“Apparently,” Jillian responded, her mind far away. She forced herself back with an effort. “Milord—”

“Ronin.”

“Ronin, is there something you’d like to tell me about your son?”

Ronin sighed and regarded her somberly. “Och, and is there,” he admitted. “But I canna, lass. He must tell you himself.”

“Why doesn’t he trust me?”

“It’s not you he doesn’t trust, lass,” Balder said, entering the Greathall with a fresh shirt. Like Grimm, he moved silently. “It’s that he doesn’t trust himself.”

Jillian eyed Grimm’s uncle. Her gaze darted between him and Ronin. There was something indefinable nagging at the back of her mind, but she simply couldn’t put her finger on it. They were both watching her intently, almost hopefully. But what were they hoping for? Baffled, Jillian finished her cider and placed the goblet on a nearby table. “I suppose I should go find Grimm.”

“Just doona go looking down the central hall, Jillian,” Balder said quickly, regarding her intently. “He rarely goes there, but if he does, it’s because he’s wishin’ for some privacy.”

“The central hall?” Jillian’s brow furrowed. “I thought this was the central hall.” She waved her arm at the Great-hall, where they’d dined.

“No, this is the front hall. I mean the one that runs off the back of the castle. Actually, it tunnels right into the heart of the mountain itself. It’s where he used to run to when he was a boy.”

“Oh.” She inclined her head. “Thank you,” she added, but had no idea what she was thanking him for. His cryptic comment seemed to have been issued as a deterrent, but it sounded suspiciously like an invitation to snoop. She shook her head briskly and excused herself, consumed by curiosity.

After she left, Ronin grinned at Balder. “He never went there when he was a boy. He hasn’t even seen the Hall of Lords yet! You’re a sneaky bastard, you are,” he exclaimed admiringly.

“I always told you I got the lion’s share o’ brains in the family.” Balder preened and poured them both another glass of cider. “Are the torches lit, Ronin? You left it unlocked, didn’t you?”

“ ’Course I did! You dinna get all the brains. But Balder, what if she can’t figure it out? Or worse, can’t accept it?”

“That woman has a head on her shoulders, brother. She’s fairly burstin’ with questions, but she keeps her tongue. Not because she’s meek, but out of love for your boy. She’s dyin’ to know what happened here fifteen years ago, and she’s waitin’ patiently for Gavrael to tell her. So we’ll be givin’ her the answers another way to be certain she’s prepared when he finally speaks.” Balder paused and regarded his brother sternly. “You dinna used to be such a coward, Ronin. Stop waitin’ for him to come to you. Go to him as you wish you had years ago. Do it, Ronin.”

Jillian made a beeline for the central hall, or as much of a beeline as she was capable of given that wandering around inside Castle Maldebann was akin to roaming an uncharted city. She navigated confusing corridors, proceeding in the direction she hoped led back toward the mountain, determined to find the central hall. It was obvious Balder and Ronin wished her to see it. Would it give her answers about Grimm?

After thirty minutes of frustrated searching, she looped through a series of twisting hallways and around a corner that opened into a second Greathall, even larger than the one she’d breakfasted in. She stepped forward hesitantly; the hall was definitely old—perhaps as ancient as the standing stones erected by the mystical Druids.

Someone had conveniently lit torches—the interfering brothers, she concluded gratefully—for there was not one window in this part of the structure, and how could there be? This Greathall was actually inside the belly of the mountain. She shivered, rattled by the idea. She crossed the huge room slowly, drawn by the mysterious double doors set into the wall at the other end. They towered above her, wrapped in bands of steel, and above the arched opening bold letters had been chiseled.

“Deo non fortuna,” she whispered, driven by the same impulse to speak in hushed tones that she’d suffered in Caithness’s chapel.

She pressed against the massive doors and held her breath as they swung inward, revealing the central hall Balder had spoken of. Wide-eyed, she moved forward with the dreamy gait of a sleepwalker, riveted by what lay before her. The flowing lines of the hall commanded the eyes upward, and she pivoted slowly, arching her head back and marveling at the ceiling. Pictures and murals covered the vast expanse, some of them so vibrant and realistic that her hands begged to touch them. A chill coursed through her as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. Was she gazing up at centuries of the history of the McIllioch? She dragged her gaze downward, only to discover new wonders. The walls of the hall held portraits. Hundreds of them!