Madness to venture out into the dark house. All buttoned up for the night, it was. With her feet in soft slippers, they made no sound on the stairs or the flagstones at the bottom.
What was she doing? What did she expect to find? Nothing stirred around her save a few stray wisps of air. The great hall was pitch black, and when she reached the kitchen she found it a place of horror, all looming shadows.
The bar on the back door lifted to her touch and she stepped outside.
She later told herself she was lured out by the moonlight, so much healthier than the close dark inside. The full moon sailed through a nearly clear sky, mere ribbons of cloud flicking across its face. The world was turned silver.
Thus illuminated, the humble kitchen garden seemed an enchanted place, the herbs and kale glittering as if forged from metal. The courtyard lay empty. To her left, at the end of the house, lay the chapel.
Robena’s grave.
She might almost believe her sister walked on such a night as this.
But she saw no one, not even when she stepped out through the garden. Against the silvered sky, the bulk of the house stood out when she glanced back at it, all twisted chimneys and black stone, the darkened windows like eyes, watching her.
What was she doing out here?
Suddenly it seemed the height of madness. She wanted nothing more than to be back in her chamber. Placing her hand into the pocket of her cloak, she felt for the knife there.
Reassurance.
She must go nowhere without it, in this new life she’d entered, this place she now lived. But meanwhile, she should flee back to bed.
And contemplate her courage.
Chapter Twelve
Alan more than half expected tears at Lord MacRowan’s leave-taking, an hysterical stream of them, mayhap. But Annista met her father’s departure that morning with a calm and almost stony demeanor, never betraying by so much as a flicker what she felt.
A strong woman, and no mistake. One around whom he would need to step carefully.
After Lord Robert’s party rode away—an event Annista did not linger outside to observe—Mother tried once more to persuade the lass to keep her company.
With scant courtesy, she again refused.
Mother persisted, there in the entryway where the three of them had retreated while Father remained outside, a thing Alan found uncommonly strange. Had Mother sought Robena’s company in this manner? He tried to recall. In truth, he’d paid as little attention as possible to his brother’s wife, a thing of which he was not proud. She’d been such a pretty, gentle, little thing.
At Evan’s hands.
He’d known all too well what that meant. In the days of their youth, before he’d grown sufficiently to defend himself, he’d been subject to his brother’s cruelties, sometimes subtle, sometimes overt. And violent.
Evan had always been bigger and stronger—he was still, but now he knew Alan could and would fight back.
Alan felt shame that he’d known, while Robena had not.
Yet—the girl was Evan’s wife. Surely even he would not mistreat her to the point of—
He wondered again how Robena had died. She’d been found by a servant, lying at the foot of the stairs, on the flagstones. She’d had bruises, aye, and wounds to her head. But she’d been ill for days before that—for weeks, really—and it was speculated she’d got up in the night. Been dizzy. Tumbled down.
Alan looked at Annista, who so patently wanted to get away from Mother. Robena’s sister, aye, but so little like her.
Little enough gentleness could be glimpsed beneath her surface demeanor.
Indeed, her eyes flashed with impatience, though she made an effort to sound courteous. “I am hopeless with a needle, I fear, Mistress MacKallan. And ’twould be torture for me to sit at needlework.”
“Ye need not, then. Merely keep me company so we may talk and grow better acquainted.”
Annista hesitated. Alan, standing by, could almost hear the thoughts moving in her head.
