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“I want them back,” I said.

“You shall have them two years hence, when your time here is up,” my uncle announced. “Till then, you will stay. We have need of the good money your solicitor is to send us each month.”

“My father sent me to you, trusting that I would be safe and loved,” I said. “He trusted you, his own brother.”

My uncle took out his snuffbox, removed a pinch, and this time offered it to my aunt. “Have you considered that I enjoy settling accounts with your father through you? You will stay,” he said again.

I waited till they had both indulged in their hearty sneezes.

“Will you tie me up to keep me?” I asked. “For that is what you will have to do.”

“If it becomes necessary.” His nose twitched in readiness for another sneeze. “Meantime, you will remain seated on that settle till morning, and your aunt will stay with you and keep watch for the rest of the night. I will make decisions the morrow.”

“You will go out again on the boat?” my aunt asked him, wiping her nose on her serviette. “Without my help?”

“No. I will be at work on the beach. You must keep both eyes on her, and I will go back about our business. The ship is well under. But there is good substance washing in on every wave, and we’ll not be denied it for this whelp of a girl. I’ll be there till morning.”

Aunt Minnie nodded.

They were speaking openly in front of me now. There was no further need of secrecy.

Aunt Minnie dished up three plates of finnan haddie and set them, steaming, on the table. I had eaten nothing but the oatcake Mrs. Stuart had given me. The smell of the smoked, buttery fish made my stomach lurch. One bite and I would vomit. But I must eat. I needed to be strong if I was to follow my plan and escape.

My aunt was murmuring words. “My Lamb! You are my Lamb,” and I saw that the giant dog was lying by her feet, his big head on her lap. From time to time, she pulled off a morsel of the haddie and fed it to him.

He snuffled contentedly.

“You’ll get what’s left,” she told him.

There was no other sound but the scraping of knives on plates and the gusting of the outside wind.

When we had finished, my uncle nudged back his chair and knelt beside it. My aunt lit the three candles and knelt opposite him. I stayed seated.

“Josie,” my uncle barked.

“No,” I said. “You may choose to be a hypocrite, but I will not pray in your company.”

“Kneel!” he shouted, and before I could gauge his intentions, he rose, kicked my chair back, and forced me to my knees.

I put my fingers in my ears. He could not make me participate further.

Instead of prayers, the words
Help me! Help! Me!
repeated over and over in my mind.

Soon my uncle would leave Raven’s Roost and go on with his murderous mission. I did not untie the drawstring on my pocket but surreptitiously fingered the bottle through the heavy flannel of my dress.

When he went, there would be only my aunt left.

My aunt Minnie.

And me.

And Lamb.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

H
E WENT.

My aunt set herself by the fire.

“Scrape what’s left of the fish into Lamb’s bowl,” she ordered me. “Wash the dishes and put them away. It’s time you put yourself to working around here.”

I stood obediently. My mind was on the sleeping potion in my pocket. If I was to get away, now was the time.

Lamb followed me as I went in the kitchen. I scraped the remaining pieces of finnan haddie into his bowl, but secreted the hard skin and the brittle bones in a cup that I set at the back of the highest shelf I could reach.

From the shelf above it, the Toby Jug pirate watched me slyly.
I know what you’re up to,
his look said.
You think you can do this?

Lamb slobbered over the haddie in his dish, then stood up on his hind legs, whining at the high shelf. I realized he could smell the strong, smoky reek of the fish skeleton and bones.

“Come here, Lamb,” my aunt called. “Ye had a taste for that haddie, didn’t ye, boy! There’s none left. Ye must be grateful for what ye got and not be beggin’ for more.”

The dog ran to her at once.

She bent over, talking to him in whispers.

I poured hot water from the pot on the stove into the basin and began to wash the plates. She was giving Lamb his orders, and I surmised what they would be. He was to guard me should she sleep. He was to guard the door and the window and the stair.

Furtively I watched as he lay down beside her. When I moved, he moved. I wiped the plates dry and stacked them.

My aunt sat upright in the chair. I would have liked to pocket a piece of yesterday’s bannock that was wrapped in a scrap of muslin on the counter. It would be food to take with me. But I did not dare. Not with that hard stare of hers that followed my every move.

