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Her lips parted. She could not have said, just then, whether it was to curse him or to close that last small space between them.

“How?” she whispered.

He smiled against her mouth without touching it.

“Smile at Seumas again,” he said, “and see.”

Then he pushed himself off the wall and walked away up the passage into the light, and left her standing against the cold stone with her blood pounding and her fists still clenched, and a laugh rising in her throat that she could not keep down. He was jealous. The great MacVey, who had walked out on her that afternoon, was jealous of a boy with a jug, and the triumph of it was wild and sweet and frightening all at once, because she wanted him to come back.

9

Iona stood in the MacVey kitchen with flour on her hands and her sleeves pushed to the elbow, and for the first time in this keep she felt strong enough to fight back.

Nobody had sent for her. Nobody had given her leave. She had come down at first light in her brown working gown with the apron tied over it, and walked in among the pots as if she owned them. The laird could keep his keys from her, and Agnes could cover them with her hand. A woman needed no key to ask what was for dinner.

“Mutton,” the cook said.

She was a broad woman with forearms like a smith’s and a face gone red from her ovens, and she said it to the dough, without looking up.

“Boiled?” Iona asked.

“Aye. Boiled,” the cook said.

“It was mutton yesterday. It was mutton at my wedding.” Iona went to the meat hanging in the cold corner and turned it on its hook. “The men on the wall have stood in the wind all night. Put this in the big pot with leeks and kale and a fistful of oats, and let it go slow till noon.”

The cook’s hands stopped in the dough.

“The laird likes his mutton boiled,” the cook said. “He’s liked it boiled since before yer father’s men put his own father in the ground.”

The kitchen went dead quiet. The two girls by the hearth stared at their feet. Iona felt the words land in her stomach like a stone, and her face went hot, and she did not let it show.

“Then the laird can have his mutton in the broth, with everyone else,” she said. “And ye’ll call me my lady when ye speak to me in this kitchen.”

“This kitchen cooked the old laird’s funeral meats.” The cook slapped the dough over. “It’ll no’ take orders from a Dunmore.”

Iona crossed the floor in three strides and set both floury hands flat on the board, one either side of the dough.

“This kitchen,” she said, “feeds a Dunmore now. She’s eating yer mutton. She’s sleeping under yer roof. And she’s the wife of the man ye call laird, whether ye spit at the name or no’.” She held the woman’s eyes. “Bread goes in now, no’ at noon, so it’s cool enough to cut when the men come in. Eggs beaten into warm milk with honey, on a tray for Lady Mairead before the bell. She’ll swallow that when she willnae touch porridge. Supper I’ll leave to you. Make whatever ye’re proudest of, and I’ll tell the laird whose hand it came from.”

The cook breathed hard through her nose. Iona’s pulse was pounding in her throat. She knew this silence. It was the one that came just before a household decided whether to obey.

Then the cook wiped her hands on her apron and jerked her chin at the nearer girl.

“Ye heard the lady,” the cook said. “Leeks.”

The girl ran. Pride rose in Iona’s chest, hot and fierce, and she had to press her lips together to keep it off her face. It was only broth. But at Dunmore every good day had started exactly like this.

At the scullery tub in the corner, Morag was on her knees among the pots with her sleeves soaked to the shoulder and a streak of soot down her pointed chin. She was smirking into the water.

“Dunmore broth,” Morag said, to nobody. “We’ll all be dead by Sunday.”

One of the girls sniggered. Iona walked over and looked into the nearest pot.

“Ye’ve missed the bottom,” she said. “Do it again, and do it till I can see my face in it.”

Morag’s chin came up, sooty and furious. For a moment she looked ready to throw the pot. Then she bent and scrubbed so hard the water slopped over the rim.

“The salt,” Iona said, turning back to the cook. “Where do ye keep the…”