The truth was that Lizzie looked like her great-uncle, Neil Gow-Sinclair when she scowled. She wondered if she would even tell her daughter just who she looked like the most. “Sorry, mother,” she said, looking anything but sorry. She looked more like Thorvald than Anne, and she looked guilty and rebellious as she came round the corner. Elizabeth was Anne and Thorvald’s eldest daughter at twelve years, nearly thirteen now.
“Lizzie! Where are ye? I thought I told ye tae watch yer brother!”įrom the direction of the corridor, a tall girl appeared, wiping her mouth surreptitiously. He squealed in a mixture of protest and delight. “God, ye leave them alone for a moment…” muttered Anne as she swung the baby up onto her shoulder. He was two, a chubby, healthy little boy with black hair and a cheeky smile, and a curiosity that was forever getting him into trouble. Her great green dress rustled as she hurried across the sunny courtyard toward where her youngest son, Angus, was experimenting with putting gravel in his mouth. “Oh, no, Angus, don’t eat that!” Anne cried, laughing.
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