About two weeks later, in a lull between snowstorms, our little hideaway received its first visitors. From my vantage point in the kitchens, I could just make out two men, burly and wooly as bears, speaking with Malegant. Their unkempt appearance and guttural tongue were all I needed to place them as Picts. What they were doing so far south, however, was a mystery.
“My wife is very hospitable,” he said. But then he caught sight of me, excused himself, and stalked in my direction. Without losing eye contact, he grabbed me by the throat, his fingers digging into my airway. “If you so much as make eye contact with my guests”—his breath was hot in my ear—“I will make certain you cannot walk, much less use those beautiful hands of yours. Do you understand me?”
I tried to speak, but all that
