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they?
    “Father said that the Chattans would come up here from time to time,” Laren answered. “You know, always wanting us to right their curse.”
    There was a beat of silence and then Anice asked, “Do you believe in it?”
    “The curse?” Laren laughed. “Of course not.”
    “What is the curse?” Cora asked. She must be very young, Margaret concluded, because of the honesty of her question.
    “They claim an ancestor of ours placed a curse upon them that the males all die when they fall in love,” Anice answered.
    “And it is nonsense,” Laren said. “A wives’ tale.”
    “What is a wives’ tale?” the child questioned.
    “Just what Laren said,” Anice said. “A bit of nonsense. Run along now and fetch Dara. She needs to know our guest is awaking.”
    Listening to them, Margaret’s heart had gone cold with realization. They were the Macnachtan.
    “It’s terrible about the accident,” Anice said. “I’m glad she isn’t awake yet. Dara was saying she didn’t know how we would let Lady Margaret know that almost all of her party was dead. Everyone but that Indian gentleman, and we still don’t know if he will live.”
    Rowan was alive . She wasn’t alone. Thanks be to God.
    And she wasn’t here without a purpose.
    Bravely, Margaret opened her eyes.
    This time, the light didn’t bother her as much and she could see she was in a rather plain bedroom with cream-colored walls and green draperies. The bed she lay in was a simple four-poster one. The coverlet over her was a quilt.
    The weak winter light of an overcast day filled the room. Margaret estimated it must be sometime after mid-morning.
    But what interested her were the two women.
    They were both lovely and around the age of twenty. They didn’t appear to show the anger one reserved for an enemy. Instead, they viewed her with compassion in their eyes.
    And still she did not dare trust them.
    The one to Margaret’s right, the one called Anice, had curly brown hair that she wore styled on top of her head. Laren had straight hair more blonde than brown. They shared inquisitive blue eyes, pert noses, and full lips.
    Anice was obviously more meticulous about her appearance. She’d tied a green ribbon through her curls and wore a ribbon of the same color around her neck. Her dress was of the same homespun brown as her sister’s except that she had added rosettes fashioned out of ribbon around the bodice. If she’d made those herself, she was clever with a needle.
    Laren appeared more reserved. She wore her hair in a long braid and her hands showed that she was no stranger to work.
    “You are awake,” Anice said, sounding genuinely pleased. “And look at you. You don’t appear the worse for wear.” She leaned forward with a smile.
    Margaret started to speak, to warn them to stay away from her. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Her tongue felt thick, her throat dry.
    “You must be starved and thirsty,” Laren said, reaching for a pot of tea that sat on a bedside table. There was also a mound of cloths that appeared to have been used for her care, a basin and pitcher, and a candlestick with the candle burned down to the stub.
    “The tea is not hot,” Laren warned, pouring a cup and offering it to her, “but perhaps that is best. We need to put something nourishing in you.”
    She was right, but Margaret feared moving her arms. She remembered the terrible pain of them breaking and of her hips and her legs . . .
    “Let me plump the pillow,” Anice offered, and placed a gentle hand under Margaret’s shoulder to help her sit up.
    “I can’t,” Margaret managed to say, her voice as dry as a rusty hinge.
    “Yes, you can,” Anice encouraged her. “I’ll help.” Again, she placed her hand under Margaret’s shoulder.
    This time, Margaret let Anice lift her—and was shocked by the absence of pain.
    She frowned and looked to her left arm, the one she had used to attempt to reach for the book in that horrible moment after