Euphemia
The more I tried to savour the tea, the quicker it disappeared.
It was thin and weak, but it took the chill out of my bones and thawed my fingers.
The lord was ignoring me, which suited me fine, because I was too busy eyeing the butter.
My mouth watered. I could not remember the last time I’d had tea, never mind butter.
They were still talking when he pushed the butter toward me. I glanced up cautiously, but he wasn’t even looking at me—still staring at my uncle. Rude, but I was starving.
I smeared a thick layer of butter across the bread, closed my eyes for a heartbeat, and ate while I assessed the enemy.
His hair was long, though not as long as our men kept theirs. His was trimmed in the fashionable Sassunnach manner—dark waves framed neatly around his face, curling just over his collar and waistcoat.
Hmph.
Fancy Sassunnach clothing.
He would not last one winter here.
I smirked, then realised I was already taking the final bite of my bread.
His blue eyes were fetching—I’d give him that. Dark lashes made them sparkle all the more.
I looked away quickly, back to the stained glass window. I’d only ever seen such things in churches, never in someone’s house. The morning sun caught the colours and set them glowing.
A slow heat crept up my neck. I did not need to look at him to know his eyes were on me.
“And her?” his deep voice snapped. Insolent as ever.
I pivoted to glare at him.
“My name is Eu-phem-ia,” I said, calm and slow, as if speaking to a simple-minded bairn.
He grimaced, sniffed the air, then slapped a hand over his nose. The colour drained from his cheeks.
“You’re both hired. Tell Graham to situate you in one of the crofts. I’ll have the lists of jobs sent to you,” he said abruptly. “Please excuse me.”
And he rushed out of the room—still holding his nose as if we’d dragged a foul smell in with us.
I lifted my shawl and sniffed.
Soap.
Fresh soap from the night before.
“An odd fellow,” Uncle Callum said cheerfully, reaching for another slice of bread.
I stared at the open door.
Odd fellow, my foot.
The man was up to no good.
No wonder the meadow sìth were warning me.
He was a calamity to this land.
I reached for the teapot.
At least I had employment.
? ? ?
The empty croft was a blessing for shelter, but a cruel reminder of all we had lost. The byre, once meant for a cow or goat, stood hollow and cold, its stone trough dry and flaked with old hay. No animals. No warm breath in the air. No one working the land.
Inside, the place smelled of damp earth and disuse—peat ash lingering in the hearth, dust thick on the beams overhead.
Yet the croft itself was larger than the home we had left behind.
The walls were sturdier, the roof better thatched, the single front window wide enough to let in a shaft of grey morning light.
Perhaps…
Perhaps the weans and Aunt Flora could join us soon.
The thought warmed me more than the empty hearth ever could.
“Dae ye think ye’ll manage the hoose?” Uncle Callum asked, his boots scraping across the flagstone floor as he stepped inside.
“Aye, dinnae fash yerself. I ken most o’ it, and I’ll learn the rest,” I murmured, setting my napsack on the rough wooden table. My fingers left faint streaks in the dust.
The work ahead would be laborious. A house that size needed staff—maids, a cook, folk for the laundry and the fires.
I’d need to take my own notes and relay what supplies and men were required to keep the place running smooth.
Even now, I didn’t miss the layers of dirt and ash along the baseboards, the soot clinging to the lintels.
The Laird clearly hadn’t lifted a finger.
What worried me most wasn’t the filth… but the chance I might lose my temper and bash the Sassunnach’s head in with a cast-iron skillet.
I sighed and rubbed my arms against the cold.
We needed the money.
Desperately.
As long as he kept his distance, I’d no’ need to kill him.
Aye.
Avoidance.
That was the only way forward.
? ? ?
McTavish showed us in, and another man—Arthur Rowlands—began talking us through his master’s list.
It was a relief that he wasn’t there.
Probably too busy bathing in milk and scented flowers.
A snort escaped me before I could swallow it.
Both men stopped mid-sentence and stared as if I’d sprouted horns.
“What?” I said, blinking innocently.
“Are you focusing on the tasks?” Arthur asked, stiff as a church pew. “I will not be repeating myself.”
“Dae ye think ah cannae read it maself?” I snapped, nodding to the long parchment in his hand.
His eyes widened, as if the very concept of a Highland woman reading was a personal insult.
The longer he stared, the hotter my irritation grew.
He cleared his throat sharply. “Very… good,” he said, the words dragged out like he wasn’t sure if praise might kill him. He resumed reading, slower this time, as if I might combust.
My uncle nudged my arm—a subtle warning to rein it in.
I rolled my eyes skyward and pretended to listen, though my attention had already wandered ahead of him.
Dust, soot, mould, crumbling plaster—aye, I could picture every inch of it already.
This house would be spotless in no time.
? ? ?
Ten days later, I realised how sorely I’d underestimated the task.
We’d managed to hire three more workers for the house and a farmhand to help Graham outside. My uncle threw himself into the repairs with grim determination, though I knew he missed Aunt Flora—and his weapons—with every passing day.
Each morning, I walked to the manor in the grey-blue hush of dawn and didn’t leave again until the moon hung pale over the hills.
By the end of every night, my muscles throbbed, my knuckles stung, and the dust clung to my skin like a second coat.
The Laird avoided us completely.
He communicated only through Arthur—cold, clipped instructions written on neat little lists.
Sometimes I heard his voice from behind closed doors: rich, smooth, and unmistakably Sassunnach.
Typical.
They didn’t mix with the likes of us.
We were the hands, not the company.
I should have been grateful he kept to himself.
It left me free to work without his judging eyes or strange behaviour.
But when I lay on my pallet at night, staring up at the low thatched ceiling, my mind drifted back to him.
Sometimes only for a heartbeat.
Other nights… longer.
Far longer than I would ever confess aloud.
It always began with that flutter beneath my chest.
A small, treacherous pulse.
Familiar… yet not.
Mine… yet not mine.
Exhaustion, no doubt.
I pressed a hand to the spot and closed my eyes, willing the tightness to settle.
Another day done.
Another day survived.
There was always tomorrow.
And with a new day came hope.