Prologue
MacAlasdair Keep, Glenbrae — The Heather Girl, Age Ten
The numbers blurred together like midges on the page.
Sorcha MacAlasdair sat straight-backed, hands folded in her lap, though her fingers itched to move. Across the table, her mother, Lady Moira, moved a quill over parchment with the same steady hand she used for all things: firewood tallies, herb stores, the names of tenants who owed their due.
“Attend, Sorcha,” Lady Moira murmured. “A true Lady of the Keep must ken every corner of her domain. Every sack of grain. Every hand that bears it.”
“I’d rather carry it than count it,” Sorcha muttered, just under her breath.
