A series of raps at the door woke Mac. She had hoped to hear Ciarán’s voice, but it was only a chambermaid. She set down a tray with porridge and ale and then added some wood to the fire. Mac asked if she might have a bath. The maid left and returned with an armful of clothing and a series of servants in tow carrying a wooden bath tub and pails of steaming hot water. When they offered to stay to assist, Mac thanked them and insisted that she would manage from there.
She did not. The bathing was as close to luxurious as one could get in these times, but dressing was another thing altogether. She had thought her college summers working at a Renaissance fair would equip her for the task, but, although she had a fairly good idea of what went on and in what order, she wound up with some leftov
