get my hands on. Since that very day, when I wasn’t working, I was studying, teaching myself the ways and means of every damn subject I could get my hands on. My sister, Cecelia, had once said I was probably the most qualified astronomer, botanist, linguist, zoologist and everything else, if only anyone had bothered to test me. You just never knew when an opportunity might present itself, or a random morsel of knowledge might be your saving grace. My tenacious study habits were of little consequence now. Survival was, and always had been, the order of the day.
With our plan decided, we turned to our appearances. After removing all the straw from Hamish’s hair, I used some water to smooth it into place. There was little that could be done about the state of my nephew’s clothing, which was dirty but not yet showing signs of too much wear and tear. In our haste, Hamish hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes and I had not had the chance to retrieve anything for him. I’d only just managed to grab a spare dress for myself, from my sister’s cupboard. Her clothes were finer than mine, since her husband refused to allow his wife and son to appear outwardly as though his business was in financial distress, which it most certainly had been. In hindsight, it seemed a strange detail for him to be so particular about, with all the other worries he’d had to contend with. But now I was glad of his pride. My brother-in-law’s insistence that appearances be kept up meant that I now had a dark blue gown to wear that was not only clean but also of the finest quality, enough to support the story we were about to spin. It mattered little that the dress was in fact a size too small. My sister wasn’t quite as curvy as I was. I ordered Hamish to turn his back and, after a brief struggle, managed—just—to pour myself into the garment. It was of a lower cut than I was used to and, with the sizing issue, was in fact quite revealing. I was glad I had my light blue shawl, which I wrapped around my shoulders and secured in the front with a silver kilt pin that had once belonged to my father.
“That will have to do,” I said, attempting to tame my hair into place. My braid was still coiled, but some of the shorter strands at the front had come loose
“No one will expect you to be perfectly groomed,” Hamish commented, turning to watch me. “We’ve been attacked by bandits, remember, and forced to walk for miles after our driver was killed and our carriage stolen.”
“Killed? Now we’ve witnessed a murder and been robbed?”
“If he was still alive they’d look for him.”
This was becoming increasingly macabre by the minute. Either way, he was right. I’d be more convincing if my hair was in some state of disarray. I left the escaped tendrils loose to frame my face. My hair was long, wavy and a light shade of red that was almost blond. Strawberry-blond, my sister called it. My sister Cecelia’s hair was the exact same shade as her son’s: light brown with streaks of honey and gold.
Hamish was looking at me and there were glistening tears in his eyes. My nephew, despite his tender age, rarely cried. The sight of his tears now sent an awful stab of woe through my chest. I knew I was reminding him of his mother, and it saddened me that she might be lost to him for quite some time, leaving him with only me for companionship and protection.
“Tell me again why they couldn’t come with us,” he said.
“You know why,” I said. “They have business to attend to. When we find a safe place to stay, I’ll send word to them, and they’ll join us.” I wiped his tears, knowing only too well that it would be too dangerous to send word; interception was too risky. “In the meantime, I’ll take good care of you.”
“And I’ll take good care of you,” he countered, recovering a shred of his earlier enthusiasm for this adventure.
“Now,” I said, “let’s go get that meal. Meat with potatoes and gravy. Stew and fresh bread. As much as you can eat.”
This cheered him further and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Holster your weapon, soldier,” I told him. “We don’t want to frighten anyone.”
He slung the wooden blade so it hung from his belt.
So it was, and we headed for the tavern door.
It was a lively scene. Clearly a popular local gathering place. There was a large contingent of farmers and tradesmen who appeared to know each other and were already well into their evening’s allotment of ale. They sat at long, central tables that had been laid with platters of food. Several of them watched as we entered, but their conversation remained on more important matters: the planting of crops and the shearing of sheep. In the quieter corners sat smaller groups of travelers. Several sat alone. I spied an empty table near the back of the tavern and led Hamish to it.
A serving woman came to us. “Is it a meal you’re after?” She was perhaps thirty-five years of age, or maybe younger, with tired brown eyes and lank hair she’d tied back. Her clothing was plain and well worn, but neat. In her voice were inflections of boredom, resignedness, a clear note of I’d-rather-be-anywhere-but-here. Maybe she needed another server to help her, to ease her workload. I could earn money, to pay for food and accommodation. It would take a long time to earn enough not only to survive on but also to save for the return journey and the stay in Edinburgh. Gambling would be quicker, and easier. I refused the direction of my thoughts. But I couldn’t help picturing myself, a year from now, wearing a similar coarse brown dress, taking yet another order, still hiding and waiting. I couldn’t afford to be overly choosy, I reminded myself. I would make do as best I could and accept the lot I was given gracefully.
Or would I?
“A meal, for two, please,” I said. “A large one. And a pot of strong tea. With sugar.” I almost asked her right then if there was work available. Something stopped me. I could at least enjoy a meal first—the last I would be able to afford—before I resigned myself to my fate. A fate. There were always choices. I warred with myself as the serving woman walked off. Serving was gainful, honest employment. But so dull. There would be plenty to eat, a warm place to sleep. Hamish might get hired by a local farmer, out of sight of passersby, as I cooked and cleaned. So isolated and monotonous.
I thought of my mother, who had worried constantly about my impetuous nature. You’ve a little devil that sits on your left shoulder, Amelia, who whispers willful ideas into your ear. Listen to the angel on your right shoulder. Let that be the voice that guides you. But the devil’s advice had always seemed so much more intriguing. To ease my mother’s concerns I’d tried my best—and mostly succeeded—to do as she said, to tune that little devil out, to learn discipline and control. Tragedy, however, had all but silenced the voice of reason. My parents died when I was eleven years old. And once my sister, who was seven years older than me, had been forced to marry a struggling gaming club owner to keep us off the streets after the death of our parents, I’d had much more to worry about than conscience and etiquette.
Our meal was served. The food was plain but hearty. I hadn’t felt so hungry for a very long time. Ever, in fact.
Before we could finish eating, there was a commotion at the door.
I reached for Hamish in an instinctive movement. Could it be that Fawkes and his men had tracked us? So soon? I grabbed Hamish’s sleeve as terror flooded me, and I could taste my fear as a metallic, bitter tang.
Before we could make a move to flee, an imposing man walked into the tavern, followed by several more. These weren’t city people: that was glaringly obvious at the very first glimpse of their brawny, unfamiliar-looking silhouettes as they entered the dining room, which seemed to shrink in their presence.
They wore tartan clan kilts and weapons belts equipped with plentiful supplies of swords
