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or three deep breaths later, her body rejected the air and she began to cough. Smoke was thick in the air. The room reeked of stale ale, sweat, rancid fat, vomit, urine—Margaret stopped herself from identifying any more. Andrew guided her farther into the room. The rushes were piled so deep on the floor that her footing was unsteady, her shifting feet stirring the odors. There were two shuttered windows that seemed to do little to vent the smoke and provided no light, a weak glow from the brazier and four oil lamps, one on each of the four trestle tables that lined the walls.
     
    A half dozen men sitting on benches surrounding a small brazier in the center of the room turned toward the newcomers. Their expressions were difficult to make out in the dim light, but their sudden silence felt hostile.
     
    Celia stepped closer to Margaret. “Mistress, we cannot stay in such a place.”
     
    Thinking much the same, Margaret’s instinct was to turn and run. But she had nowhere to go. “This is but the tavern,” she said, “the inn rooms must be cleaner or surely my uncle would have no custom.”
     
    “Men do not care about such things,” Celia persisted.
     
    Margaret could not allow herself to lose heart now. “We are not so fine we cannot clean a room to suit us.”
     
    A man moved toward them from the far end of the tavern, wiping his hands on his tunic. Margaret’s heart lifted as she recognized her uncle’s rolling sailor’s gait—from a career of smuggling. Murdoch Kerr was the fourth son, youngest brother to Margaret’s father. He was broad-shouldered, bow-legged, with a barrel of a stomach. His nose hugged his face unevenly, the result of many a drunken brawl, and his thick brows parted not over his nose but rather over his right eye, where a scar prevented new growth. He wore a felt cap—Margaret guessed that his pale red hair was thinning, or gone. Not a handsome man, but as a girl Margaret had prayed her husband might be just like Uncle Murdoch. He always had a smile and a tale for her, and though he thought Christiana’s visions were the dreams of a madwoman he was one of the few people who could make her mother laugh. He was strong and quick. And Margaret had always felt safe in his company—for which she was particularly grateful at the moment, as the others in the tavern continued to stare. She smiled and held out her arms to her uncle.
     
    He ignored them. “Nephew, God help me, you’re a fool to bring Maggie here in this storm. You did not cross the firth in this?” Murdoch was not smiling.
     
    “We did, but it was not my choice to bring her, Uncle.”
     
    “He is not to blame,” Margaret said, searching Murdoch’s face—it was familiar in feature but alien in mood. His scowl frightened her. “Will you not greet me, Uncle?”
     
    Grudgingly, Murdoch came forward and hugged her. “You are soaked through, Maggie,” he said as he stepped back. Glancing from Andrew to Margaret, he gestured to a doorway toward the rear of the large room. “Come away in. If it is weighty enough to bring you all this way, it is not to be discussed in a public room. Though none other are so warm as this. Sim,” he called to a man wiping one spot on a table as he stared at them. He was tall and skinny, with fair hair thinning early. “Bring peat for the brazier above, and some ale.”
     
    Murdoch led them out the unlatched door and up an outside flight of stairs to the first floor. Celia stayed close to Margaret as if fearful of being left behind. Murdoch hustled all three through an outer wooden door and into a vestibule with a hide-covered doorway to each side and a wooden door ahead. He lifted the hide to the right and Margaret and the others stepped into a bedchamber, the bed a solid structure heaped with soiled linens. If her uncle had servants, whatever he paid them was too much. But, sweet heaven, it would be good to rest her head.
     
    “It is filthy,” Celia whined.
     
    Murdoch growled. “I