Iain Banks - Whit

'I know, Grandfather,' I told him, and put on my most winning smile. 'But selfishness takes different forms, too. I indulge myself most shamelessly when I'm sitting reading in the library, and going to play the Flentrop.'

He took a deep breath, smiling and shaking his head. 'Well, just never forget that you're allowed to enjoy yourself.' He patted my hand. 'Never forget that. We believe in happiness, here; we believe in joy and love. You are entitled to your share of those.' He let go of my hand and made a show of looking me up and down. 'You're looking well, young lady,' he told me. 'You're looking healthy.' His grey, abundant eyebrows flexed. 'Looking forward to the Festival, are we?' he asked, his eyes twinkling.

I brought up my chin, self-conscious beneath the Blessed Salvador's gaze.

I suppose I must describe myself at some point and now seems as good a time as any to get it over with. I am a little above average height and neither skinny nor fat. I keep my hair very short; it grows in straight if allowed to. It is surprisingly blonde for my complexion, which has a hue roughly in keeping with my 3:1 racial mix (though in my vainer moments I confess I like to think I inherited a little more than my fair share of my grandmother Aasni's high-boned Himalayan handsomeness); my eyes are large and blue, my nose is too small and my lips are too full. They are also inclined to leave a slight gap through which my unremarkable teeth may be seen unless I deliberately keep my mouth firmly closed. I believe I developed late, physically, a process that has at last ceased. To my great relief my chest has remained relatively non-pneumatic, though my waist has stayed narrow while my hips have broadened; at any rate, I have at last gone one full year without once being referred to - at least in my earshot - as 'boyish' in aspect, which is a blessing in itself.

I was dressed in a white shirt - reverse-buttoned, of course - narrow black trousers and a long black travelling jacket which matches my broad-brimmed hat. My brother Allan calls this my preacher look.

'I'm sure we're all looking forward to the Festival, Grandfather,' I told him.

'Good, glad to hear it,' he said. 'So, you're off to Dunblane, are you?'

'Yes, Grandfather.'

'You'll come round this afternoon?' he asked. 'I've been having more thoughts about the re-draft.'

'Of course,' I said. I had been helping Grandfather with what we all suspected would be the final version of our Good Book, The Luskentyrian Orthography , which has been undergoing a kind of divinely sanctioned rolling revision ever since Grandfather began the work, in 1948.

'Fine,' he said. 'Well, have a good… whatever it is you have playing an organ,' he said, and smiled. 'Go with God, Isis. Don't talk to too many strangers.'

Thank you, Grandfather. I'll do my best.'

'I'm serious,' he said, frowning suddenly. 'I've had this… feeling about reporters recently.' He smiled uncertainly.

'Was it a vision, Grandfather?' I asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

Visions have been important to our Faith from the beginning. It all started with one which my Grandfather had all those forty-seven years ago, and it was the series of visions he had thereafter that guided our Church through its early vicissitudes. We believed in, trusted and celebrated our Founder's visions, though they had - perhaps just with age, as he had been the first to suggest - become much less frequent and dramatic over the years.

He looked annoyed for a moment, then wistful. 'I wouldn't put it as strongly as a revelation or a vision or anything,' he said. 'Just a feeling, you know?'

'I understand,' I said, trying to sound soothing. 'I'll be careful, I promise.'

He smiled. 'Good girl.'

I took my hat and left the Cogitarium. The Sisters had left the bathroom looking dry and smelling clean. I ascended into the up-thrust landscape of the bedroom and crossed to the far side through the gloom. I picked my boots up from the floor of the sitting room.

'How is he this morning?' Erin asked from her desk near the double doors as I did up my laces. Sister Erin looked at my boots with an expression consistent with having seen something unpleasant on the soles.

'In a jolly good mood, I'd say,' I told her, to be favoured with a wintry smile.

'Hey, Is,' Allan said as we exited doors on either side of the landing at the same time.

My elder brother is tall and fit, and fair both in hair and skin; we share eye-colour, though his are apparently more piercing. He has a broad face and an easy, confident grin. His gaze is prone to darting about, shifting all the time as he talks to you with that winning smile, coming back to your eyes every now and again to make sure you're still listening and only zeroing in on you when he wants to convince you of his sincerity. Allan claims he clothes himself by way of the Stirling charity shops like the rest of us, though some of us have wondered quite how he seems to find perfectly fitting three-piece suits and smart blazers with such remarkable regularity. If we occasionally ungraciously suspect him of Vanity, however, we are content that when he travels out-with the Community he favours frayed, tatty country clothes. That morning he wore a pair of faded jeans with a crease and a tweed jacket over a checked shirt.

'Good morning,' I said. 'Bernie said you wanted a word?'

Allan shrugged, smiling. 'Oh, it was nothing,' he said, walking downstairs with me. 'It was just we heard Aunt Brigit wouldn't be coming back for the Festival, that's all; thought you could have mentioned it.'

'Oh. Well, that's a pity. But you'll see Grandad today; you tell him.'

'Well, yes, but it's just that he takes these things better from you, doesn't he? I mean, you're the apple of his eye, aren't you? Eh, sis?' He nudged me and favoured me with a sly grin as we reached the bottom of the steps. The smell of polish lingered and the floor looked like an ice rink, but Elias and Herb had departed.

'If you say so,' I told him. He held open the front door for me and I preceded him into the courtyard. He pulled on his tweed jacket. 'You off to Dunblane?'

'I am.'

'Right.' He nodded, gazing up at the gauzy mist as we walked across the damp cobbles. 'Just thought I'd take a saunter out to the road-end,' he told me. 'Give whoever's on the post-run a hand.' He adjusted one shirt cuff. 'Expecting some fairly heavy parcels,' he explained. 'Hamper, perhaps.' (We do all our food shopping by post, for somewhat ridiculous reasons I shall probably have to explain later. There are hidden intricacies and interpretative choices associated with the post-run itself, too.) We stopped, facing each other in the centre of the courtyard.

'How's, ah… how's the revision going?' he asked.

'Fine,' I told him.

'He changing much?' Allan asked, dropping his voice so slightly he probably didn't realise he was doing it, and unable to resist a furtive-looking glance at the mansion house.

'Not really,' I said.

Allan looked at me for a moment. I suspected he was debating with himself whether to be sarcastic. Apparently the decision went my way. 'It's just, you know,' he said, looking pained, 'some of… some of the others are a bit worried about what the old guy might be changing.'

'You make it sound like a will,' I smiled.

'Well,' Allan nodded. 'It is his legacy, isn't it? To us, I mean.'

'Yes,' I said. 'But as I said, he isn't changing much; just tidyings up, mostly. So far we've spent most time explaining false signals; the early self-heresies; he's been trying to explain the circumstances behind them.'

Allan crossed his arms then put one hand to his mouth. 'I see, I see,' he said, looking thoughtful. 'Still think all this will be ready come the Festival?'