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“On the morrow,” she speculated as her wine goblet was filled, “is it not possible I could be in the training yard when I am suddenly attacked? Or even killed?” To think my last meal might have been a pear tart. “What a sweet idea indeed.”

Ewan, accustomed to her and her antics, did not hesitate. “I regret to inform you, sister dear, if that were to indeed occur, your last meal would likely have been fresh bread or perhaps porridge. Or do you not plan to break your fast on the morrow so that this”—he indicated the tart Avelina currently ate—“will be your last meal?”

She had not thought of that.

“You are many things,” Ewan said, taking a sip of wine as was his custom at the evening meal. All other times, ’twas ale for him. “Fiery. Brave. A skilled archer. But cleverer than me?” He shrugged as if to say, nay, she was not that.

“I disagree.” Avelina thought back not very far into the past to present her case. “Less than a sennight ago, when you could not determine the cause of the smell in the east tower—”

“I did not try overly hard before you discovered the rotten piece of meat.”

“I was told you had been looking all morn for the source.”

He did not comment, so she added, “But since I know Whitefoot’s habits better than you. . .”

“Since you cannot be parted with him,” Ewan said. “Some would think him your child and not merely a dog by how you treat him.”

“Do not disparage my bairn,” she teased.

“Jest all you wish, but you came to the hall annoyed with me,” he countered. “I would know the reason.”

Ewan had been the most observant man in the room for as long as she could remember. Perhaps it was because he’d been forced to lead at such a young age. The Battle of The Black Friars had taken thirty of Clan MacKinlay’s men in one battle those many years ago—their father, their uncles, and nearly all who would have been named chief losing their lives in one fell swoop. At ten and six, Ewan had become the youngest chief of their clan.

For years her brother had been appointed guardians, who called themselves the provisional chiefs of their clan until Ewan came of age. But that age was still far too young in Avelina’s opinion. His childhood taken from him, her brother had always served more as a father to her, and these times when he could tease her, like a brother might, were ones she cherished.

But the chief was back.

She sighed. “You know already. Your silly decree—”

“’Tis not silly, Sister.”

“So you believe.”

“So I know.”

“My opinion matters little?”

“Do not attribute words to me I did not utter, Lina.”

She was about to respond when their cousin Fergus burst into the hall. Avelina wasn’t sure why their clansman was not at the meal, as he lived with his wife in Castle MacKinlay, serving as her brother’s second. The man was never far from Ewan.

“I must speak with you, Chief,” he said, the formal address due to others being present. “Immediately.”

“Come.” Ewan motioned him closer. “You may do so here.”

Fergus gave Avelina a quick nod, acknowledging her presence and Ewan’s willingness to receive the message with her present. For all his faults, her brother did not typically leave her in the dark. As nothing more than the chief’s sister, she was aware this was not always the case.

“There are rumors.”

Avelina had never in all her life seen Fergus look as he did now. The man’s deep auburn beard hid much of his face, but ’twas plain to see in his eyes, their poor cousin was concerned.

“Tell me,” her brother said, his voice hard.

“A merchant just arrived from the village. Said a pair of riders wearing the Duncraig plaid were seen coming through.”

Avelina whipped her head toward her brother. Though the weather had improved of late, summer approaching fast, a shiver ran through her as if a cold blast of air had just invaded their keep. Avelina actually hugged herself as if to keep warm.

“Impossible.”