rushed up my cheeks. There'd been no thought of washing on the drove. My fingernails were long and black, my hair a matted mess, and my face no doubt streaked with dirt. I must have looked like a common vagabond, as out of place in this orderly room as a blowfly on a butter dish.
Like everything else at Ladymuir, the well was neatly built. Stone slabs had been laid around it to keep the mud at bay. The handle turned easily, and the bucket rose on a sturdy new rope. I did my best with my face and hands and scrubbed at the worst stains on my bodice, which still bore the marks of the green slime on the walls of the Rothesay tolbooth, but I was sure I looked a fright as I went back to the house.
Breakfast had already been set. There was a white linen cloth on the trestle table, and bowls and spoons set out on it for each person. It seemed very grand to me. Granny and I had eaten from one bowl on bare wood, and we had never owned more than two spoons altogether.
The two serving men came in, and all took their places on the benches. I hung back, not sure if I was expected to sit too. The bowls were still empty. Was I meant to serve the porridge?
"Sit down, Maggie," Uncle Blair said. "We can't begin till grace is said." He waited gravely till I was seated, then everyone bent their heads and he began to pray. I looked around the table. All eyes were shut, all hands clasped, except for little Martha's. She was peeking at me over the rim of her bowl. When she caught my eye, she shut hers quickly and looked down.
I didn't hear a word of the long prayer. I was studying the faces around the table. Uncle Blair and Aunt Blair, one at each end, were clear enough. The little girls were surely their daughters, and Grizel was the servant. But was the boy Ritchie a son of the house or a serving man like the others who had slept in the barn? He was seventeen or eighteen, I reckoned. He had Uncle Blair's clear, wide forehead and fine pale hair, but he was shorter, more like Aunt Blair in build, stocky rather than lean. By the time the grace came at last to an end, I was sure of it. Ritchie was a son of the house, a Blair like I was. A cousin. I only hoped he would be my friend.
Grizel served the porridge, and as soon as we had all eaten, the two men went outside to their work. Aunt Blair stood up to clear the bowls, but Uncle Blair said, "Sit down, Isobel. Now, Maggie, you know you're welcome here, but perhaps you will tell us what brings you here, on your own, a young lass like you, with no one to accompany you?"
It was the moment I'd been dreading. Aunt Blair sat down again at once, and I could see avid curiosity along with disapproval in her face. Ritchie was staring at me with a measuring look, as if he had encountered an interesting new insect, and Grizel's mouth was half open, like a child waiting to hear a story. The little girls leaned their arms on the table and cupped their chins in their hands, their eyes fixed on me.
I took a deep breath.
"You know that my mother died when I was born, and my father was drowned on the drove years ago," I began.
"We heard that, to our sorrow, yes," said Uncle Blair. "'The Lordgiveth, and the Lord taketh away.'"
"Up till now, I was living—I lived—I was with my granny." I didn't know how to go on. I'd spun story after story in my head in preparation for this explanation, not wanting to see the horror I pictured on the faces of people who didn't know me when they heard about the trial and Granny's burning and the strange wildness of my flight with the drovers, but looking at Uncle Blair's honest, kind face, I knew that I couldn't lie to him.
I started slowly with the birth of Ebenezer Macbean, Annie stealing my buckle, Granny's party at Ambrisbeg, and the curse at the christening, and then it all tumbled out—the trial, the false witnesses, and the meanness of Donnie Brown, and Tam's clever rescue, Granny's horrible death, and my flight to Rhubodach. I explained Annie's revelation, my