On a sunny afternoon high in the left turret of a small, crumbling castle in the northwest of Scotland, Highland lass Daisy Montgomery scrubbed the hearthstones in her bedchamber and dreamed of finding her prince. Hell make me laugh, she thought, wringing out her rag in a bucket of cold water. Then, as she applied all her muscle to the coal-black stone, Ill make him laugh .
You need to clean between the keys of the pianoforte, her stepmother told her from the door in that cool, deliberate way she had.
And hell transport me, Daisy hastily added to her mental list. Shed read that in a gothic novel once. Hell transport me anywhere the shrew behind me isnt. And Ill transport him to a place he wants to be. But Ill go to my place first. Hed be the sort to understand.
Wishing with all her might that she didnt have to, she turned to look at Mona. I just cleaned the pianoforte a few days ago.
Youre lying, Mona snapped. Cassandra hit a flat note today, thanks to you. Use a string wrapped in flannel, and be sure to change the flannel after every third key. Ill know if you dont.
Daisy forced herself not to cringe. Very well, she said in even tones, as soon as Im done here, Ill do it again.
Oh, youre done, all right, Mona replied in a low register, which meant that if Daisy didnt stand up immediately, shed be pinched by the womans long talons.
Daisy dropped her rag and stood. I suppose Im finished then.
Mona stalked down the gray stone corridor in her beaded black sheath with a preposterously low neckline. It was completely inappropriate for daytime, but that was typical of Mona. It went without question that Daisy would follow her.
Its exhausting dealing with you, Mona said. Youre so She waved her claws about.
Braw? Daisy whispered in a sad voice.
Mona hailed from Cheapside in London, and her Scottish vocabulary wasnt exactly extensive. Braw was a compliment meaning fine, good, even brilliant.
Close. Mona laughed in a mean way. God, you were braw to high heaven yesterday after you finished cleaning the scum off the top of the moat.
Very well. Daisy sighed. Perhaps you mean bricht .
Bricht meant bright, which seemed obvious to Daisy but was somehow not to Mona, whod never adapted to the Highland way of life.
Daisy knew it was childish of her to take these subtle jabs at her stepmother, but it was her only solace, other than sitting with Joe and Hester in the kitchen, where each night theyd dunk shortbread in warm milk and talk in low tones about their day.
Mona nodded. Its despicable how bricht you are, you sulky miss. You ought to be like my girls. Charming. Ever ready with a nice word.
The womans deluded, Daisy thought. Perdita and Cassandra were awful .
But Daisy was a survivor, and she knew the servants futures also lay in her hands, so she said, Im sorry.
You should be, said Mona. Ive half a mind to give you bread and water tomorrow as punishment.
There was only one way to deflect such a punishment: pretend to be jealous of Mona.
Youd never be braw, Daisy told her stepmother wistfully as they passed under a portrait of Papa as a boy. Or bricht .
Right you are. Monas breasts led her like two roly-poly foot soldiers carrying bayonets into her bedchamber. Id be ashamed to be. Now brush my hair five hundred strokes, or Ill see to it that you get no supper and that youre locked in your room until morning.
Although she was thoroughly disgusted, Daisy refused to wince, not only at the threat and the prospect of a distasteful chore but at the changes Mona had wrought to the master suite Daisys parents used to share. The hangings were a garish scarlet with black lace trim instead of the pretty sage-green-and-ivory toile theyd been before. And all the lovely, light figurines and paintings Papa and Mama had collected over the years had been replaced with crouching gargoyles and dark paintings.
As she brushed Monas lank locks, Daisy tried to pretend she was somewhere else. But it was difficult when her stepmother kept slapping her hand and telling her she was either brushing too hard or not hard enough.
The worst came when Mona demanded her usual compliment. What do you think of my hair? she asked Daisy.
Its lush and luxuriant, she replied.
It was the required response, even though Mona had bits of scalp showing through. The first several times Daisy had said anything else, shed been sent to bed with no supper.
Mona smiled, close-lipped, into the looking glass, seemingly satisfied.
Inside, Daisy said ugh . And then a mote of dust flew up her nose and made her sneeze.
The looking glass reflected Monas narrowed gaze. Sneeze one more time, and youll sleep in the byre tonight.
Daisy widened her eyes on purpose. She knew it made Mona happy to see her afraid. Not the byre, she said in her best fearful tone.
Indeed, the byre, Mona replied. Its cold out tonight, too. Youll have to snuggle up to those pigs.
Mona closed her eyes, no doubt contemplating the glory of that scene in her head, and promptly fell asleep. It was happening more often Mona had always sneaked whisky. Shed made Daisy get it for her when Papa was alive, but since hed died, Mona drank it openly, sometimes starting before noon.
Daisy laid the brush aside. Shed made it only to two hundred fifty-two strokes this time. She lifted her stepmother under her arms and dragged her to the bed, where Daisy proceeded, through much effort, to roll Mona on top of the gaudy satin coverlet.
The grasping woman whod taken advantage of Daisys grieving father began to snore. Much relieved, Daisy crept from the room and shut the door.
Youll be doing this forever, a mocking voice in her head said. It sounded exactly like her stepsister Cassandra. Cassandra was able to get to her in a way Mona couldntbecause Mona was rather stupid.
Cassandra wasnt. She was clever.
But Daisy refused to listen to Cassandras voice in her head.
She couldnt. If she did, shed cry.
And the last thing she wanted Mona or her daughters to see was her crying. The one time they had, when shed fallen off a horse and broken her arm, not two weeks after their arrival, their jeers had haunted her for months.
Of course, Papa had been nowhere near at the time. Daisy was sure that Cassandra, whod been standing near the small jump, had somehow spooked her mare into tripping over it.
But Daisy had learnedoh, how shed learned!to keep her tears to herself.
Shed learned so well, she hadnt cried at Papas funeral. The night hed died, her private grief had been wretched, a pain so deep that she never thought shed be free of it. She still wasnt.
And she knew she never would be.
In the kitchen, she washed her hands in a bucket of clean water, dried them on a clean piece of linen, kissed Hesters cheekappreciating how lovingly it was offered to herand formed a bannock of oatmeal dough for Hester to bake on a griddle.
