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“That, I’ll think about,” Grace conceded.
“What have they done now?” Donna was going over her list of things that still needed to be done before the ball started in ten hours.
Agnes put her hands on her hips. “I caught them trying to pick the lock on Duncan’s studio door.”
That was it. Donna was on her feet. “No need to play games for the privilege, I’m going to wring their necks.” She stormed towards the door.
“Stop her,” cook shouted, but her sisters were smart enough to step out of her way. “Did you hear me?” Grace snapped, and two huge waiters stepped in front of the door to block her exit.
“Get out of my way,” she told them.
“I can’t,” said one who couldn’t have been older than their nephew Jack. “Cook promised us we could take the leftovers home if we did what we were told.”
“I never get haggis,” the other one said.
“For goodness’ sake.” Donna spun back around to look at her sisters. “Tell me they didn’t get into the room.”
Agnes huffed in disgust. “I can’t believe you said that. Of course they didn’t. I was there and nothing gets past me.”
“You.” Donna pointed at one of the teenagers. “Go stand guard at Duncan’s studio door. You can take turns. If no one gets in there, I’ll make sure Grace feeds you and your flatmates for a week.”
They whooped and ran off.
“And there goes two of my waitstaff,” the caterer complained. “What am I going to do now?”
Donna looked at her sisters.
“Hell no!” Mairi said.
“Please,” Donna begged.
“You owe me big time.” Mairi walked over to the caterer. “Give me an apron.”
“Aggie?” Donna batted her lashes at her older sister.
She glared back as she walked over to join Mairi. “I cannot wait for the day when I have to stop bailing you lot out of trouble.”
“When will that be?” Mairi asked.
“On the same day I pencil in for every important task, isn’t that right, Aggie?” Donna said. “The twelfth of never.”
Her phone rang, and she dug it out of her pocket to look at the screen. “It’s Duncan,” she shouted, and there was instant silence as everyone froze in place. “Hello,” she said into the phone. “How are things going?” She turned away from everyone and walked to the window.
“I’m just about to start my lecture.” The sound of his deep, rumbling voice made her eyes well up.
She forced a smile so that she’d sound normal when she answered. “Are you nervous?”
“No, but there are an awful lot of people out there. It’s standing room only.” He sounded bewildered.
“Duncan, you’re Scotland’s most famous living artist. Of course people want to hear you talk about your work.”
“My old work,” he amended in irritation.
“Tell them there’s new stuff, but you’re not ready to show it or talk about it yet.”
He paused for a second. “I can do that. How are things at the mansion?”
“Oh, you know”—she glanced around the room at the people quietly staring at her—“same old, same old. What time will you be back tomorrow?”
