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St Anne's Reel

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“No Harry, we don’t wear bow ties with that collar. Come here.” Still taming his har, Harry submitted sulkily. “Gerald doesn’t have to do this.”
“Gerald is five years older and can dress himself. You will too when you’re 17.” Hair and tie sorted, Mrs Hart kissed his forehead, then grinned cheekily. “Let’s go have some fun!”



As soon as Hamish got to his new-first-school his belly relaxed. Everyone looked bemused, emptiness stretched all around, and the crisp Scots breeze awakened a part of him that had slept sulkily since England. “Lad.”
“Sir.” His grin was unusually broad, matching his accent. “Hamish Nicholson, Sir.”
“Ah yes. From Lewis via London. This way.” Hamish followed eagerly.



Hamish cuddled under the blanket, watching the lines of code flicker past. They looked like fish stuck in behind glass. He blinked as ‘Uncle’ entered and sat. Warm technician-calloused hands caught on the bedspread, “I’ll miss you next week. Reckon next hols you can finish that computer.”
“Mhm” sleepy acquiescence.
“Night lad.” Uncle stumped off, false leg ringing hollowly.



“Run Galahad!”
“I see why they made you a handler” but he was moving rapidly away from the claymore-wielding maniac. “Dunno why he’s so pissy.”
“Your people subjugated his in an offensive from Berwick to Walter Scott.”
“I love your accent when you’re angry.”
“I’m angry because you’re wasting breath flirting.”
“Yes but is it working?”



Hamish finished rolling his hose up the prosthetics, pushing on his black dress shoes and adjusting the garter flash and sgian-dubh. Harry had always loved ‘raw Scots’ and the reward would more than pay off any difficulty of Highland dress with prosthetics. Besides, Harry looked bonny in a tux. Some effort by Hamish seemed only fair.