“If you want to go to the outhouse, go now,” she said. “There’ll be no leaving this room for what’s left of the night.”

“I will.” Would there be a chance to run once I got outside? What if it was simple as that? It did not matter that it was still dark, that I had no money, that the storm was still roaring. I would go.

Where was Eli? I could not go without saying goodbye. Could I say, “Come for me. Find me! If you share my feelings, if you love me, don’t let me go”?

I wiped my hands dry and pushed open the door, feeling the snap of the cold, the slap of the wind. Feeling the heavy beat of my heart.

Lamb came with me.

He lay in front of the outhouse till I had finished and accompanied me back inside. There was no escape. Not yet.

My aunt was where I had left her.

“Reach me the brandy, girl,” she ordered. “Sweep the floor, then sit on the settle where I can see you.”

I brought the bottle and glass to her. She half filled the tumbler and took a swig, then thrust the bottle at me and nodded toward the table. I carried the bottle back and set it where it had been, then got the whisk and swept as she had ordered. I sat again on the settle, touching the sleeping potion in my pocket.

Which of the two of them should I tend to first?

My aunt! Two or three drops in her brandy. But how would I do it without her seeing?

I waited, planning, my body pulled so tight into itself that my legs cramped and my spine ached.

I thought about how strange it was. I, Josie Ferguson, sheltered, pampered, had found that I could be forceful and daring and brave. Perhaps I had always been, but I had not needed to use those qualities until I had come to Raven’s Roost
. “
Needs must,” my father would have said. I took careful heed of my aunt.

At times, her eyes drooped as if she were about to sleep and, when I saw that, I coughed or scraped my feet along the floor.

“You are too noisy, girl,” she snapped, and I muttered, “Sorry, Aunt Minnie.”

She must not sleep yet. She must be awake and drink of the brandy.

I slid to the edge of the settle, took the little bottle, unstoppered it with my thumb over the lip, and kept it upright inside my coat pocket.

The second I stood she spoke. “Sit, girl! Do not aggravate me again!”

“I am about to stoke the fire, Aunt,” I said. “The turf has most burned away.”

“Huh,” she grunted. “Be quick.”

Lamb had arisen, but at the sound of her voice, he lay back down.

With my free hand, I placed two bricks of turf on the smoldering fire.

She was imbibing again, the glass almost empty.

“May I replenish this for you?” I asked. Before she could answer, I took the glass to the dining table and, my back to her, poured brandy from bottle to tumbler.

“Don’t be drinking any of it yourself, girl,” she said sharply. “I won’t have a thief under my roof.”

Except you and my uncle,
I thought, but did not say. This was not the time to vex her.

I cupped the sleeping draft in my hand and tilted it toward the glass. I was shaking so much that more than I’d intended ran into the brandy. “One drop,” Eli’s grandmother had told me. I must have used six or more.

But Mrs. Stuart had not imagined this situation. The more the better.

Quickly I swirled the drink around and carried it to Aunt Minnie.

“No need to wheedle at me with your
may I
’s and your sugar-sweet voice,” she said sharply. “Leave the glass down and get back on the settle. I mind how impertinent you are. Stay still now!”

I sat.

My thumb was numb from stoppering the bottle, and I eased it away and under cover of my skirt, replaced the cork.

She took a sip of brandy. And another. She smacked her lips.

Her eyes were still open.

Was she never going to fall asleep?

Did the potion not work? What if my uncle Caleb came back? Came roaring in, knocking me senseless, scourging me for my behavior? Waking my aunt, setting Lamb on me?

It was warm in the room, the fire red hot now and crumbling. There was no sound save the wind outside. If my uncle did come, I wouldn’t hear him for the storm. I must hurry, get away.

Sleep! Sleep!
I silently urged my aunt.

At last her head dropped to her chest. I heard a snore. It could not have been more than a minute since she had drained what was left in her glass, but it seemed an hour.

“Aunt Minnie?” I whispered.

“Aunt Minnie?” Louder.

I stood.

