Chapter 3

Maggie opened her eyes slowly, feeling disoriented but not unpleasantly so. Living this far outside of time and space was a new and thrilling luxury. Maggie wandered the hallways, hoping to catch a scent from the kitchen, a potential sign of dinner. While she found breakfasts hard to navigate, unsure whether to help herself or not, Maggie enjoyed the daily evening feasts in the great hall. There, the whole castle gathered to eat, servants and family alike, all with a clear invitation.

Each meal included more food than Maggie had ever seen gathered together at once. Course after course of potatoes, venison, herring, pie, fruits and vegetables she didn't recognize passed below her face. She sampled them all, often eating to the point of sickness. Each night, she reminded herself that it would all be there waiting for her the following night—and the night after that, and the night after that—but she never truly believed herself. She treated the meals as if they were her last, sure that such good fortune could not last much longer.

Until Mr. Beaton grew dangerously sick, Maggie's entire schedule was dictated by these meals. She was consumed by them, looking forward to them all morning and all afternoon. During Beaton's last few days, however, Maggie had turned her focus toward him and neglected food almost entirely. She was used to such deprivation and hardly noticed the pangs of hunger that hit her every evening. Although it made her ashamed to admit it, part of Maggie was looking forward to the opportunity to return to the great hall, an opportunity made available to her by Beaton's death.

Another part of her—the stronger, more responsible part—told her she had another patient now. As the scent of herring, a staple of the evening meal, grew more and more noticeable, Maggie did not turn into the great hall but rather the kitchen. She made up a plate of herring, potatoes, and bread, filled a bowl with stew, and rushed back up the hall toward Jamie's room.

At his door, she found Mrs. Fitz similarly armed with food.

"Is that for him?" Mrs. Fitz asked, pointing at Maggie's hands.

"Yes."

"What a sweet lass," she said. "I'll take care of him tonight. You go eat in the hall. Get yourself a real meal, I know you haven't had a proper one in days. You're all skin and bones."

So I've been told, Maggie thought, surprised at the disappointment that was slowly creeping over her. She nodded and turned to go but Mrs. Fitz called after her.

"After dinner, the MacKenzie would like to see you."

Maggie's eyes widened. While she had seen him from a distance, she hadn't met Colum MacKenzie yet and was hoping to keep it that way for as long as possible. Colum was small and sick in some way, his legs bowing outward as he walked. He always appeared to be in pain but, when Maggie looked closer, she could see determination—and perhaps anger—blending with the pain. She wondered how he would respond to a new and largely useless member of his staff. She nodded again and began to walk away before being called back again.

"And Maggie, do dress yourself before seeing him."

Maggie looked down at her fully dressed form, trying to figure out what was missing.

"The corset," Mrs. Fitz said. "You're a bit… disordered, dear."

She gestured awkwardly at Maggie's breasts, then looked away and disappeared into Jamie's room. Right, Maggie thought.

In most respects, Maggie had no need for a corset. She had no extra flesh to hem in, as everyone seemed so keen on reminding her. At home, she had only ever worn a corset to Sunday Mass and had always thrown it off herself within seconds of walking in her front door. She hated lacing it up, hated wearing it, and hated looking at herself in it. The inconvenience, discomfort, and artifice irritated her. Despite Maggie's contempt, she had to admit that the corset did serve one useful purpose. It held her breasts in place, dissuading lecherous men from gazing for too long and allowing morally upright gentlemen to acknowledge her existence. Maggie sighed.

She entered the dining hall fully-corseted and considerably less excited than usual. She spotted Broden at the end of a table and worked her way over to him, still carrying her now lukewarm food.

"Hello, Broden," she said.

"Evening, Mistress."

"You can really call me Maggie."

Broden shook his head. "My mother wouldna like that, Mistress."

Maggie smiled. "I wanted to see how you were doing after, uh, what happened with Mr. Beaton."

"I'm all right."

"Good, good," Maggie said. "Were you with him when he died?"

Broden nodded.

"I'm sorry you had to be alone with him."

"I dinna mind, Mistress. I was glad to do it for him. I was with my grandfather when he died and this was similar. I think it made him feel better to have me there. My mother calls it 'bearing witness.'"

"I like that," Maggie said. "I like thinking of it that way."

"Have you ever done that for someone?" Broden asked.

"No. I, uh, I saw someone from a distance."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter." Maggie looked away from Broden and stared at her plate. For once, she hadn't even touched her food.

"Was it someone you loved?" Broden asked.

Maggie felt her throat constrict. She nodded.

"I'm sorry." Broden looked at Maggie sadly. Then, seized by inspiration, he smiled and slid his plate toward her. "Here, have this."

