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is asking?”
     
    “Dame Margaret Kerr, Master Murdoch’s niece.”
     
    “God bless.” He gathered his long legs and stood up to make a little bow, keeping his gaze toward the packed-mud floor. “I am Hal, mistress.”
     
    Margaret still scratched the ass’s head. “She is well cared for.”
     
    “Bonny. She is the master’s, and proud of her he is. She likes you.”
     
    She was the first in Edinburgh to do so. “Does my husband ride her when he’s here?”
     
    “Master Murdoch keeps Bonny to himself.”
     
    “Have you met Roger Sinclair?”
     
    “I meet only the folk who come in to see to their beasts themselves, mistress.”
     
    A sly response.
     
    “I am not spying on you. I have come to Edinburgh searching for my husband. Any word of him, any memory of his time here might help.”
     
    Hal raked a hand through his hair, peered at her intently before his eyes were hidden once more. “I didn’t hear he was missing. I don’t ken much about him, Dame Kerr. He’s never been sharp with me, that I can say.” His mouth twitched into a smile, and Margaret realized she was still stroking Bonny’s soft muzzle. “You’ve a gentle touch with animals.”
     
    “I like them. They’re often kinder than people.”
     
    “Och, aye.”
     
    Margaret heard Mary the brewster call out a farewell as she cut through the backland toward Cowgate. “Can I trust her, Hal?”
     
    “Mary? Most times.”
     
    Margaret took her leave of Hal and Bonny, returning to the tavern.
     
    Murdoch now had the bench overturned. He was cursing under his breath as he tightened a leg with a bit of straw.
     
    An elderly man sat on the fetid floor watching a slow drip from the ceiling near the street door. Margaret guessed from his age and his drink- and sleep-flushed face that this was Old Will.
     
    “She’s a splasher, that one,” he said.
     
    Murdoch muttered a curse.
     
    “Such language afore your niece, Murdoch?” Old Will gathered himself and rose with a grunt and a moan.
     
    Murdoch glanced up at Margaret. “Tell that maid of yours to keep the water in the basin.”
     
    The old man tottered over to Margaret. “The young weaver might ken where your Roger is. She had an eye on his cousin.”
     
    “Will!” Murdoch shouted. “I told you to be off.”
     
    It rang true, a woman attracted to Jack. “What is the weaver’s name?” Margaret asked.
     
    Old Will licked his lips, shook his head to help his memory. “Bess, is it? Aye, Bess.” He shuffled on out the back door.
     
    Murdoch shook his head as Old Will stumbled on his way to the alley. “That was his wife’s name, Maggie. He calls most women Bess. See to your maid. She’ll be the ruin of me.”
     
    “Was his wife a weaver?”
     
    “She might have been. It’s long ago.”
     
    “But he said she had her eye on Jack.”
     
    “Old Will dreams in his tankard, and he likes a pretty face— he wanted to keep you talking.” Murdoch shook his head at the wet spot on the ceiling and moved toward the stairs.
     
    “I’ll see to her.” Margaret pushed past him and hastened up to her chamber.
     
    Celia knelt over a basin kneading her gown and splashing water as she cursed.
     
    Margaret walked over to where the maid could see her. Celia looked up, her eyes flashing.
     
    “Your wash water is dripping through the floorboards,” Margaret said.
     
    Celia yanked her hands out of the basin and sat back on her heels. “That filthy cook told Master Murdoch he should order me to do all the laundry.”
     
    “It is not my uncle’s place to give you orders. He knows that.”
     
    “He agreed that I should.” She lifted her red hands to Margaret. “How can I handle fine fabrics with rough hands?”
     
    “Stop your fretting and hang your gown to dry. It is surely clean by now.”
     
    It was not a good beginning.
     
    *        *         *
     
    On the following morning the rain poured down in sheets, soaking Margaret in the short walk