Curses on him. Curses forever.

She didn’t know what she’d expected, not really. He didn’t know her. She’d accused him of just as much, hadn’t she?

Why then, had she hoped for him to be pleased for her?

And why did his reaction strike at her heart as it had?

Why had she struggled against the need to cry? He had very nearly broken her down without doing anything other than behaving as he had. He hadn’t laid a hand on her, hadn’t shouted or put her down.

He had only neglected to be happy for her.

So why had a wave of pure heartache hit her the way nothing had since the day her mother died?

Even then, she had expected the day to come. If anything, it had been a blessing for Mama to finally go. She had suffered enough in her life and would go on to her eternal reward, one which she richly deserved.

It had been a dreadful, sad day nonetheless. One which she and Beatrice had ended in Beatrice’s bed, arms wrapped around each other the way they’d slept as little girls. Instead of whispering and giggling, the way little girls did, they had cried themselves to sleep. They were alone in the world except for each other, and they had known it.

Perhaps that was what had struck at her heart so suddenly, out in the wet night with Derek looking down at her in such disapproval: the sudden understanding that she was alone. Truly, impossibly alone. No Beatrice.

And no Derek.

She hadn’t known until just then, that very moment when he had refused to share her happiness, that she didn’t have him, either.

Had she been looking for him when she’d rushed out of the tavern? Thinking back, yes. Yes, she had. Not that she would’ve been able to find him if she hadn’t run straight into him, but the need to see him had been in the back of her mind. The need to see one person who might understand how happy she was just then. Someone who wasn’t a complete stranger.

He hadn’t joined in her happiness.

He had reminded her how silly he thought she was.

She had no one.

The room behind the tavern was smaller than the one she was accustomed to at home, but she’d never required much space. That wasn’t a concern.

The concern was in how alone she was. It had never been more clear than at that moment, sitting in a cramped little room with no windows. Nothing but a straw-filled pallet for a bed, a shelf, and hooks for clothing and a candle. A chipped wash basin and pitcher, beside which sat a small cake of brown soap.

At least the candle’s light added a bit of cheer, reminding her of many quiet evenings spent with her sister, sitting by her mother’s bedside as she’d embroidered or knit or mended. Mama used to scold her for doing such work in low light—it was that type of work one did in the day, in front of a window, to lessen the strain on the eyes.

Mama had scolded her for many things.

Margery shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut as though that would push away the memories. They felt disloyal. A daughter had no right to think such things about her mother. Mama had been sick for so long, she’d naturally been difficult and unhappy and easily upset.

Remembering her life that way did nothing to make her little room seem more cheerful, and that was what she needed. Someplace cheerful. A room to escape to at the end of the day, someplace to be alone and rest.

How exactly did a person cheer up a room so utterly devoid of cheer?

A brisk knock at the door made her jump. The fact that the door swung open at the slightest touch did little to soothe her. She’d have to devise a way to remedy this.

The tavern’s owner stayed in the tight corridor dividing her room from a storage room in which jugs and casks were kept. Besides the tavern itself, the only other room on the bottom floor was what passed for a kitchen—one which, even in her most positive, determined frame of mind, Margery couldn’t help but gag slightly at the sight of. It made her wonder about the food she’d eaten earlier in the day, albeit in another establishment.

“Just wanted to be sure you were gettin’ on all right in here,” he nearly barked in his gruff, brusque manner. So very different from the men she’d known.

She didn’t move from the bed, sitting with her knees drawn tight together and her back straight. “I’m doing well. Thank you.”

He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. No matter what Derek seemed to believe, she wasn’t without instinct when it came to those around her. The owner, who’d introduced himself as Hamish, was not a threat. His face turned ten shades of red just being so close to where she sat, when a half-closed door stood between them.

“If yer needin’ anything, you can use the broom in the corner to bang on the ceiling and alert me. That’s what the last girl did.”

“What did she need?”

Where had the question come from? She had no idea. It seemed an appropriate thing to ask, since Hamish had brought it up first.

He cleared his throat again—louder, this time. “Och, once, a patron…” He looked at the floor, scuffing it with the toes of his worn leather shoes.

Margery’s head spun. She could almost see it in her head: a young woman, with nothing but a broom to defend herself with, using it to bang on the ceiling to call for help.

“It was only the one time, you understand,” he continued, flustered. “And nothing came of it. I made sure of that, you can believe it.”

She looked at the door again, her forehead creasing.

He took her meaning.

“I can have it repaired,” he assured her. “First thing in the morning, I’ll inquire about a new door with a working latch.”

