Stormy Petrel by Mary Stewart

and I had invited Neil to join us.
    When I drew near the village I could see two girls sitting on the parapet of the little bridge. They seemed to be watching me, and then one of them waved, and I saw that they were Megan Lloyd and Ann Tracy, from Cambridge.
    Ann, Megan’s constant companion, was a complete contrast to the dark, rather intense Welsh girl. She was a land agent’s daughter from somewhere in Norfolk, tall and fair, with heavy gilt hair curling down over her shoulders, and a long, slim, slightly drooping body that had a certain elegance. Her oval face, with its thick fair eyebrows, blue eyes, and high colour, and the small mouth with the slight droop there, too, looked deceptively gentle. In fact I knew her for a tough-minded young woman with feminist leanings and rather more interest in student politics than would be helpful in her academic work. At present, Ann led and Megan followed, but that would sort itself out in the long run. Ann had a good brain, but Megan had it in her to be brilliant.
    When the greetings and exclamations were over, they told me that they had been staying on Mull for a few days, and had just arrived on Moila, and were putting up at the post office with Mrs McDougall.
    â€˜She told us where your cottage was, and we’ve got a map. Not that you really need one on Moila. We were planning to come down today and see you.’ That was Ann. Megan put in quickly: ‘We knew you were on your own. Mrs McDougall told us about your brother. We’re terribly sorry. Is he badly hurt?’
    â€˜No, no. He says it’s nothing, and he should know. He’s a doctor. I’ve talked with him on the telephone and with any luck he should be over here on Monday. I don’t know how well he’ll be able to get about, but we’ll manage somehow. I’d love you to see the cottage. Were you thinking of visiting me this morning?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Ann, ‘and then Mrs McDougall said you’d be coming up here for your shopping, so we waited.’
    â€˜And don’t worry,’ said Megan, patting a haversack that lay beside her on the parapet. ‘We’ve got masses of food for a picnic, so you don’t have to feed us. We were going to say hullo to you, and then walk round to that little island – it’s called Seal Island – I can’t say the Gaelic name but Mrs McDougall told me that’s what it means. It’s the one with the broch on it. It looks as if there’s a path over from your cottage, so perhaps we could walk round there and then come back to you for tea?’
    â€˜Well, of course you may, but did you ask about the tides? That’s not a bridge that’s marked on the map, it’s a causeway that’s covered most of the time. I was down there yesterday, and I doubt if you’ll be able to cross much before two o’clock. Why not make sure? I think I saw tide tables in the post office.’
    While the girls studied the tide tables I bought my groceries. There were no letters, and to my relief no messages either. No news being good news, that meant Crispin on Monday. I told Morag (Mrs McDougall was busy over the tide tables with Ann and Megan) then went out to wait for them.
    It appeared that my guess about the tide had been near enough.
    â€˜Low tide at 4.04,’ said Ann, ‘and we’ve been warned to leave not one second later than six, or be marooned all night. Oh well, we’ll just have to have our picnic on the mainland. Did you say you were down there yesterday, Dr Fenemore? What’s it like? There’s a house marked, right beside the bridge – the causeway, I mean – so will there be people about?’
    â€˜The house is empty, and the place is quite lovely. I was just too late yesterday to go across, but the islet looked marvellous. There’s quite a lot of the broch showing, too, almost the complete circle, with one very high bit where I’m told there