The figure turned. “My, my, lad. That’s a lot of questions before we’ve even been introduced.”
Magnus’s brows rose in surprise. This was no desperate brigand or black-hearted outlaw sitting calmly in front of him. It was an old woman.
She was so short that her legs dangled from the rock she sat on, and she was shrouded in a brown wrap held closed with a deer-shaped brooch. Her face was round and withered like an old apple and dark eyes peered out from a nest of wrinkles. A wide smile lit her face as she gazed up at Magnus.
“Well?” she said. “Are ye going to sit down? It’s giving me an ache in my neck staring up at ye.”
Magnus opened his mouth and closed it again. The old woman was such an incongruous sight surrounded by thedetritus of an outlaw camp that, for a moment, he was lost for words. What, by all that’s holy, was she doing here?
She appeared harmless enough, but he had learned long ago that appearances could be deceiving. Finding his voice again, he cautiously asked, “What is this place?”
She gestured at the cave. “What’s it look like, my lad? An outlaw camp. The outlaws ye are seeking, in fact, unless I miss my guess. From the looks of things, I reckon they left perhaps a day ago. Scurried off like rabbits at the scent of a hound, I’ll warrant.”
She placed a gnarled hand on the rock and pushed herself to her feet, revealing her true height—shorter than him by a good two feet or more.
“And before ye ask,” she added, straightening out the hem of her coat and dusting it off with quick, precise movements. “I’m no hostage. I came here of my own volition. Now, I have some broth warming on the fire. Come in, come in, ye look half-frozen to death.”
Magnus hesitated a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over the cave one more time before he finally moved closer to the fire. He didn’t sheath his knife, merely let his hand drop to his side.
The old woman puttered around the fire, stirring a pot that hung from a crude tripod.
“What are ye doing up here?” Magnus asked. The last thing he’d expected to find in this wild and desolate place was an old woman. Did she live up here? Surely not. She should be sitting snug in a warm home surrounded by grandchildren, not tending a fire in a cave in the middle of the wilds.
She glanced at him from where she was busy ladling broth into two pottery mugs. “Two things. Firstly, I’m looking for my cat.”
“Yer...cat?”
“Aye. Ye havenae seen him have ye? Big fat tabby. Ye couldnae miss him.”
“Er...nay,” Magnus mumbled. “I havenae seen him.”
“That’s a shame. I could have sworn he’d be around here somewhere.” She handed over one of the cups and Magnus took it with a nod of thanks, cupping his big hands around it and enjoying the warmth.
“The second thing is,” the old woman continued. “I was looking for ye.”
Magnus jerked, nearly spilling the hot broth over his hand. “For me?”
She settled down on the rock, cupping her knobbly hands around her own mug of broth. “Aye. Ye are Magnus Kerr, are ye not?” She took a sip from her cup and then sighed contentedly. “Ah, that does the trick. I can feel my innards thawing.”
Magnus stared at her with suspicion. Was this a trap, after all? “How do ye know my name?”
She rolled her eyes as though this was a stupid question. “It wouldnae do much good looking for someone if ye didnae know who they were, would it?”
Magnus put down his broth and rose. She didn’t look the least intimidated by his hulking presence. “Who are ye? Why were ye looking for me?”
“I would have thought that was obvious,” she replied, taking another sip of her broth. “I’ve been looking for yebecause I wish to speak to ye. As for who I am, my name is Irene. Irene MacAskill.”
Magnus’s jaw dropped. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach or stabbed him in the gut with an icicle.
Irene MacAskill?
“Ye...ye canna be...”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Can I not? That’s odd. I could have sworn that was my name.”
Magnus licked his lips. “It’s...it’s just...” he began, struggling to speak coherently. “I...I’ve heard stories about ye. Folk tales. Myths, almost.”
She chuckled softly, a warm sound that echoed in the confines of the cave. “Myths, eh? Sounds like I’ve been busy in my absence. Tell me lad, what do these myths say about this Irene MacAskill?”