“Thank you very much,” she breathed, unable to raise her voice louder than a whisper. She hadn’t thought to ask about her security—or whether there would be any at all.

It was only one night. She would be fine for one night. Wouldn’t she?

Once she was alone again, truly alone, she went to the door. Sure enough, the latch was useless. Had the man who’d threatened the girl broken it? Or was it always broken? No matter. What mattered was finding a way to make things right.

She turned in a slow circle, as though a solution would suddenly present itself. Oh, what would Derek say if he knew she’d rushed headlong into this predicament without inquiring about the conditions?

Why did she keep thinking about him?

There had to be something which would make her feel safer. There was a metal handle attached to the inside of the door, a ring which was still intact. The hooks for her clothing were mounted on the wall to the right of the door. She pulled her few belongings from her pack—underclothes, a kirtle, another pair of stockings, shoes which Beatrice had insisted she take along, being in better condition than her own.

Touching the shoes brought tears to Margery’s eyes. What would her sister think if she knew what the journey had come to?

There’s no time for this, Beatrice’s voice reminded her in its typical no-nonsense manner. You need to find a way to secure yourself, or there will be no hope of getting sleep tonight.

This was a truth Margery acknowledged rather grimly. She wouldn’t sleep a wink until she was certain she would go the night unmolested. But how?

Derek’s face flashed in the forefront of her mind. Oh, if she only had him to keep her safe…

Silliness! Beatrice admonished her.

Margery could almost see her—hands on her hips, red hair billowing around her head like a sail in the wind, her creamy skin turning red as her ire grew.

You took care of yourself before meeting him, did you not? You survived the trip to Silloth using nothing but your wits. You can do this, too.

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Yes, she had taken care of herself, and she had survived. She’d even found a way onto the ship and had hidden herself successfully until they’d docked in Kirkcaldy.

With a shrewd eye, she surveyed the door once again. So long as there was something barring it from opening fully on first being pushed, she could rouse herself in time to take hold of her broom and scream at the top of her lungs, if necessary. Oh, would that she had possession of a dirk, something more dangerous than a gnarled old broom handle. But it would have to do.

The stockings…

She was quick to peel off the pair she was wearing—soiled after many days of travel, she wouldn’t have worn them again until they’d been washed—and tied them to the door’s handle. Then, she tied the other end to one of the hooks on the wall, leaving no slack whatsoever. The cloth was taut, leaving no room to swing the door open unless force was used. She would have time to go on the defensive, if the situation called for such action.

It would have to be enough, just as washing up using the pitcher and basin would have to be enough. Oh, for a washtub, someplace she could wash her hair and truly scrub the dirt from her skin. It would feel as though she were washing the entirety of her past away, and that wasn’t entirely an unwelcome notion.

To start fresh. Clean. Putting all the crushing disappointment behind her.

That was life, or so she’d been taught. The idea that penance and self-sacrifice were the true way had been driven into her since the day she was born. As much a part of her as the color of her eyes or her somewhat crooked smile.

She reflected on those early lessons as she unwound her braid, running her fingers through her hair to loosen any dirt which had settled inside. What would it have been like to grow up in a village such as Kirkcaldy, where there might be friends and laughter and perhaps even a suitor or two?

Naturally, there would’ve been hard work. Nobody in the village was exactly well-to-do—quite the opposite, in most cases she’d seen over the course of the day. But life had been difficult on the farm, too, and without anyone’s help but her sister’s, and the occasional offer of assistance from the miller. He had his own work, of course, and was of advanced age. They couldn’t accept it.

So, the farm had shrunk considerably from what it once was, back before Papa had passed away. All the animals had to be sold until all that was left was a cow, two pigs and a handful of chickens. Enough to get them through. There was simply never enough help, and never enough money to hire it.

So much disappointment. Seemingly endless years spent watching out the window of her mother’s sickroom. Watching for what? She couldn’t have said then and still didn’t know. For something. Anything.

Life.

She had always been certain of there being more out there, somewhere. A place where she wouldn’t have to feel so lonely, as though everything of value had passed her by. Somewhere she could shed the years of playing healer to a woman who would never heal. Where she could be young, as she’d never had the chance to be.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat which she quickly squelched.

What were the chances of her being young and carefree in a room such as the one she was about to bed down in? Very slim, indeed. Perhaps nonexistent.

She fell asleep the moment her head hit the flat, lumpy pillow, the smell of stale ale and meat roasted long ago already less prominent than it had been on first arriving in her new home.