The wind came from the sea like a hungry animal. Callum MacLeod pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and trudged through the snow that had settled on the cliffs overnight. Behind him, the Highland cows bellowed their discomfort into the morning air. They didn't want to go out into the cold, but the hay in the barn had run out, and the animals had to be fed, whether winter allowed it or not. It had been snowing continuously for three days. The Caithness coast was never a welcoming place, but in January it became a hell of ice and darkness. The sun only appeared for a few hours, a pale ghost behind grey clouds, before night returned and swallowed the land. Callum was born here. His father had lived here, and his father before him. The MacLeods had been farmers on this godforsaken coast for generations, tough as the heather that clung to the rocks. He knew every stone, every cliff, every dangerous path that led down to the beach.