Whit

I hung my jacket on the back of a chair.  Salvador was pacing up and down in front of the office's two tall windows; Sister Erin stood by the door near the small desk which supported the Remington typewriter, Allan - arms folded, head slightly bowed, face pale - stood by his desk, which took up a fair proportion of the other end of the room, in front of the fireplace.

'Beloved Grandfather, if I may… ?' Allan said.  Salvador waved him on.  'Isis,' Allan said, spreading his hands, 'the point is, we've made quite a thing of Morag attending the Festival as Guest of Honour; we've been writing to the faithful all over the world encouraging them to come to this Festival, citing Morag's fame and her continuing faith-'

I was shocked. 'But I didn't know anything of this!' We usually shu

'Well,' Allan said, looking pained as well as pale. 'It was just an idea we had.' He glanced at Grandfather, who looked away, shaking his head.

'There was no particular need for you to know at this stage, Beloved Isis,' Erin said, though I wasn't sure she sounded convinced herself.

'The point is Morag's not coming to the damn Festival,' Salvador said before I could reply.  He turned and paced past me.  He wore a fresh set of the long creamy woollen robes - from our own flock, naturally - which he wore every day, but on this occasion he looked different somehow; agitated in a way I could not remember him being before.

Morag - beautiful, graceful, talented Morag - had always been a special favourite of my Grandfather's; I suspected that in a clean fight, as it were, without the special status as the Elect of God conferred upon me by the exact date of my birth, Morag, not I, would be the apple of our Founder's eye.  I felt no bitterness or jealousy regarding this; she had been my best friend and she was still, even after all this time, probably now my second-best friend after Sophi Woodbean, and anyway I was as taken with my cousin as my Grandfather was; Morag is a hard woman not to like (we have a few like that in our extended family).

'When did we find all this out?' I asked.

'The letter arrived this morning,' Allan said.  He nodded at a sheet of paper lying on the age-scuffed green leather surface of his desk.

I picked up the letter; Morag had been writing home for the last six years, ever since she had moved to London.  Until now her letters had been the source of nothing but pride as she became more and more successful, and on the two occasions she had come back to see us since she had seemed like some fabulously exotic, almost alien creature; svelte and groomed and sleek and brimming with an effortless self-confidence.

I read the letter; it was typed, without corrections, as usual (Allan had told me he half suspected Morag used something called a word processor, which for a long and rather confused time I imagined must do to words what a food processor - a device whose activities I had once witnessed - does to food).  Morag's signature was as big and bold as ever.  The text itself was terse but then her communications had never been particularly wordy.  I noticed she still used 'do'nt' instead of 'don't'.  The letterhead address, of her flat in Finchley, had been scored out.

I mentioned this. 'Has she moved?' I asked.

'It looks like it,' Allan said. 'The last letter Sister Erin sent to Morag came back marked "Moved Away".  Sister Morag's last letter before this one was on notepaper from the Royal Opera House, in London.  We should perhaps have guessed that something was wrong then, but assumed that her busy schedule had led her to forget to keep us informed of what was happening.'

'Well, what are we to do?' I asked.

'I have called an extraordinary Service for this tea-time,' Salvador said, stopping pacing to look out of a window. 'We shall discuss the issue then.' He was silent a moment, then he turned to look levelly at me. 'But I'd be grateful if…' He broke off, then strode over, took me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes.  His are deep brown, the colour of horse chestnuts.  He is an inch shorter than I, but his presence is such he made me feel he towered over me.  His grip was firm and his bushy beard and curled white hair shone in the sunlight like a halo around his head. 'Isis, girl,' he said quietly. 'We may have to ask you to go out amongst the Benighted.'

'Oh,' I said.

'You were Morag's friend,' he continued. 'You understand her.  And you are the Elect; if anyone can persuade her to change her mind, it must be you.' He continued to look into my eyes.

'What of the alterations to the Orthography, Grandfather?' I asked.

'They can wait, if need be,' he said, frowning.

'Isis,' Allan said, walking closer to us. 'You're under no obligation to do this, and,' - he glanced uncertainly at Grandfather - 'there are good reasons why you should not go, too.  If you have any doubts about such a mission, you must stay here, with us.'

Sister Erin cleared her throat.  She looked regretful. 'It might be best,' she said, 'to assume that Morag won't be coming back, in which case perhaps the Beloved Isis could take her place in the Festival.'

Salvador frowned.  Allan looked thoughtful.  Astar just blinked.  I gulped and tried not to look too shocked.

'Perhaps we'll come up with another idea at the meeting,' Astar suggested.

'We can only pray,' Allan said.  Grandfather clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to look at me; they all did.

I realised they were waiting for me to say something.  I shrugged. 'Of course,' I said. 'If I must go, I must go.'

The service was held in our meeting room, the old ballroom of the mansion house.  Every adult was there.  The elder children were looking after the youngsters across the lower hall from us, in the schoolroom.

The meeting room is a plain, simple room with tall windows, white walls and a knee-high podium at the far end.  In one corner there is a small pipe organ; it stands about six feet high, has two keyboards and is worked by bellows.  In a regular, celebratory service - for a full moon, or for a baptism or a marriage - I would be sitting there playing at this point, but on this occasion I was standing with everybody else in the body of the kirk.

At the front of the podium is a lectern adorned by two scented candles; Grandfather stood at the lectern while the rest of us sat on the wooden pews facing him from the floor.  Against the rear wall stands the altar; a long table covered in a plain white woollen sheet and holding pots of our holy substances.  The table was made from flotsam washed ashore at Luskentyre, while the cloth was made from wool gathered from our own flock at High Easter Offerance.  In the centre of the table stands a small wooden box which contains a vial of our holiest substance, zhlonjiz, while behind it stands a tall Russian samovar on a battered silver tray; other boxes and small chests are scattered over the rest of the table's surface.

Salvador raised his arms above his head, the signal for talking to cease; the room fell silent.

The samovar had already been lit and the tea brewed; Sister Astar filled a large bowl with tea; she gave it to our Founder first, who sipped at it.  Then she brought it to those of us sitting in the front pew.  I drank next, then Calli, then Astar herself, then Allan and then so on through all the other adults.  The tea was just ordinary tea, but tea has great symbolic value for us.  The bowl came back from the rear of the room with a little cold tea in the bottom; Astar set it to one side on the altar.

Next came a plate containing a slab of common household lard; this too was passed round.  We each rubbed a finger over the surface and licked the smear from our fingers.  A large cloth followed, so that we could wipe our hands.