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I nodded.

“Get you to bed now.” He turned away from me.

There was to be no good-night embrace as there had always been from my mother, no kiss on the cheek as there had been from my father. No “sleep well, dearest.” Nothing.

These were their manners, and I was not to question.

“Good night,” I told them and picked up my candle.

“Good night, girl.”

I started up the stairs. But I had forgotten my cloak and bonnet that I’d draped on the chair when I first entered Raven’s Roost. I went down again, quietly, to retrieve them.

My uncle was speaking. “Will she be strong enough, Minnie?” he asked.

“In body, yes. In her head, I do not know,” my aunt answered. “We may have to persuade her.”

There was a silence. I clutched the banister, afraid to move. Then my aunt said, “Archie sent a message. There’s a goodly one on its way. He’s been riding along the shore path, keeping an eye on it. He says in all likelihood it’ll be here tomorrow. Praise be that it’s not tonight and her just arrived. We’ll have time to make arrangements afore it gets here.”

“Aye,” my uncle agreed. “I feel in my bones it will be worth the wait. She’s young and strong. She’ll be choice.”

I left my cloak and bonnet where they were and went silently back to my room.

CHAPTER THREE

I
WAS TIRED
, but I was unable to sleep. What did they mean by “choice”? It seemed to refer to my youth and strength. To aid them in the fishing? To help my aunt Minnie in the house? That puzzle, along with the unknown noises and the turmoil of my thoughts, kept me awake. What a strange pair they were, this aunt and uncle. They talked in conundrums. Would I ever be at ease with them? I buried my head in the pillow that smelled of dried leaves and fought my feelings of despair. My hopes that I would have a family, that my aunt and uncle would be soft and loving had been wiped away.

The walls thrummed with the force of the wind, as if it was trying to get in. The ocean roared and raged, booming in my ears. I could hear the surge and suck of it as the waves advanced and crashed on rocks so regularly that I began to time them. Six seconds, the noise getting louder, the crash, the hissing, a long-drawn-out rattling like a stick pulled along a fence, the momentary silence, and then the pattern starting again.

How unfamiliar it all was. Almost frightening.

I got out from under the quilt and climbed on the bed to look again through the window; there was still nothing to see but the clouded dark and an occasional flash of white somewhere far below. It must be the curling of a wave. We were on a cliff, I knew, and the sea filled the space below, the Atlantic, roaring in to smash this northernmost coast of Scotland. My solicitor had shown me Brindle on the map.
I am surprised it is even marked,
he’d said.
I understand it is very small but probably beautiful, in a wild way. Your uncle’s home is on Brindle Point, a mile from the town.

I’d nodded. At that time, I did not care where I would be living. I knew only that I had no home, no parents. Now I had seen Brindle. And it had not looked beautiful.

I’d snuffed my candle long since, but as my eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, I could see the shape of my clothes on the pegs, like mad people swaying to the beat of the sea. There was my white muslin dress in the new Empire style. My mother’s seamstress had made it for me. It was to be worn to the Brailey Ball but now, unused by me, it danced to the ocean’s calling. The dress was transparent. I knew that some of the more daring, sophisticated women had taken to wearing one such without a shift below it, a style popular in France. It was rumored that some of the highborn ladies there appeared in public with bare breasts. I could not fathom this. The seamstress had provided a shift to go under mine. It was a beautiful dress, soft and flowing, and swirled when I walked. My mother had given me her opal brooch to wear at the neck. “My darling Josie,” she’d said. “Do you know how proud your father and I are of you? Do you know how dearly we love you?”

Four days later, they were both dead.

Sobs that I could no longer contain tore at my chest and throat. I got out of bed again, found the brooch where she’d fastened it, and pinned it on my nightgown, then folded my hand over it and tried once more to sleep.

I dozed, but I wakened fully to a
plop, plop, plop.
Disoriented, I could not for a moment think where I could be.

Plop, plop, plop.

I was here, destined to live for two whole years with my strange aunt and uncle.

Plop, plop, plop.

I fumbled for the candle and lit it.

