Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fire in the study was nothing but a heap of cold grey ash, but Alpin didn't bother to lay a new peat. He stood by the corner of his high desk, his fingers jammed into his leather belt as he stared at the grease-spot he’d left on the ledger the night before.
The heavy oak door clicked and swung inward fast enough to rattle the keys in the lock.
Isobel slipped through the gap, her grey wool skirts bunching in her fists as she slammed the door behind her. She threw the iron bolt into its track before Alpin could even uncross his arms.
"I am busy, Isobel," Alpin growled, his voice scraping low against the damp stone of the walls.
He picked up a fresh goose quill from the tray, his thumb testing the point with a force that nearly split the feather.
"The lower village has two roofs leaking, and the bailiff is waiting on the accounts. "
"The bailiff can wait until his toes turn blue," Isobel said, marching straight to the opposite side of the desk. She didn't sit. She planted her small hands flat on the polished timber, leaning her weight forward until her dark eyes were level with his. "We are talking about Grisselle."
Alpin’s jaw worked once, the pale scar from his jaw to his collarbone tightening until the skin went white. He kept his eyes fixed on the blank ledger. "There is nothing to talk about. The matter is closed."
"The matter is sitting in the kitchen right now, showing Senga how to turn a hem without knotting the thread," Isobel shot back, her voice dropping into that tight, fierce register he hadn't heard since their mother died.
"She’s the first good thing to walk through that iron gatehouse in ten years, Alpin.
She has the old blood in her, she doesnae cry when the rain hits the stone, and she made Greer laugh before the noon-bell. "
"Greer didnae laugh," Alpin muttered, his fingers tightening on the quill until the wood groaned. "She had a twitch in her mouth."
"It’s the closest we’ve come to a miracle since the old man went under," Isobel said, her knuckles turning white against the oak desk. "You’ve brought home a woman who can actually stand the sight of these rocks. Do nae ruin this, Alpin."
Alpin shoved the quill back into the brass tray, his boots scraping loudly against the flagstones as he straightened to his full height. He loomed over her, his broad shoulders casting her completely in shadow, his black eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"Mind yer own affairs, lass. Ye ken nothing of what was said between us in London, and ye ken less of what is written on that paper."
"Me affairs?" Isobel let out a short, sharp laugh that carried no mirth at all.
She stood her ground, her chin lifting until she was staring straight into his face, refusing to back down an inch from his bulk.
"Yer affairs are me affairs, Alpin, and they always have been since I was seven years old and had to watch ye sit on the shingle until yer boots filled with salt-water.
I am the one who kept the keys when ye were out on the skiff pretending the sea was going to answer yer questions. "
Alpin’s thumb rubbed a harsh, frantic circle against his leather belt. His chest rose and fell in a heavy, uneven rhythm, but his mouth remained locked shut.
"She’s a living woman, Alpin," Isobel whispered, her voice cracking just enough to let the sharpness through.
"She isnae a ghost from grandfather's stories, and she isnae a ledger to be settled with a bit of wax. If ye treat her like an enemy, she’ll be back on the Edinburgh road before the first frost hits the thatch, and ye’ll be sitting in this cold room by yerself for the next forty years. "
"I have the council to satisfy," Alpin said, his voice dropping into a hard, flat rumble that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "That is the whole of the bargain."
"The council wants a lady who can carry the name without breaking," Isobel said, leaning back and pulling her hands off the desk. She reached for the iron bolt on the door, her fingers steady as she slid it back into the frame. "Ye’ve got one. Now stop looking at the water and see what’s standing right in front of yer face. "
She pulled the door open, her skirts letting out a sharp, angry rustle as she stepped out into the stone corridor. The door slammed shut behind her, the heavy latch dropping with a definitive thud that left the small study completely silent again.
Alpin didn't move. He stood by the high desk, his black eyes fixed on the empty doorway, his pulse hammering a wild, heavy beat against the scar on his neck.
He reached into his coat, his fingers catching the corner of the folded letter under his belt, before pulling his hand out and putting it deep into his pocket.
