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She knew Aiden was busy with chores, but the littlest Lindsay had to be constantly guided back to the task at hand, which was cleaning years’ worth of dust from the interior of the main rooms. The boy was underfoot when she didn’t want him to be but was nowhere to be found when there was work to be done.
    Blaire took the stairs two at a time and then called for Brannock as she walked the corridors.
    “In here, Blaire,” his quiet voice finally said. She followed the sound, which led her to a long corridor adorned with one large portrait after another. There at the far end sat Brannock on the floor, looking up at the last painting in the gallery.
    “Takin’ a break from yer work?” she asked, striding toward him. But as she got closer, the air from her lungs was nearly sucked away. Her mother stood proud and confident in the final portrait, holding a broadsword in her hands.
    “I ken ye said Mama never lived here, but it does look so like Papa’s miniature.”
    Alpina Lindsay had been gone for ten years, but Blaire would never forget her mother’s regal face. It was most assuredly staring back at her from the portrait. “I do believe ye’re right, Bran. That is indeed Mama.”
    He looked up in surprise, and a tinkling of metal hit the floor. “How did it get here?”
    Blaire wished she knew. “Perhaps she visited when she was younger?” Not that it made any sense. She’d have to ask Aiden again what the solicitor had said about the place. Perhaps she should have listened better the first time he’d told the tale. She looked back down at her young brother and noticed a small pile of pewter figures. “What have ye found there?” She pointed at the floor.
    “Bruce was in a wardrobe with these,” Brannock said absently as his eyes drifted down to the playthings.
    “Bruce?” Blaire echoed.
    “My cat,” he replied, now arranging the little pewter pieces in lines and circles.
    Blaire couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “Ye named yer cat Bruce ?”
    Brannock shrugged. “He was Scotland’s greatest warrior.”
    She sunk down to her knees beside her brother and ruffled his hair. “He was indeed.” Though he’d most likely turn over in his grave if he knew he was the namesake of that scrawny cat. She turned her eyes back to the portrait and stared into the past. “Have ye been comin’ here ta look at the paintin’ while Aiden and I have been workin’ our fingers ta the bones?”
    “Doona be mad, Blaire,” he begged. “I…I just wish I kent her. Ye canna tell much from the miniature. She looks so strong and brave.”
    Blaire kissed the top of his head. “I wish ye’d kent her, too. I wish she was still here with us.” She heaved a sigh. She had at least known their mother, but Brannock had never gotten that chance. “Ye can come and see the portrait all ye want, but we do need yer help as well.”
    Brannock nodded. “All right. Can I put my toys away first?”
    Blaire winked at him. “Aye. I’ll help ye.”
    He held out one pewter piece to her. “I think this one looks like ye.”
    Blaire took the shiny object from him and clasped the cold metal in her hand. Indeed, the figure was a woman, the dress she wore making that fact unmistakable. But in her hand she held a bow and arrow. Blaire’s heart clenched. She’d seen a piece like this before in Sorcha’s collection. What would something like this be doing here of all places? “Let me see the others,” she said as uneasiness settled over her.
    He scooped up the remaining figures and dropped them into her hand. It was odd indeed to see the set. One lass held her hand over her eyes. One held a bolt of lightning in her hand as though she’d snatched it from the sky. Another held a flower outstretched as a gift, and the last lass held a mortar and pestle. “Humph,” she grunted. It was an exact duplicate of Sorcha’s figures. “Where did ye say ye found these again?”
    “In a wardrobe in one of the rooms. Bruce was usin’