STANDING CLOSE ENOUGH to eavesdrop through the chamber door gave Ana no time to hurry away when the Skaraven opened it. Instead she took some steps back, turned to the side and moved as if approaching the chamber like any of the maids. She drew up the pail of wood splits that she carried in front of her.

“Milord.” She bobbed with practiced ease, and kept her head tilted down so the sides of her veil shadowed her face. “I’m sent to tend the fire.”

His hand reached for the pail, and then dropped. “Be quick about it. The lady needs rest.” He strode off.

A lady, now, was she? After coaxing the god-faced demon into her bed, and coyly teaching him how she wished to be sloustered?

Ana allowed herself a smirk. Mistress Thomas deserved to be stripped naked and whipped so all could know her as a hoor. Ana would reveal her discovery with an artful slip of the tongue while among the other chambermaids. For now, she had to continue her pretense, else the Skaraven return. She scratched at the door before entering, and saw the druidess huddled on the bed.

“Fair evening, milady.”

Bobbing again, she went directly to the hearth, where the fire had burned low. With a little smirk, she tossed the scrolls she’d stolen from the dovecote onto the embers. As the flames revived, she covered them with wood. Leaving the pail to one side, she went to the center of the room and folded her hands.

“Might ye need else? Or your master, when he returns?”

“No, and he’s not my master.” Perrin lay down and covered herself with the Skaraven’s blue and black tartan.

Slipping her hand into her skirts, Ana curled her fingers around the hilt of the dagger she carried. If she killed the slut now, it would take from the Skaraven his chosen mate. How it would gratify her to do that. He’d not yet bedded her, and he seemed completely cock-ringed by her wiles, so doubtless he would suffer. But it would not end him to lose his wench, and the murder might expose her own presence in the household. She’d also heard him speak of Bhaltair Flen, expected on the morrow. She would not risk for a few moments of idle pleasure what might be her last chance to cut the old bastart’s throat.

’Tis no’ time to be Oriana Embry again.

“Sleep well, milady,” she said as she withdrew, and walked down the passage leading to the solar.

The laird had yet to retire, but she did find his wife in their bedroom. That they still shared one bed each night disgusted her. Small wonder they spawned like voles. But she kept her expression sweet with simpering deference.

“I thought I’d look in on ye before I found my bed, milady,” she said as Elspeth glanced up from whatever nonsense she was embroidering. “Ye being so poorly of late.”

“In truth I’m feeling a little better tonight.” The lady smiled and nodded at a small tray on the table beside her. “Lady Emeline prepared some broth for me, and for once I’ve kept it in my belly.”

“’Tis a pleasure to hear, milady.”

Her smile grew forced as she silently seethed. That facking healer did nothing but meddle every time she came, and now she was cooking for the stupit cow. She went over to retrieve the tray, and looked at the empty goblet beside the bowl. Small flecks of herbs still clung to the sides. She’d not only made her broth, she’d given her a healing brew.

“Shall I bring ye some fruited oatcakes again?” she asked, alarmed now. “’Twill help keep your belly settled through the night.”

“No, lass. I reckon I’ll sleep well.” Elspeth went back to her stitching.

Clenching her hands on the tray stopped them from shaking. Now thanks to the healer she couldn’t give the laird’s wife her nightly dose of purge potion. She wouldn’t be sick in the morning, which gave Ana the chance to attend to other matters. After she curtseyed and left the chamber she stomped all the way back downstairs.

Lady Emeline would have to leave, and sooner than in twoday.

Wynda nearly collided with her as she came out of the kitchens. “Where’ve ye been, Ana? Cook’s been asking after ye half the night.”

She brushed past the young maid without answering. Inside, the cook looked up with one of her fiercer scowls.

“Ye didnae light the torches in the back this morn again, ye lazy wench.”

“I forgot. Milady needed fresh linens brought from the laundry, and a change of gown.” She thumped down the tray by a pile of unwashed crocks. “’Tis near all I do since she’s spewing from dawn to dusk.”

The older woman eyed her. “’Tis part of yer duties as tending hearths is not.”

Ana almost glanced over her shoulder. So Wynda had not kept silent. There would need to be a remedy for that.

“See it done,” the cook continued, “or pack your things and go back to your village, if ’tis no’ been burnt.”

Again, Ana had to smile and nod and scrape the floor with her skirts until the cook seemed satisfied.

She went out into the great hall, where the laird stood deep in conversation with two of his men. They ignored her as she timidly stopped and hovered near them—for here she was nothing but a maid—but ended their talk a short time later. The guards finally left, and Maddock languidly beckoned her to approach.

“Milord.” Down she went again, and let herself wobble a little as she came back up. “Milady awaits ye in yer chamber, and claims she’s well.” Deliberately she bit her lip and looked at the scuffed tips of her slippers.

As she expected, the laird stepped closer. “She claims?”

“Milady has grown so thin and pale.” She peeped at him before she added, “I reckon the Skaraven healer tries her best, but she doesnae ken how to help. There’s talk of Master Flen come here for Mistress Thomas. As he’s here…might he look in on milady as well?”

He sighed. “Mayhap ’twould be wise.”

“Cook has Master Flen stay near the kitchens when he visits,” she said quickly, “but I’d prepare a chamber nearer the solar and milady.” She smiled shyly at him. “If that would please ye to have him close, milord.”