The stairs beside Dean Bridge fell away into cold and echo. Anna felt stronger than ever—lighter bones, warm blood, the kind of balance that made steps land exactly where they should—but the valley below was a mouthful of dark, and the dark still had teeth.
"For courage," she told herself.
She set Strong down on the top step for a moment, slipped off her backpack, unzipped it. Out came the paper crown, which she settled over her cap, and the plastic sword, which she took in her right hand. She shrugged the backpack on again, scooped Strong back under her jacket with her left arm—teddy‑warm, towel‑blanket and bottle pressed to his side—and looked to Sheepy.
"Okay. Let's go."
One hand held the baby firm against her ribs; the other held the sword low and close. They went down carefully. The Water of Leith moved like a sleeping animal below.
At the bottom, her heightened senses found him first—an outline leaned where the arch bit into the wall. Sheepy saw him too; Strong didn't care.
They angled to pass. The man unstuck from shadow.
"Well, well," he said—voice not loud, boots whispering grit behind them. "A queen out after bedtime—with a plastic sword and a dog for her guard."
Anna didn't answer. She kept walking.
"Oi," he said, sharper now. "I'm talking to you, girl."
She kept walking. Sheepy's throat trilled into a growl, then died; he loped alongside her, nervy and unsure, not leaving her flank.
"Anna Hope," the man said then, as if it were politeness. "Don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you. I just want your time."
She stopped. She hated that she stopped, but she could tell from his legs and his patience that running wouldn't fix this. She turned with her chin lifted the way Mum did at strangers, all command and cheek, even though Mum had taken her crown this morning and given her a Bible instead. The crown was back now. She felt it. It helped; the Bible didn't.
The hood stayed up. He was older than Dad—older than Granddad maybe—forty, fifty; the kind of age that shows in how a man stands. Short beard threaded with grey. A mouth that smiled without moving the eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked, smaller than she wanted. "How do you know my name? And why are you following me in the middle of the night? It's creepy."
"Because you're easy to spot," he said, almost admiring. "That hair. And because the Hopes are famous, aren't they? Big house. Old money." A small shrug. "I've been waiting. Didn't want to scare you—but I need money, and you're going to help me get it."
"Why should I help you?" She tried on a queen's voice. "Go home, peasant. Drink milk and eat biscuits with your family."
He chuckled. "I'd love to. If I don't pay the rent, there won't be a home to go to. You understand, don't you, little miss?" Two fingers tapped his chest. "Call me Braveheart. Not the real name. The one that sticks. I lead a little outfit—the Highland Liberation Army. Trying to make something better of this country. Hard to do with empty pockets."
She didn't get all of it; she knew the tone. Adults who were about to say because and make you do something. "Sorry. Sounds cool. Not interested." She hitched Strong higher and pointed with her chin. "I'm going to my castle. You can leave now."
"Wish I could." He sighed, and for a moment he was just a tired man with bad teeth and an old coat that had been wet too many times. "It isn't personal, Anna. I need to borrow you. Your family's got a mountain of gold and the rest of us have hills of nothing. I'm going to take you to my van. They'll pay. You'll go back. That's the whole of it. All you have to do is be a good girl and behave."
He stepped closer.
Anna stepped back. Frost whispered under her heel. Sheepy slid sideways, head low, back quivering.
"Stay where you are," she said. Her voice wobbled. She hauled the plastic sword forward and pointed it at his middle. It shook because her hands did. "I'll smite you. I will."
He laughed properly then, a short dark sound that bounced off the stone. "Smite me, is it?" One hand rose, palm open, peaceable as a priest. With the other he eased out a long, narrow knife from under his cloak. He brandished it just enough to let the dim light find the edge. The metal turned what little light there was cruel.
"Don't," Anna said. "Please."
"I don't want to hurt you," he said—and he sounded like he meant it. "I've daughters myself. This is only… necessary business. Robin Hood without the tights."
He offered his empty hand, as if they were about to cross a street together.
