Maria woke me again just before noon to summon me to Mass. She had picked me out a rather sombre outfit, a white blouse with a plain black skirt. The snow-wet dress had disappeared from the chair, presumably taken to the laundry.

The girl was in a foul mood, probably because she had still not received her real present. I wondered why the merchant was keeping it from her in the stables.

After Mass, a feast of sorts had been assembled in the Great Hall. The food was half-hearted compared to yesterday, the table of desserts and jellies rather sad and flaccid.

After we had eaten Maria announced that her papa requested my presence in the library.

‘Isn’t he busy in his tower?’ I asked, alarmed at the prospect.

‘I imagine so,’ said Maria sulkily. ‘And he must have taken that stinking monkey with him – but he won’t let you in there, that’s why he is using the library. Please ask one of the servants for more logs for the fire on your way there.’

I swallowed a lump of vomit rising in my throat. The thought of apologizing to the merchant for carrying me through the house back to bed made me faint. I’d almost forgotten to be angry with him about his Marcus Amanza charade.

After knocking, I entered the library where I found Plaustrell standing with his back to me. He was dressed smartly in black again, his arms folded behind him so that the puffed sleeves of his jacket rested on his rump. He was leaning over the sideboard, looking at the map.

I stepped gingerly into the library and stood by the door.

‘How is your head this morning?’ he enquired, without taking his eyes off the map.

‘It is well, sir,’ I replied.

‘Don’t lie, Iseabail, it doesn’t suit you,’ he said, turning to face me. ‘But it was Christmas, so don’t worry about it. Now if you would be so good as to let me see your hands.’

‘My hands, sir?’

‘I want to check how clean they are,’ he said, taking a step towards me. My legs turned to jelly as I walked to meet him halfway across the room.

I offered out my arms and he took my hands, first examining the front of them, then the back. ‘And you do not feel unwell this morning?’

‘A little, I suppose,’ I concurred, not daring to fabricate the truth again. ‘My head throbs.’

‘That will be the wine,’ sniffed the merchant, flipping my hands to examine my palms again. ‘French stuff, you see – it can be rather strong.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said, also looking down at my hands, puzzled at his intense interest though I was glad he hadn’t confronted me about the tower.

But then I snatched them back.

‘My God, where is it?’ I said, turning my left hand back and forth.

‘Where is what?’ asked the merchant, genuinely bemused.

‘My scar,’ I went on. ‘I had a scar . . . on my left hand. From an injury – it’s gone!’

‘Show me!’ said the merchant, excited now. ‘Where was this wound of yours?’

‘Right here,’ I said, tracing over the place where the scar should have been with my right forefinger. ‘This is where my sister . . .’

The merchant looked at me quizzically.

‘You see, sir,’ I explained. ‘About a year ago. We had a fight and, well, she . . .’

‘Must have been quite a fight,’ said the merchant, amused. ‘I noticed that she was a fiery one – when she saw you off on the boat. By the way, I didn’t completely make up my incognito that day – my middle names are, in fact, Marcus Amanza.’

But I wasn’t thinking of Eilidh any more, nor the merchant’s sailor disguise. I was thinking of the wound. Initially, it had knitted together fine because Mammy had wrapped it in a seaweed poultice, but it hadn’t healed completely, and looked like it never would. But now it was gone.

When I looked up at the merchant, he was staring at me intently. ‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’ he said as I continued to twist and turn my wrist in a desperate search for my scar. I even checked my other hand in case I had forgotten which wrist it had been on.

‘Might have been the water,’ mumbled the merchant almost to himself. ‘I told you that it has healing properties.’

‘But it was there only yesterday,’ I protested.

The merchant walked over to the settee and sat down heavily, his forehead wrinkled as if he was trying to figure something out.

As I was myself. I remembered looking at the scar in the stables last night, that fold of puckered skin that served as my constant reminder of home. I used to think it ugly, but now realized how much it meant to me.

‘I’m sorry about last night, Iseabail,’ said the merchant after a time, his eyes browsing my hand again. ‘It’s my responsibility to look out for your welfare. Especially after bringing you all the way here. I should have reminded the servants to show you how to water down that wine.’

I blinked at the change of subject, suddenly angry that he thought the disappearance of a scar so trivial. ‘I want to go home,’ I blurted out. ‘As soon as possible . . . when the seas are safe enough to pass?’

The merchant’s eyes widened at my outburst and he blew out his cheeks in surprise. Then, sighing heavily, he folded his arms and leant back against the red silk of the settee. ‘What do you think is waiting for you back there on that island, Iseabail? Something that you cannot find here?’