It was empty, except for one squishy, purple ball. Maggie didn't have much of an appetite but Broden looked so pleased with his offering that she had to try it. She picked it up hesitantly and bit into it, causing some of its contents to explode out of the skin and shoot across the table at the crab apple man from the previous night. He glared at Maggie, his already drunkenly red face turning crimson. Broden laughed uproariously and Maggie couldn't help but smile.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she said.

The man grunted at her, then turned to Broden, "Duin do ghob." Shut your mouth.

When Broden did not shut his mouth, the man sighed deeply, downed his beer in one gulp, and left the table.

"Have you never had a stewed plum before, Mistress?" Broden asked, still laughing.

"A what?"

"A stewed plum."

"I've never had a plum at all," said Maggie.

"No." Broden looked scandalized.

"Yes," Maggie said. "It's the sweetest thing I've ever tasted."

"You're from Ireland, yes?"

Maggie nodded.

"And you don't have plums there?"

"We don't."

"It sounds like a sad place, if you don't mind me saying it."

Maggie laughed. "I do mind a bit but you may be right."

Broden smiled like he had just gotten away with something, which, if his mother was strict enough to make him call Maggie, of all people, "Mistress," he had.

"Who was that man?" Maggie asked.

"The little guy?" asked Broden, who at eight was well below four feet and was clearly finding insolence toward adults to be a thrilling new concept.

"I suppose he's a bit short," Maggie conceded.

"That's Angus Mhor. You've made a lifelong enemy but it'll be fine because he doesn't usually fight women."

"That's comforting," said Maggie.

"I have to go home, Mistress. Don't tell my mother about this, all right?"

"I would never."

That night, Maggie walked to Colum's study, buoyed by her interaction with Broden but still frightened. What would he hate about her more? The fact that she served very little purpose at the castle or that when she had tried her hand at something she had failed miserably and let his healer die? She wondered if she'd prefer being thrown out or thrown in the dungeon. With the latter, she'd at least receive some food every once in a while. It seemed too extreme a punishment, though. She felt fairly sure Colum would opt for simple banishment. She was less sure that was truly preferable.

She knocked on his door so shakily she wasn't sure he had heard her. After waiting for at least a minute, she knocked again more vigorously.

"Come in then!"

Maggie entered slowly, surveying the room. The walls were lined with books, totaling at least a hundred. Maggie had read three books in her entire life. Her mother had owned a book on early Irish history and two Bibles, one in Latin and one in Gaelic. When Maggie was bored growing up—a rare occasion with all the work to be done—she used to read the Bibles, side by side, looking for differences and pointing out potential mistranslations to her mother. Her father, who could not read either language, described this practice as "a woman questioning the men of God." It was meant as a criticism but Maggie had never taken it as such.

For a few moments, Maggie stood numbly in the doorway, amazed at the riches around her. In addition to the books, the room contained a beautiful rug, a tapestry, a huge desk, and, most amazingly of all, a bright yellow bird in a cage. Pulling herself back to reality, Maggie hurried over to Colum, seated behind his desk, and attempted a curtsy. She was unaccustomed to the corset's imposed limits on upper body movement and realized too late that she had leaned too far forward, without the ability to correct in time. She fell into the desk, hard, then shot back up to try again.

"Stop that," Colum said impatiently.

"Pardon me, sir."

"Mrs. Fitz told me what you did for our Jamie. I appreciate it. Greatly."

"It was nothing, sir."

"Nonsense. The lad's family. My sister's son and it does mean a great deal to me."

The family connection, as well as Colum's apparent concern and affection, surprised her. She couldn't see how the friendly young man she had spoken to that morning could be related to either Colum or Dougal, each surly and frightening in his own unique way.

"I also know about Mr. Beaton."

Maggie looked at her feet.

"I hear you were very devoted in your care. Did all you could."

"Sir? You're not displeased?"

"Of course I'm displeased," Colum said. "But not with you. I don't expect you to be able to cheat death."

"Thank you, sir."

"How old are you, girl?"

"Eighteen."

"And how long have you been on your own?"

"Two years."

"Then you're not likely to be wanting to leave us anytime soon."

"Sir," Maggie said. "If you'd be willing to give me a position here, I'd be most grateful."

"You can keep your gratitude. I need your work. We're without a healer now and I expect you'll do for the time being."

"Thank you, sir. I'm most—"

"Grateful, I know," Colum interrupted. "You can help Mrs. Fitz as well, whenever she needs it."

"Of course, sir."

"You may go now."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Maggie strode through the door then caught herself and turned back to curtsy, leaning against the wall in order to keep from falling again.

Walking to her room, Maggie realized this was the happiest she had been since leaving home. Two years without the so-called "basic" necessities of food and shelter had made her realize they weren't so basic after all. They were something to be celebrated and it seemed she'd have plenty to celebrate for some time.