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She found it relatively easily—it was right at the back of the tower. The room was the direct opposite of the kitchen in her vision: dark, with a big fireplace, and only a few small windows near the ceiling to let in the daylight. Torches on the rock walls illuminated the space as well. Around the lit fireplace, a starburst of black soot spread on the wall.

A massive wooden table took up the middle of the room. It was messy with peels and greens, the cutting boards dirty. Next to it, a large cauldron hung over the fire, radiating the smell of cooking vegetables and meat. A huge oven was built into the wall to the left. Pots, ladles, large spoons, and other utensils hung on the wall to the right. A large barrel of water stood next to the table.

Ian was talking to a bald man in his fifties with a bushy mustache and a dirty apron. His eyebrows snapped together, his eyes bulging, his mouth an angry curve, he held a kitchen knife in his hand like a weapon.

“Do ye think I want this?” Ian asked. “I would have kept him alive if I could. But now ye have me, yer new master. If ye dinna want me, I dinna wish to keep ye, Manning, where ye dinna want to be.”

He glanced at Kate.

“Aye, in fact, I do already have a new cook.” He gestured at her.

Manning turned to her with the same expression of wild fury, the knife pointed at her. He marched towards her, and Kate felt the urge to step back from him but resisted. He wouldn’t stab her. And Ian wouldn’t let him. She lifted her chin.

Manning came to stand right in front of her, reeking of sweat, onion, and meat on the verge of being spoiled.

“Who’s the lass?” He studied her.

“My name is Kate,” she said. “Ian hired me to cook.”

“Did he now?” Manning said. “Did ye plan to get rid of me while ye were in Inverlochy?”

“Nae, Manning,” Owen said. “I didna plan anything like that. The lass hit her head and lost her memory, but she remembered ye. Or rather, yer lamb roast.”

Manning cocked his busy eyebrow and studied her from tip to toe.

“I didn’t remember him, Ian. I remembered Crazy Mary.”

“I am Crazy Mary,” Manning said.

“Isn’t Mary a woman?”

“’Tis,” Ian said. “Long story. Fact is, ’tis who ye came here for, lass. Crazy Mary.”

“But…” She frowned, studying him, hoping for more flashes of visions or memories. But the bushy mustache and the bald head said nothing. She was seeing the man for the first time.

“I cooked your recipe, the roasted lamb. That’s what it’s called—Crazy Mary. I don’t remember where I come from or who I am, but I remember that recipe. So I assume it’s very important.”

Manning narrowed his eyes. “Ye talk strangely, lass. Doesna she, lad?”

Ian raised one eyebrow. “Aye, she speaks differently. But she isna the first person I met who doesna speak like you or me. Doesna mean she should be abandoned or left without help when she needs some.”

Warmth spread in Kate’s stomach as he said that. Oh, Ian… That he had her back meant so much to her.

“Nae,” Manning said slowly. “It doesna. But it means something. Something odd about her…”

He spun around and marched to the table.

“Ye want to work as a cook, lass?” he said and stabbed the cutting board with the knife. “Cook somethin’.”

Kate’s bravado disappeared into thin air. Cook something? What could she cook?

“The wee bread I ate from yer purse,” Ian said, as though reading her thoughts.

She had no idea who had made the sandwich and what it was made of…

Wait.

Sandwich. The word came to her mind easily, yet it wasn’t one they seemed to use here. Maybe now that her memories—or some version of them—had come back, she would remember more.