"I know what I'm doing," Methos assures - Eda, mostly, because Beau is occupied with Bryn - with a wry twist of his mouth that doesn't look even a little bit like a smile. "Pain is remarkably focusing."

And incredibly brief. He keeps his hand tucked close to his side to hide the fact that the blisters are already gone. Someone has been naughty. All things considered, he's probably in good company.

He tenses at Bryn's anguished howl, but turns only enough so that he can see the man in his peripheral vision, and not be caught off guard should he manage to get past Beau. Bracing himself against the near-certainty of a renewed onslaught of despair - and it's easy enough to call up thoughts of MacLeod, whose fault his presence in this kitchen, if not in this world, almost certainly is - Methos pulls the door of the now-cooled oven open, and crouches down to get a better look at those inscriptions on the gravestones. They have to be, if not the key to this, then at least a significant piece of the puzzle.