‘Really, I am most grateful for everything you have given me,’ I began, struggling to keep my emotions in check. ‘But – I am betrothed to be married – as you well know.’

‘You return for . . . a husband?’ said the merchant, putting a finger to his lips in false contemplation.

I nodded, furiously. I had told him my intentions to return that day on the boat. And hadn’t he witnessed with his own eyes Artair’s emotional goodbye?

‘Troublesome creatures, don’t you think?’ he said, his tone mocking. ‘You would rather forgo an education to wait hand and foot on an illiterate man, risk your precious young life to bear his children?’

‘But things will not be like that,’ I said valiantly, affronted that he had referred to Artair in this way. ‘Artair and I have discussed it. One day we will rule the islands together. As man and wife. As equals!’

The merchant digested this calmly before clearing his throat. ‘Well, if childbirth doesn’t kill you, then you’ll be ground down by hard toil. An old hag by the time you are thirty,’ he sneered, ignoring my declaration. ‘I really thought that a mind as agile as yours would have been opened up to other possibilities by now. And Father Ronan has led me to believe that you are quite the scholar.’

‘Returning to marry Artair is my destiny,’ I went on, determined, though my bottom lip started to tremble. ‘I don’t belong in this house and the longer I stay here, the less I remember who I really am.’ I looked down at my smooth wrist and remembered how I’d so easily kissed William last night. My tears, refusing to be contained any more, pushed hotly out from my lower lids and rolled down my cheeks. But I did not dry them. I wanted Plaustrell to see how I was suffering. Wanted to remind him of the promises he had made.

But the merchant busied himself with plucking bits of fluff from the bolster of the settee.

‘The main reason I summoned you here today was to tell you that the supplies I promised your chief have left the port,’ he said sulkily. ‘Weather permitting they will be with your people in a matter of days.’

At this I perked up. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, finally wiping my tears. This news was so unexpected, so welcome. Whatever happened now, sending me here had not been entirely pointless.

‘I apologize if I spoke out of turn just then sir, it’s just . . .’

The merchant stood stiffly and held up his hand to stop me speaking.

‘You know, it doesn’t seem to matter how much I give you Iseabail,’ he tutted, walking over to the bookcase. ‘You never seem satisfied.’

‘Sir?’ I began, puzzled.

‘I mean, look at all these fine volumes you now have at your disposal.’ He plucked a small book from the shelf. ‘And yet you insist on rifling around in private rooms in the pursuit of more?’ At this he swivelled on his heel to look at me directly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, beginning to tremble as I realized where his conversation was now heading.

‘And tell me, Iseabail – after you’d finished with my fireside read, did sheer nerve carry you up the ladder?’

‘No, sir, I swear!’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Pity for you,’ said the merchant, replacing the book.

Then he turned to me but now he was smiling. ‘The upper reaches of my tower contain some quite marvellous things,’ he beamed. ‘Maybe I can show you sometime?’

‘Yes,’ I mumbled, wary at his change of mood.

‘Though my daughter will be less than pleased if she knew you were to be granted access to my treasures,’ he mused. ‘Let me think of a diversion for her.’

Just then, there was a knock at the door and at Plaustrell’s command, Sylvia stepped inside. The maid relayed a message in Italian. Even after my studies in Latin, which Father Ronan told me was not so different, I struggled to make much sense of the language.

‘Now, if you will excuse me, Iseabail,’ said the merchant genially, ‘I must attend to my household. I’ll send a distraction for Maria – a signal for you to come to the tower . . . when I find a convenient time.’

And there he left me alone on the threshold of the library, looking out into the glorious chequered entrance hall. The merchant’s conversation had left me quite adrift. On the one hand he had honoured the winter supplies but, as I now realized, had evaded the question about my eventual return home, sidestepped it lightly with an invite to his fantastical workshop. And I had let him away with it, lapping up his latest offer like a grateful dog.

Walking out over the black and white tiles, I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. Where was Iseabail McCleod, that fiery, barefoot girl who’d stood right here not so long ago having dragged her rough trunk across the snowy moor? A staunch, dutiful girl with full intention to return to her island, to her betrothed? Now there was only a gentlewoman, cloaked in the finest silks, cheeks plump with good living. My reflection looked back at me, genteel, stately – bearing no outward trace of my rough island self. And now the scar, one of my trusty reminders of my old life, had disappeared too.

I stepped closer to the mirror, hoping to see something of the old Iseabail. But other than a faint resemblance to my sister, there was so little left. The merchant’s house, it was erasing me.