Chapter 7 #2
Mistress Greer marched down the length of the board, a heavy iron pot held between her hands.
She stopped right behind Grisselle’s shoulder, her narrow eyes fixing on the way the English girl had already smeared a bit of grease onto her cuff.
Greer gave a short, familiar sniff, but when she tipped the pot to dump another ladle of thick grey gravy onto Grisselle’s bread, her movements were surprisingly gentle.
"Eat it all," Greer grumbled, her voice cracking across the table. "Ye're still too thin to survive winter, but at least ye arenae picking at it like a bird with a broken wing."
"I intend to eat three more, Mistress Greer," Grisselle shot back, tilting her head up with that same fierce, stubborn line to her chin. "Though if Senga keeps making the crust this good, you’ll have to widen the doors of the East Tower by Michaelmas."
Greer’s mouth twitched, a tiny, violent jerk that Alpin knew was the closest the old woman ever came to a smile. "Aye, well. Daenae go getting fat until the spinning is done."
Alpin watched Grisselle laugh, her wild copper curls shaking entirely free of their dark ribbon, her green eyes catching the orange glow of the peat fire. His stomach gave that same strange, heavy roll it had given in the carriage.
He uncrossed his arms, grabbed his horn spoon, and drove it into his mutton with a force that nearly cracked the wood. He didn't look at her again for the rest of the meal, but the high, clear sound of her voice stayed right behind his ears, making his own silence feel heavy and clumsy.
The salt-firth was black as ink by the time Alpin reached the shingle.
The wind off the water was freezing, carrying the sharp, bitter stench of rotting kelp and wet shale.
He stood at the very edge of the tide-line, his heavy leather boots sinking an inch into the wet gravel with every small wave that broke against the shore.
The ice-cold water leaked through the seams of his leather, numbing his toes, but he didn't move.
For ten years, this was where the pull had been.
Every time the keep felt too cold, every time the old men pressed him about the land or the ledger, his head had turned toward the dark water where his grandfather’s boat had gone down.
The sea had always felt like the only thing massive enough to swallow the weight of the clan.
But tonight, as he stared out into the black, empty horizon, the water just looked like water.
The dark waves didn't seem to have a grip on him anymore. When he closed his eyes, he didn't see the broken timbers of the old skiff; he saw a streak of white flour on a girl's nose, and he heard the sharp bite of her voice asking about the nursery.
A heavy crunch of gravel sounded to his right.
Niall stopped two paces away, a short clay pipe held between his teeth, the red ember glowing bright in the dark. He didn't look at Alpin; he kept his eyes on the grey foam of the breakers, his hands tucked deep into his wool plaid.
"The wind is turning from the west," Niall said, his voice low against the roar of the surf.
"Aye," Alpin muttered, his hands clenching into tight fists inside his pockets.
"The keep was loud tonight," Niall remarked, taking the pipe from his mouth and blowing a long stream of grey smoke that the wind instantly tore to shreds.
"I could hear Isobel laughing all the way from the stables.
I had to check twice to see if someone had smuggled a cask of French brandy into the kitchen. "
"Senga forgot herself," Alpin said, his jaw tightening until his scar throbbed. "The girl was being loud."
"The girl was making Greer look like a human being, which is a miracle the parish priest hasnae managed in forty years," Niall shot back, a lazy, teasing edge creeping into his burr. "And ye sat there looking like a dog that’s just watched a cat eat his supper. Are ye going to tell me she’s too loud for the hall, me Laird, or are ye just annoyed that she didnae ask ye for permission before she made yer sister smile? "
Alpin didn't answer. He stared at a piece of driftwood drifting in the foam, his breath leaving his mouth in thick, white plumes. His chest felt tight, the cold air hitting his lungs like broken glass.
"She’s good for them, Niall," Alpin said, the admission tearing out of his throat before he could stop it.
He looked down at his boots, his voice dropping into a rough, uneven rasp.
"Isobel hasnae had a woman to talk to since the fever took our mother.
And Greer... Greer needs someone who doesnae bounce off her like a dull blade. The girl has a bit of iron in her."
Niall took another slow pull from his pipe, the red light illuminating the sharp, knowing grin on his face. "Aye. She does. She looks like she could handle a boat in a gale, too, if ye gave her the oars."
Alpin snapped his head around, his black eyes narrowing as he glared through the dark.
"It’s only a contract. The London viscount wanted his name cleared of the wagers, and I wanted the council off me back.
That’s the whole of it. We have an arrangement, and it doesnae extend past the parish register. "
Niall nodded slowly, his face going entirely serious as he tapped the ash from his pipe against his heel. "Of course, me Laird. Just a piece of paper and a bit of ink. That’ll be why ye’ve been standing in the freezing surf for an hour until yer boots are full of salt-water."
"The tide was coming in," Alpin growled, turning his back on the sea and taking a long, heavy stride back toward the path.
"Aye, it always does," Niall laughed, falling into step beside him as they began the steep climb toward the yellow lights of the keep.