Immediately I saw the cause of the sound. Rain slashed against the high window and fell, drop by drop, from the ceiling into the basin, which, I now realized, had been placed suitably on the stool. When I looked up, I saw a chink in the roof. The basin was half full. What if it overflowed? That would not be a good beginning for my stay in Raven’s Roost. I sat on the bed, the quilt draped around me, watching it, watching how quickly it fell. It was going to slop over unless the rainstorm ceased. I’d have to find a larger receptacle.

Shivering with cold, I took my red shawl, wrapped it about me to cover my nightgown, and opened my door. Close by, I heard loud snores coming from the room next to mine. Which of them was it, making that frightful noise?

I went quickly down the stairs. Somewhere there must be a pot, the one the stew had been in or another, larger. There might be a bucket.

The candle was only a stub. I had to hurry before it went out. I was on the bottom step of the stairs when I heard it. A low rumble, the kind that comes from an animal’s throat when it is about to attack. What was it? Dear heaven!

I turned quickly, stumbling on the hem of my nightgown, tripping over the droop of my shawl, which had slipped from my shoulders, my only frantic thought to get back up the stairs and behind my closed door. But I was not quick enough.

The candle fell from my hand, went out, and in the darkness, I felt the savage grip of teeth on my ankle and that fierce, low growl that made my heart go cold.

“Uncle Caleb,” I screamed. “Help!”

What was it? It had to be the dog!

I tried to tug my foot away, but the slightest movement sent a shard of sharp pain along my ankle and caused the growling to intensify and the teeth to clamp even more tightly.

Perspiration broke out on me. I told myself to stay absolutely still, but instinct took over. I tried once more to free myself and felt the teeth tear across the top of my foot, then dig even deeper into my skin. I held myself stiff. What if he decided to let go of my foot and tear at my throat?

There was the merciful sound of movement above and then the faint glow of a candle and my aunt’s voice: “Lamb! Leave her be!”

Instantaneously, the teeth snapped open, and I whimpered and tried to sit on the stair. In the light from the candle, I saw slobber and blood on my ankle and foot and on the hem of my nightgown. I groaned.

My aunt stepped over me, not even inquiring if I’d been injured or needed attention. “It’s only Lamb,” she said.

A yellow glow filled the living room as she lit the oil lamp and I saw the dog. He was an Alsatian, golden brown. His eyes were fixed on me.

My aunt crouched beside him cooing, “Good dog, Lamb. Good boy, did his duty, so he did.”

This was the dog whose name was Lamb? No lamb had ever had such teeth!

My uncle stood on the step behind me. “What were you doing?” he roared. “Sleekiting down here to spy. Well, there’ll be no spying in my house. You hear me? Mark that well! You’ll find out that Lamb is always on guard.”

I dragged myself upright. When I bent over to look, I saw the two semicircles of teeth marks, each one welling with drops of blood.

My uncle stared down at me. “Are ye all right?” he asked at last, his eyes not even on me but on the kitchen below, and it was as if he’d remembered something, some nicety that he’d forgotten and should use.

I gathered my shawl around me, too shaken to try to defend myself against his accusations.

“Minnie,” he called, “the lass needs a bit of cloth to tie round her foot. And you,” he said to me, “go down and fetch it and then take yourself back to your bed.”

“Stay there, Lamb,” Minnie told the dog, and he sat, his evil gaze no longer on me but on her. I was afraid to go down the stairs past where he was.

“Come on! He’ll no’ touch you now since I talked to him,” my aunt said. “I told you we had to prepare him. Take a cloth from that pile in the kitchen.” She bent down to the dog, whispering to him, stroking his neck, putting her face close to his.

I hobbled cautiously around them, took the top piece of cloth that looked like the tail of a chemise, and hobbled back up the dark stairs.

Plop, plop, plop.

The drops were filling into the basin, and I did not care. Let it overflow. Let it run down the stairs. Let it drown everybody in the house, especially the dog.

I dipped the cloth in the cold water, where bits of debris floated, then bound it round my foot and pulled a stocking over it.

If I’d expected my aunt or uncle to come to my room and inquire about the savage bite, I’d have been wrong. I heard them pad past my door.

