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ABIGAIL STARED UP at Sir Alistair’s face. Sometimes, on the carriage ride to Scotland, they’d passed huge stones, planted upright in fields, standing all by themselves. Mama had said they were called standing stones and that some ancient people had put them there, but no one knew why. Sir Alistair was like one of those standing stones—large and hard and sort of scary. His legs went on for miles, and his shoulders were wide and his face… She swallowed.
He had a dark beard that was patchy, because it didn’t grow on the scars on one side of his face. The scars ran through his beard, red and ugly. He’d covered his empty eye socket today with an eye patch. She was grateful for the eye patch, otherwise she might not have been able to look him in the face at all. His one eye was light brown, the color of tea without milk, and he looked down at her like she was an insect. A beetle, perhaps. One of those horrid black ones that scuttled away when someone overturned a rock.
“Huh,” Sir Alistair said. He cleared his throat with a grating, rumbling sound. Then he frowned. When he frowned, the red scars twisted on his cheek.
Abigail looked down. She wasn’t sure what to do next. She should apologize to him for screaming at him last night, but she didn’t quite have the courage. Her new apron was pinned to her bodice, and she plucked at it. She’d never worn an apron before, but Mama had bought one for herself and one for Abigail in the village. She said they’d need them if they were to set the castle kitchen to rights. Abigail didn’t think cleaning a castle would be nearly as fun as Mama was trying to pretend.
She peeked up at Sir Alistair. The corners of his mouth were turned down, but oddly his frown wasn’t half as frightening as it’d been the night before. She cocked her head. If Sir Alistair hadn’t been a very big, very stern sort of gentleman, she might’ve thought that he didn’t know what to do next, either.
“There was hardly any food in the pantry this morning,” she said.
“I know.” His mouth went flat.
Jamie had gone back to the big gray dog by the fire. He’d been the one to see her when they’d come in the kitchen. He’d run over to pet the dog, despite Abigail’s warnings. Jamie adored dogs of all kinds, and he never seemed to think that they might bite him. Abigail always thought about being bitten when she saw a strange dog.
She had a sudden longing for home, in London, where she knew everyone and where everything was familiar. If they were at home right now, she and Jamie would be having tea and bread with Miss Cummings. Although she’d never been very fond of Miss Cummings, the thought of her pinched, narrow face and the bread and butter she always served made Abigail’s chest ache. Mama said they might never return to London.
Now Sir Alistair was frowning down at the big dog as if he might be cross with her.
“Mama’ll be in soon,” Abigail said to distract him.
“Ah,” he said. The old dog put a paw on his boot. Sir Alistair glanced up at Abigail, and she stepped back. He was so stern-looking. “What are your names?”
“I’m Abigail,” she said, “and that’s Jamie.”
“We’re to have tea when Mama comes in,” Jamie said. He didn’t seem at all nervous at Sir Alistair’s presence. But then he was blissfully rubbing the dog’s ears.
Sir Alistair grunted.
“And eggs and ham and bread and jam,” Jamie recited. He often forgot things, but not things that had to do with food.
“She’s going to make some for you as well,” Abigail said cautiously.
“She isn’t a very good cook,” Jamie said.
Abigail frowned. “Jamie!”
“Well, she isn’t! She’s never done it before, has she? We always—”
“Hush!” Abigail whispered fiercely. She was afraid that Jamie was about to say that they’d always had their own servants. He was so stupid sometimes, even if he was only five.
Jamie looked at her with wide eyes, and then they both looked at Sir Alistair.
He was hunched down, scratching the dog under her chin. Abigail noticed that his hand was missing two fingers. She shivered in disgust. Maybe he hadn’t heard them?
Jamie rubbed his nose. “She’s a right nice dog.”
The dog tilted her head and waved a great paw in the air as if she’d understood Jamie.
Sir Alistair nodded. “That she is.”
“I’ve never seen one so big.” Jamie began stroking the dog again. “What kind is she?”
“A deerhound,” Sir Alistair said. “Her name is Lady Grey. My ancestors used hounds like her to hunt deer.”
“Coo!” Jamie said. “Have you ever hunted deer with her?”
Sir Alistair shook his head. “Deer are rare in these parts. The only thing Lady Grey hunts anymore is sausages.”
