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have lost my maidservant. It is difficult to find the time to come up here to sort things out.”
     
    Margaret signaled to Celia to hold her tongue. She felt suddenly very unsure of their welcome and thought it unwise to fuss. She hung her wet cloak on a peg by the door, pushed the soiled bedding to the floor, and sat down on the mattress— which had little stuffing, and none of it sweet. She gestured to Celia to do likewise. Andrew perched on the edge of a table.
     
    Murdoch folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the wall near the hide-covered doorway. “Now what is this all about?”
     
    “I must find Roger, Uncle,” said Margaret. “I fear for him after Jack Sinclair’s murder. I must warn him.”
     
    “You call it murder, eh? What says murder and not a fight lost?”
     
    Margaret could glean nothing from her uncle’s expression. Feeling as if she were edging out onto thin ice, she tested it with, “What can you tell me of his death?”
     
    “Naught, but I’ve seen worse wounds from a brawl.”
     
    “I never knew Jack to brawl,” she said softly, but firmly.
     
    Murdoch snorted. “All men like a fight.”
     
    That was nothing Margaret was ready to judge, but she did not believe Jack had been brawling on the occasion of his death. “I saw his body. His throat and his belly were slashed, Uncle. He was murdered.”
     
    “How did you see?” Andrew asked, horrified.
     
    She did not meet his eyes. “I had to be certain it was him.”
     
    Murdoch shook his head, pushed himself away from the wall. “A fine job of consoling and reassuring her you did, Andrew.” He lowered his voice. “You cannot poke about in these times, Maggie. You’ll get yourself and me in trouble.” His voice at last held a flicker of warmth, which encouraged Margaret.
     
    “I must find my husband,” she insisted.
     
    “For all you know he found passage to Bruges and is with your father.” Malcolm Kerr had settled his affairs and fled to Bruges after the slaughter at Berwick the past spring, worried that Perth might be next.
     
    “Roger thought Father’s flight cowardly. He would not follow.”
     
    Murdoch raised his uneven brows in doubt.
     
    “When did you last see Roger?” Margaret asked.
     
    Murdoch frowned down at the floor. “I don’t recall. Jack came here asking about him, too. Why did you think Roger would be here?”
     
    Margaret told him about the letter sent from Edinburgh.
     
    “He sent only the one message?”
     
    Margaret cursed herself for blushing as she nodded.
     
    Murdoch grunted. “You think to bide here while you look for a man who has no reason to be here and hasn’t seen fit to send word to you since before Christmas?”
     
    Margaret had expected resistance, but not unkindness. She tried to keep her voice steady, confident. “I hoped my maid and I might be welcome.”
     
    “And why should I welcome you? You’ll be naught but trouble.”
     
    Don’t drop your head, she thought. Don’t let him know how you doubt yourself. “Kin are always welcome in the house of a Kerr.”
     
    “In a house, mayhap. This is an inn. I depend on paying customers here. You two cannot bed with men—you need a chamber to yourselves. Two paying customers you lose me, or more.”
     
    “I shall pay you,” Margaret said. She had thought he would not have much custom at present and could therefore spare the room. She felt very naive.
     
    Murdoch growled. “I cannot take your siller, Maggie.”
     
    For that she was grateful, for she had little, but it was not the time to inform her uncle of her penury.
     
    Murdoch’s voice softened. “You should not be in Edinburgh. What would your father say if he sailed into Perth and heard you were down here among the English soldiers? They will come sniffing about. They can think of only one reason women might come to the town—to service them. Oh, Maggie, you must be gone. Back to Perth with you. And your fancy maid.”
     
    Had her father