Was the dog with them? No. He would still be on guard downstairs. Still. He’d done what he was supposed to do.

He was a good dog.

CHAPTER FOUR

D
ESPITE THE THROBBING
of my foot and my frightening thoughts, I slept. When I wakened, sun was streaming through the small window high on the wall, and I quickly got out from under the quilt and stood on my bed, favoring my right foot.

The sky was blue. Streaky white clouds feathered across it, and I could see over the sea to the far horizon. The water in the basin was almost to the top. I sat on the bed, took off the stocking and the cloth, and examined the teeth marks. There they were, six red points in an almost complete circle on my ankle and gouges across my foot, all caked with dried blood. I prodded them gently. I did not like it that they were inflamed, but at least they were not suppurating.

I stood in the center of the room then, wondering what to do next.

There was a chamber pot under the bed, and I had need of it. But a fastidiousness that I knew to be ridiculous always stopped me from such a convenience. It was the same now. Somewhere there must be an outhouse or water closet. But what about Lamb? Was he still there, at the bottom of the stair?

I had to go. But this time, I would be prepared.

I got dressed in the plainest gingham dress I’d brought, my thickest stockings and sturdiest shoes. As I tried to pull on the shoe, pain raced through my ankle. I clenched my teeth and persisted, tying the laces loosely. There! I was ready.

But Lamb?

I hobbled to the dresser and searched for something I could use to defend myself. There were two long drawers, where I’d put my folded garments, and eight small ones, possibly for writing paper. In the fourth one down, I found a quill pen, the point sharpened to be keen as a needle. The feathers on it were matted and stuck together, but I was not concerned about penmanship. I weighed it in my hand, point out. Yes. If Lamb came at me, I would stab him. For a moment, I wondered if I would be capable of inflicting such pain. But then I became aware again of the misery in my foot and ankle. I would be capable.

I took a few tentative steps down the stairs.

The house was quiet, smelling still of smoke. There was no sign of my aunt or my uncle, no sound. They had gone out. It was apparent that they cared nothing for me that they would leave me without a word on my first morning. They were obviously not concerned about my wounded foot.

Where was Lamb? Had they taken him with them?

I limped warily down the rest of the stairs, holding the banister, the quill clutched in my other fist, point out.

All was quiet.

Now I could see into the room below. It was very tidy. I saw my cloak and bonnet where I’d left them.

I saw Lamb.

He lay by the door, watching me, his ears upright, his tail moving slowly. Last night, in pain and by candlelight, I had not clearly seen him.

I stopped.

He was huge. He could have been part wolf. His mouth hung half open, and I saw his teeth, pointed, white, and shining. I remembered the feel of those teeth and took a tighter grip on the quill.

Hurriedly, I took a step back.

My breath was coming in short, hurtful gasps.

We were watching each other. I sensed that the wrong move would be disastrous.

I wet my lips. “Lamb,” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

“Good dog,” I murmured.

I took another step down, and another.

I was on the floor now, standing perfectly still. I moved toward him, one small hobble at a time, the quill at the ready.

His gaze was disinterested.

I opened the door quietly, closed it behind me, then leaned against the outside wall, taking deep breaths. He’d let me go.

A ridiculous thought slid into my mind. My aunt Minnie must have instructed him not to touch me this morning, and he had agreed. I shook my head to clear it. As if a person and a dog could have a conversation and an understanding. I must not allow myself to have such ridiculous ideas.

I spread my arms wide.

I was out.

The morning was lovely. September weather in Scotland, storming one day, mild the next. It had been that way in Edinburgh. We would plan a picnic, and suddenly summer would be winter, with a cold wind howling down from the Castle on the Rock, blowing its way along Princes Street, lifting the litter in the gutters, sending it spinning.
Enough, Josie. You must not keep looking back. It is now, and you are here.

Behind Raven’s Roost, I saw the shed that was likely where Lamb had been imprisoned the previous night. I let my gaze drift from the shed to the house. The two buildings were well separated, on either side of a path. But last night he’d heard Minnie’s voice. And he had obeyed.