to feel. I felt everything: the horror that surrounded me, the hot tears that blinded my eyes and burned my cheeks, the rage at my inability to alter the course of fate, the fierce pride that welled up inside of me when I realized who this woman was.
From early childhood, I have always been a dreamer, remembering events with clairvoyance found only in those particularly susceptible to hypnotism. But never before had I experienced such total omniscience. I was everywhere, knowing all things, without the ability to interfere, like a novelist who has lost control of her book to Hollywood screenwriters. That must be why I heard the angry crowd advancing on Traquair House before anyone else was aware of it.
I could still see it in my mind just as it happened in my dream. The blood pooled out between the stone slabs into the courtyard, welling and eddying up to my knees, soaking my nightgown. A dark, ugly purple-red, it crept to the level of my neck, then my chin, and finally my lips until I was drowning in the warm animal smell and taste of it.
I will never forget the dark-eyed woman whose face looked frighteningly familiar. She cursed the women of the Maxwell line, damning them to tragic deaths and ghosts who walked in the night until the Stone of Destiny was restored to its rightful resting place.
Recalling the horrifying events never fails to make my skin crawl, but I can’t help looking back and remembering every lifelike and terrifying detail. The events are clearly etched in my mind as was the knowledge that whatever Mairi of Shiels was, a traitor to Scotland she was not. But how could I, an insignificant American, prove her innocence and why, after seven hundred years, should it be so important that I do so?
Four
With intense relief, I watched the first pale fingers of dawn streak the sky. Breakfast with Ellen Maxwell’s solicitor was hours away. Pulling on a pair of gray leggings and a black, oversized sweatshirt, I tied my tennis shoes and started out in search of the family archives.
They weren’t difficult to find. Traquair wasn’t a castle with endless, twisting stairways and massive staterooms. It was a manor house, extremely large by American standards, but a house all the same. Common sense told me that the archives would be in the public rooms. Sure enough, that’s where I found them, locked behind glass.
Disappointed, I turned back to my room and surprised a maid dusting the picture frames in the hallway. She smiled shyly and spoke. “We didn’t realize you were such an early riser, Miss Murray. If you’re hungry, the housekeeper will see to it that you have a bite of something before breakfast.”
“Thank you,” I replied gratefully. “I am hungry.”
She nodded. “You’ll find her in the kitchen.”
The housekeeper turned out to be Kate. Again, I had the unsettling feeling that I’d seen her somewhere before, or at least someone very like her. Her figure was rounded, almost matronly, but her skin was smooth and unlined. She could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty, although I guessed the former. She was the perfect age for a British housekeeper. I sat down at the table, chin in hand. “I didn’t realize you were the housekeeper here at Traquair, Kate. Why is it that everyone calls you by your first name?”
She smiled. “We’re not so formal here at Traquair as in some houses. My position is a hereditary one. My mother was the housekeeper at Traquair before she died, and my grandmother before her. I grew up here. Lady Maxwell began calling me Kate when I was a little girl. She couldn’t quite get used to using a more formal address. Everyone just followed her lead.” She opened the oven and peered inside. “The scones are almost done. Is there something you needed?”
“Something to eat,” I replied. “Those look delicious. I don’t think I can last until eight o’clock.”
“Would you like some coffee or tea to go with them? I thought I’d have a cup myself.”
“Tea please.” I watched her measure the leaves into a delicate teapot. While they steeped, she set two cups and saucers, two spoons, and a pitcher of milk on the scrubbed oak table.
“Do you take lemon?”
“No, thank you. Just milk.”
Kate nodded and poured a small amount of milk into each cup before adding the tea. “Shall I plan on breakfast this early every day?” she asked, tilting her head until it almost rested on