“Now.” She unfastened the latch and pulled out her sketchbook. “But you might not even like it. It’s different from what I usually do. It just seemed…right. I looked out at the fog in the courtyard this morning and something seemed to be waiting for me there…”

MacDuff’s brows lifted. “Something?”

She shrugged. “She was waiting for me.”

“Interesting.” He added as he opened the sketchbook, “And familiar…” His expression remained impassive as he studied the black-and-white sketch of the little girl sitting on the bank of a creek. Her curly hair was tousled, and her face was full of wonder and excitement. “Charming. How old?”

“Six. Seven,” Jane said. “How do I know? It’s not as if I’ve ever seen her before. I was settling myself down by the creek and idly starting to sketch the trees when her face just appeared on the pad. The sketch was pure imagination. Which isn’t at all unusual as far as I’m concerned. Sometimes it just happens.” She frowned. “Though she looked familiar to me, too. I thought I might have seen her here at the Run. Do you recognize her? Does she live in the village?”

“Not as far as I know. I’ll ask Fergus,” he added absently as he studied the sketch. “Very familiar…maybe if I study it a little longer.” He suddenly looked up at her. “And I do like the sketch. Will you let me buy it?”

“What?” She gazed at him incredulously. “Just because she looks familiar?”

“Why not?” He smiled recklessly. “You can’t have any special attachment for it since it literally appeared out of the fog for you. I won’t cheat you. You’ll get your usual fee and I’ll get a genuine MacGuire.” He winked. “That was created on my property and might even be the child of one of my employees.”

She stared at him uncertainly. “Or might not. If she is, it would only be a reason for me to offer the sketch to her parents. It would mean something to them.”

He made a face. “Are you making this a bidding war? With anyone else I could have relied on pure selfishness. You’ve always been a great disappointment to me.”

“Money isn’t everything. Stop pretending that you think it is.” She was studying the sketch again. “She’s very young, and maybe her parents are also young. They might not have an opportunity to get a painting of her at this age again.” She brushed her index finger over the child’s cheek. “I believe I’ll call the sketch the Mist Child. She looks like she was touched by the mist, and it’s still clinging to her hair. She’s so…alive.”

He sighed. “And I’ve lost out on buying the sketch unless I can prove she’s only your imagination and not one of my employees’ progeny?”