Perhaps that was for the best. She stood outside the door Callum had led her to, and watched him hurry away. He didn’t look back, even once. A twist in the hall hid his broad-shouldered figure from view, and then she was really alone.
How on earth has all of this happened?Melody wondered, heart pounding.
“Well, lass, are ye comin’ in, or will ye just stand at the door, gawkin’ like a simpleton?” came an amused voice from inside.
Letting out a slow breath, Melody stepped inside.
Lady Sophie huddled up before the fire, well wrapped in blankets and furs. She glanced up at Melody, and her wrinkled old face broke into a smile.
“What did ye think of Angus Matheson?” she asked wryly.
“I… I thought that he seemed a verydutifulsort of man,” Melody managed. “He didn’t seem pleased about the betrothal.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Betrothal?”
Color rushed into Melody’s face. “Y-Yes, the betrothal. Callum and I are betrothed. Forgive me, did you not know? I ought to have kept quiet. Callum should have told you himself, I only…”
“Calm yerself, lass,” Sophie responded, waving a hand. “My grandson is a clever man, with a mind of his own. I daenae expect him to defer to me as though he were a child. He’s the Laird of our clan, and he does as he pleases. I take it that a feast is bein’ arranged?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
Sophie nodded, gesturing to a low footstool beside her chair. Melody sank into it, wrapping her arms around her knees. The fire crackled, flames jumping merrily up the chimney. There was an almost hypnotic quality to the shifting fire, something that drew her in and made her begin to feel strangely sleepy. Thecrackling sound filled her ears, and she leaned forward, eyes drifting closed.
“Ye slept poorly, I take it?” Sophie said, her amused voice cutting into Melody’s thoughts.
Jerking awake, Melody straightened, swallowing.
“Yes, I am tired. My Lady, I wonder if I might ask you some questions. I find this situation strange, to say the least.”
“It is unusual,” Sophie agreed. “Plain Sophie will do, by the way. I imagine all of this is very different from the English society and social mores ye are used to, aye?”
“Oh, certainly. Although, of course, I can’t call myself an expert on English society. Far from it.”
“And why’s that?”
Melody hadn’t expected to be called out so bluntly on this matter. Back home, statements were not contradicted. It wasrudeto contradict or question. One had to be careful in the way one placed one’s words. There was a circular way of doing things, and directness was, quite frankly,vulgar.
“I… I’m something of a wallflower,” Melody managed at last. “I’m not at all like my sister. She is forward and confident, and afraid of nothing. I imagine girls often think their elder sister is both fearsome and wonderful, but in my case, it really does seemtrue. I used to follow her around balls and parties, and let her speak for me. Now that she is gone, I find that I cannot speak for myself. It’s a strange situation, and I do not like it.”
“Wallflower,” Sophie responded thoughtfully. “Ye mean that ye are shy?”
“Yes. I don’t have much of a turn of phrase.”
“Turn of phrase,” Sophie snorted, shifting. “Well, nor does Callum. He’s nay poet or wordsmith, and nor does he need to be. Fine words are all very well, but at the end of the day, a word is just that. A word. Anybody who says that words are more powerful than actions had never been struck over the head with a hammer and told to compare it to a well-chosen insult.”
Melody considered this. “Perhaps so, but a well-chosen insult will sting long after the pain of the hammer blow has faded.”
Sophie shot her a long, amused look. “Well, now, a wallflower couldnae be as sharp as that. Ye do yerself a disservice, lass. I imagine that it’s easy enough to fade into obscurity in a crowded London ballroom. The wild Highlands of Scotland, however, are a different thing altogether. Now, I ought to offer ye a tour, but me old joints are nae what they were, and I daenae like to walk far. But ye must have questions, so ask me whatever ye like.”
Melody thought for a moment. She had the sense that the old woman would run out of patience relatively quickly, so perhaps it would be best to start with her most pressing questions. Notthemost pressing, as offending the woman would do no good.
I shall start in the middle, then.
“Does Callum have a scar over his heart?” she asked aloud, tapping the place below her own collarbone. She didn’t mention the pamphlet picture, and the raised, knotted scar drawn onto the strange wolf-man there. At the time, it had seemed like a strange detail to include. Was it meant to imply that he had been staked once, as if he were a monster, only to survive the process?
She suspected that Sophie was very wrong about the power of words, as the words written beneath Callum’s picture still remained etched in her mind.
Kinslayer. What a terrible accusation. An old and vicious term. Deeper than calling someone a murderer, somehow.