Strong shifted under her coat, warm and solid. Anna felt suddenly very small—belt‑high to a stranger, crown askew, plastic sword ready, a dog that didn't know what brave meant—yet her feet planted anyway. Queens do not run.
"Go away," she whispered. "Go away or I'll scream the whole river awake."
He laughed, thin and impatient. "Come on, lass. Don't make this harder. Easy way or hard way."
Something clicked under Anna's chin.
A little white shape snapped free from inside her jacket and tocked against the man's cheek—the bunny bottle's spout, a neat, rude flick. It bounced off his face and clattered away on the frost. He rocked back, more surprised than hurt.
"What the—?" He wiped at his cheek.
Anna stared. "Strong?"
The baby didn't wait.
He exploded out of her coat like a thrown star—towel-cape, fists, and will—and latched both hands into the man's hair. Tiny legs hooked a jawline; a furious little mouth found beard and cheek and anything else a baby could punish.
The man made a strangled sound that couldn't decide between a laugh and a choke.
Sheepy, who'd been seesawing between terror and duty, moved like a bell had rung. He lunged to the nearest warm limb—the man's knife arm—and clamped. Not a kill bite; a purposeful hold from a dog who suddenly knew exactly what guard the Master meant. The blade scraped stone and skittered away.
"Ah—shit! What the hell!" He yanked, but Sheepy braced—shoulders low, back legs digging—and did not let go.
Anna didn't think. Worry for Strong and Sheepy threw her forward; her feet were already there, low and fast, hitting him at the hips. Six-year-old mass plus dog torque plus a baby fused to his face—they toppled him. Stone hit his back. Air punched out of him in a hoarse cough.
For a heartbeat the world was a tangle: wool and coat, dog breath and iron, baby grunts and the raw sour of fear.
"What are you—let—go!" he rasped. He tried to pry the baby loose, but Strong's fingers were hooks, and Anna's arms cinched tighter around his middle. Sheepy's jaws hummed with effort.
"Okay! Okay—stop! I give up!" Panic bent his voice. "The dog—he'll take my hand—call him off! And get this demon baby out of my hair!"
Anna's crown sat crooked. Her face was small and incandescent with fury. "Say you're sorry. And say you won't try taking kids ever again."
His eyes flicked from little queen to locked jaws. He was bigger, older, knife-trained—none of it mattered under a bridge with a baby on his cheek, a dog on his wrist, and a child's iron certainty pinning his hips.
"Okay—okay." He swallowed. "I'm sorry. I won't take children. I swear. Just—please—take him off and call the dog."
Anna eased back, palms gritty with frost. "Strong," she said, and peeled him away. The baby released with a satisfied huff, towel-cape settling. "Sheepy—leave." The dog loosened, hovered, then stepped back, tail low and proud and very confused.
"Say it proper," Anna said. "Kneel. Like a knight."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked at the three of them—the wrong kind of miracle—and did as told. He got to one knee, then the other, as if obeying a rule he didn't remember learning.
"Fine," he said through his teeth. "I swear—on God if He'll have it—I won't take children. I'm sorry. All right?"
Anna watched a beat, then tucked Strong back under her jacket, pushed the spout home, and set her crown to the angle queens prefer. Plastic sword out—ridiculous and unarguable. Sheepy at heel.
The man cradled his forearm and stared. "God damn… what are you? That dog's bite felt like it was going to crush bone. And the—baby."
Anna brightened. "We're infected with Strong's strength," she said proudly. "This is my baby, Strong. I'm Anna, his mum. And this is Sheepy, his dad." (Sheepy blinked at that, but did not disagree.)
The man looked properly lost now. In the dark, they didn't seem like much. Now he knew better.
Inside Anna something new rose—a chestful of hot, foolish courage, not quite bravery and not quite thunder. It rolled through her arms like hot chocolate: warm, sticky, impossible to spill. She straightened until the plastic crown dug a little into her forehead.
"Right then," Anna said, zipping her coat. "Time for punishment."