation - I might need what she could tell me as ammunition.  I wondered what the chances were of her finding out if I promised and then broke my promise, and started calculating the odds.  Then some part of my brain further up the chain of command put a stop to such faithlessness.

'I'm sorry, I can't make that promise, Great-aunt,' I told her. 'I might need to tell somebody else.'

'Oh.' She looked surprised. 'Oh.  Well, I shouldn't tell you then, should I?'

'Great-aunt,' I said, taking her hand. 'I will promise not to tell anybody else unless to tell them is make things better for all of us.' I didn't feel that really said what I meant, and Zhobelia looked confused, so I fell back and regrouped for another try at it. 'I will promise not to tell anybody else unless telling them is to do good.  You have my word on that.  I swear.'

'Hmm.  Well.  I see.' She looked up at the ceiling, brows gathered.  She looked at me again, still puzzled. 'What was I talking about?'

'The money, Great-aunt,' I said, wringing my poor tired brain of its last drops of patience.

'Yes,' she said, waggling my hand holding hers up and down urgently.  The money.' She looked blank. 'What about it?' she asked, her face like a little girl's.

I felt tears prick behind my eyes.  I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.  I closed my eyes briefly, which was a mistake, because it seemed to encourage my tears, leaving me with blurred vision. 'Where did this money come from, Great-aunt?' I asked wearily, in a kind of befogged daze. 'The money you were talking about, from the time of the fire; where did it come from?'

'Royal Scotland.' She nodded.

'Royal Scotland?' I said, baffled.

'The Royal Scottish Linen Bank.'

I stared at her, trying to work out what on earth she was talking about.

'That's what it said on the bag,' she said, back in her isn't-it-obvious attitude.

'What bag, Great-aunt?' I said, sighing.  I had the impression 1 actually was already asleep and this was just me sleep-talking or something.

'The bag.'

'The bag?' I asked.

'Yes; the bag.'

A feeling of déjà vu, intensified by tiredness, swept over me. 'Where did the bag come from?'

'Royal Scotland, I suppose.'

I felt like one of two people rowing a boat, only my partner wasn't actually rowing, just stirring their oar in the water, so that we kept going round and round in circles.

'Where did you find the bag, Great-aunt?' I asked, flatly.

'On the-' she began, then sat forward and beckoned to me.  I leaned towards her so that her mouth was at my ear. 'I forgot,' she whispered.

'Forgot what, Great-aunt?'

'We don't have it any more.  We burned it.  Saw what would happen and thought we'd get rid of it.  I'm sorry.'

'But where did you get the bag, Great-aunt?  You said-'

'From the chest.'

'The chest?'

'Our special chest.  The one he didn't have a key to.  That's where we kept it.  And the book.'

'The book?' Here, I thought, we go again.  But no:

'I'll show you.  I still have a box, you know.  The chest we lost in the fire, but I saved the book and the other things!' She clutched excitedly at my shoulder.

'Well done!' I whispered.

'Thank you!  Would you like to see it?'

'Yes, please.'

'It's in the wardrobe.  You get it for me, there's a good girl.'

I was directed to the full wardrobe, which was stuffed with colourful saris and other, plainer clothes.  At its foot, amongst a litter of old shoes and fragrant white mothballs, there was a battered shoe-box secured with a couple of dark brown elastic bands.  The box felt quite light when I lifted it and brought it over to Zhobelia, who seemed quite animated at the thought of what was inside.  She bounced up and down on the bed and motioned me to bring her the box, for all the world like a child waiting on a present.

She pulled the elastic bands off the old shoe-box; one band snapped, seemingly just of old age.  She put the lid of the box down on the bed beside her and started sorting through the documents, newspaper cuttings, old photographs, notebooks and other papers inside.

She handed me the old photographs. 'Here,' she said. 'The names are on the back.'

She shuffled through the other stuff in the box, stopping to read occasionally while I looked at the old snaps.  Here were the two sisters, looking young, wary and uncertain in front of their old ex-library van.  Here they were with Mr McIlone, whom I recognised from the few other photographs that we had at High Easter Offerance.  Here was the farm at Luskentyre, here the old seaweed factory, before and after renovation, and before and after the fire.