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She dressed quickly in her plain gray wool gown, foregoing her fine slippers for her soft leather work shoes, and slipped quietly out of the Laird’s chambers before the household had even begun to stir.

The great hall was empty save for two sleeping hounds near the cold ashes of the hearth, but as Sheona descended the stone stairwell toward the lower kitchens, the thick, comforting smells of baking yeast, roasting tallow, and wood smoke hit her face.

She pushed open the heavy timber door to the kitchen.

A stout, broad-shouldered woman with red hair tucked into a flour-dusted cap was standing over a massive wooden trough, a heavy wooden spoon in her fist as she barked orders at two young kitchen maids.

“Aye, mind the coal embers under the oatcakes, Jenny, or I’ll have ye scrubbing the pots till yer fingers turn blue!” the woman boomed, turning sharply on her heel, only to freeze dead in her tracks as Sheona stepped into the doorway.

The cook’s jaw dropped. She stared at Sheona, her arm frozen mid-air, the wooden spoon hovering inches from dropping into a pot of bubbling porridge.

“Sweet Mary above,” the cook gasped, her eyes darting from Sheona’s unadorned hair down to her plain leather shoes. “Ye… ye’re the MacFaris lass! Lady Sheona!”

The two young kitchen maids instantly dropped their wicker baskets, curtseying so quickly they nearly knocked their heads together on the worktable.

“Aye,” Sheona said gently, offering a small, reassuring smile as she stepped fully into the warm, bustling room. “Though I’d prefer if ye just called me Sheona.”

The cook blinked rapidly, wiping her flour-covered hands onto her thick linen apron. “Me Lady, what in the name of the saints are ye doin’ in me kitchen at this hour? Did the chambermaid forget yer mornin’ tray? Is somethin’ wrong with the bed?”

“Nothin’ is wrong with the bed,” Sheona said smoothly, walking straight toward the central oak worktable where a massive wooden tub filled with unpeeled winter turnips sat waiting. “I came lookin’ for work.”

The cook nearly dropped her spoon in earnest this time, her mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. “Work? A lady… peelin’ turnips in me kitchen? Laird MacKinley would have me skin tanned and hung over the stable gate if he saw ye scrubbin’ roots!”

Sheona let out a genuine, melodic laugh, a bright sound that cut through the kitchen’s awkward silence. She reached into the tub, pulled out a thick, muddy turnip, and snatched a short paring knife from the wooden block.

“Laird MacKinley is currently out on the trainin’ grounds threatenin’ his men with sunrise drills,” Sheona said, her fingers moving with swift, practiced grace as the tough purple peel curled away beneath her blade. “And work has never frightened me. At MacFaris Keep, I dried the herbs, salted the winter meats, and brewed the fever tonics. Sittin’ up in a fine room with me hands folded in me lap will only drive me mad.”

The cook exchanged a baffled, wide-eyed look with Jenny, the younger kitchen maid, who stared at Sheona’s flying fingers with open-mouthed wonder.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered under her breath, a faint, appreciative grin finally tugging at the corner of her mouth. “A noble lass who actually kens which end of a knife cuts.”

“I ken how to knead bread, too,” Sheona added, winking at Jenny as she tossed the clean white turnip into a pot of salted water with a quiet splash. “If ye have a trough that needs muscle.”

“Oh, I’ve got muscle enough in the dough tub to break a man’s arm,” She chuckled, her demeanor softening as she gestured toward the far bench. “Jenny, stop starin’ like a gawk and hand Lady Sheona the wicker basket. If she’s bound and determined to earn her breakfast, she can fetch the sage and winter savory from the herb garden behind the bakehouse.”

Jenny hurried forward, offering the basket with a shy, blushing smile. “The dew is still heavy on the leaves, me lady. Mind the nettles near the stone wall.”

“Thank ye, Jenny,” Sheona said, taking the basket. “Lead the way.”

For the next two hours, Sheona threw herself entirely into the rhythm of the kitchen. She washed her hands in cold well-water, tied a coarse linen apron over her gray gown, and rolled up her sleeves. She hauled baskets of dried rosemary and thyme from the pantry, worked alongside Elspeth to knead three massive troughs of heavy rye dough until her shoulders ached, and helped the maids turn the spit over the blazing hearth.

As the morning wore on, the initial hesitation from the staff completely evaporated.

Sheona learned that the cook had managed the MacKinley kitchens for twenty years, that Jenny’s brother was among the guards who trained under Brodie. She listened to their gossip, shared stories about her own grandmother’s remedies, and answered their timid questions with easy, unpretentious warmth.

For the first time since the siege of MacFaris Keep, the suffocating knot in Sheona’s chest began to loosen. Here, surrounded by the smell of baking bread, the steady thud of knives against wood, and the honest, unvarnished labor of the people who kept the fortress alive, she wasn’t a prisoner, a prize, or a political pawn.

She was just Sheona.

“Ye ken,” Elspeth said, leaning over the table as she dusted a finished loaf with flour, her eyes softening as she watched Sheona skillfully tie up a bunch of dried savory, “when young Angus came flyin’ into the hall the other day talkin’ about his new mother, we all thought the poor lad had lost his senses.”

Sheona paused, her fingers lingering on the twine, a small flush warming her cheeks.

“But watchin’ ye now…” Elspeth continued softly, wiping a speck of flour from her cheek with her forearm. “I reckon the lad’s got better eyes than half the lairds sittin’ at the high board. This keep’s been cold for a very long time, Lady Sheona. It’s good to see a bit of light in it.”

Sheona looked down at the wooden table, her throat suddenly tight with an unexpected surge of emotion. Before she could answer, the kitchen door swung wide, and the loud bustle of the upper hall filtered down the stone stairs, signaling that the fortress was fully awake.

Sheona smoothed down her linen apron, her chin lifting as she looked back at the warm, smiling faces around her. She had no idea what the next three weeks would bring, or what judgment Brodie MacKinley would ultimately pass upon her name, but as she picked up another bundle of herbs, she knew one thing for certain: she was not going to break.