I did not touch my aunt, though I would have liked to shake her shoulder to make sure that her slumber was deep. But I sensed if I did so, Lamb would jump at my throat. I eased the empty glass from her hand.

After another minute had passed, I went into the kitchen, every nerve tense as I waited for the sound of Lamb rising. The sound came. Then the heavy pad of his feet as he walked after me, the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck.

He did not leap on me. The kitchen must be permitted.

I reached up and took down the cup of skin and bones.

There was panting behind me. He smelled them. He wanted them.

I poured a goodly dram from the little bottle over the fish, set it down, and watched him gulp it away in two mouthfuls. He licked the bowl.

My aunt was slumped over in the chair as if she might fall off, her breathing loud as the bellows she used to gust on the fire.

I kept my eyes on Lamb.

It took him even less time to sleep.

Cautiously I touched him with my toe.

He did not stir.

For a few moments, I stood watching both of them and listening to the howl of the wind in the chimney and the creep of the turf embers.

Then I ran to get a chair. I dragged it under the small, locked cupboard, put my hand into the evil Toby Jug, and pulled out the key.

The lock turned easily. This cupboard had been opened many times.

By the light of the lantern and the glow from the fire, I peered inside.

There was a flour sack tied at the top. When I opened it, I saw the shimmer of gold, coins, medals, a gold chain belt set with red stones, a small silver cup. I picked up the cup. It was heavy, and I saw that there was script on it. With difficulty I read my father’s name,
DUNCAN FERGUSON,
and below it,
CHRISTENED THIS DAY OF
3
APRIL
1768.

Tears sprang to my eyes. My uncle Caleb had somehow purloined my father’s christening cup. I had been taught not to hate, but it was hate for my uncle that rose, scalding in my throat.

A sound in back of me caused me to start. My uncle?

My aunt, awake?

Lamb?

But it was only a tree branch scraping the wall. Blown by the force of the wind.

I groped farther into the cupboard. There were more coins, a gold chain with a crucifix . . . and something else. Something hard and heavy, wrapped in a cloth.

I pulled it out.

It was a pistol. I understood nothing of pistols but sufficient to know not to point it at myself or anywhere else. I stared at it. Had my uncle killed with this? If he tried to come after me, might he bring this along? Should I take it? The deadly blackness of it, the burnish of the barrels, terrified me. I took a moment to study the mechanism. Was there a bullet in the barrel or the chamber or whatever the shooting part was called? I held the pistol away from me and looked and saw the shine of a bullet. Hastily, before I could think different, I slid the pistol into my pocket. If it went off in there, might it shoot my leg off? I was breathing hard, and the meal of finnan haddie was troubling my stomach. Quickly I extracted three sovereigns from the flour sack. I could not bring myself to take more, though more would surely make my escape easier. In this house of thieves, I would not become one. The pistol was pardonable. Its disappearance would remove it from my murdering uncle.

I dropped the coins and my father’s cup into the other pocket along with the sleeping draft, glanced back at the sitting room to make sure my aunt and Lamb were still asleep, then locked the cupboard and dropped the key back in the Toby Jug. The Toby face grinned maliciously at me.
You’ll be in trouble. Just wait till Caleb catches up to you.

He won’t! He won’t!

I climbed down from the chair so clumsily that I almost fell, then scrambled for the stairs.

In the cold, gusty room, I tied my shawl tightly about me. More than anything I wanted to keep Eli’s coat. It was a belonging of his, the only part of him I would ever have. I laid it over the trunk that still held my few possessions and wiped impatiently at the stinging in my eyes. There was no time to waste in being sentimental. My opal brooch was still there, safely pinned. I wrapped myself in my heavy cloak and took one last look around. My bonnet sat perkily on the trunk. I had worn that in another life. It would be only a hindrance to me now. Mrs. Chandler would not approve of a lady leaving the house without it. The white muslin dress hung on its peg, the blue satin dancing slippers below it. Nothing more of my own could I carry, and I wanted nothing that was theirs. Except the pistol! I pulled it out and held it tightly in my hand.

It would have been fitting to slam the door of the room behind me as I left, but instead I closed it quietly. Everything should be quiet till I got away.