The kitchen was still cold when Grisselle pushed the heavy oak door open, the only light a low, red glow from the belly of the great stone hearth.
Senga stood alone at the long table, her red knuckles buried deep in a massive wooden trough of barley dough. Her shoulders were hunched against the damp chill that always rolled off the salt-firth before dawn, her breath leaving a faint, grey mist in the air.
Grisselle didn't say a word. She stepped up to the basin by the door, plunged her hands into the freezing water to rinse them, and dried them on her apron. She walked straight to the other side of the trough, rolled her sleeves past her elbows, and drove her weight into the pale, sticky mass.
Senga jumped, her elbows jerking out of the dough with a wet slap. "Me Lady! Ye... ye're up before the stoves have even caught."
"The stoves are slow, Senga, but my stomach isn't," Grisselle said, her thumbs digging into the barley with a rhythmic, heavy heave. "Give it a turn from your side. If we leave it to sit in this damp, it’ll bake like a brick."
Senga watched her for three full breaths, her mouth slightly open, before she cautiously buried her hands back into the flour. "Mistress Greer says ye’ve got more muscle than an English girl has a right to."
"Mistress Greer thinks anyone born south of the Tweed is made of sugar," Grisselle said, her chin lifting as she threw her weight forward. "My grandfather didn't let us sit on silk cushions when the harvest came in. Is it always this quiet before the sun hits the stones?"
"Aye," Senga muttered, her pace picking up to match Grisselle’s steady drive. "The men daenae come down from the stables until Tam has the oats on. It’s just me and Greer in the dark. Has it always been so loud in London, then?"
"Always," Grisselle said, a sharp line appearing between her brows. "Even at midnight, you can hear the iron wheels on the cobbles and the watchmen shouting down the alleyways. You can’t smell the grass. You can only smell the river and the tallow."
Senga let out a soft, low whistle, her hands smoothing over the top of the loaf. "Old Tam says the Laird looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge when he came back from there. He hasnae spoken much since he hit the gravel."
"He doesn't speak many more than that when he’s inside," Grisselle remarked dryly.
"He used to," Senga said, her voice dropping into a tight whisper as she glanced toward the dark larder.
"Before the old Laird went down in the skiff. He’d sit right there on the bench by the bread-oven and try to steal the cracklings when Greer wasnae looking.
He had a laugh that would shake the soot out of the chimney. "
Grisselle’s hands slowed for a fraction of a second, her fingers sinking into the soft dough before she forced them through to the bottom of the trough. "And now?"
"Now he looks at the water," Senga said simply, lifting the great ball of dough and slamming it down onto the floured board. "And we clear the path when he walks through the hall."
By afternoon, the grey mist had split into long, ragged white clouds that raced across a brilliant blue sky. Grisselle climbed the narrow stone steps to the western battlements, her green wool cloak billowing out behind her like a sail as the wind caught her full in the face.
Isobel was already there, sitting on a low stone ledge beneath the iron beacon-basket, her skirts tucked tightly around her boots. She held a small wooden bowl of dried rosehips in her lap, her fingers sorting them into a linen pouch.
"Greer said ye helped with the big baking," Isobel called out over the whistle of the gale, not looking up from her hands. "She told Dougal that ye dinnae drop a single grain of flour on the floorboards. I think she’s considering letting ye touch the salt-pork next week."
"I am honored," Grisselle said, leaning her elbows against the rough, salt-crusted stone of the wall. She looked out over the vast, empty green of the braes stretching toward the peaks. "Your kitchen is warmer than the study."
"Everything is warmer than the study," Isobel said, setting the bowl down on the flagstones. She shifted over, patting the cold stone beside her. "Sit before the wind carries yer hair completely into the firth."
Grisselle dropped onto the ledge, her shoulder brushing Isobel’s wool shawl. They sat in silence for a long minute, watching a pair of grey gulls drift motionless against the updraft from the cliffs.
"It wasnae always so grim here," Isobel said softly, her eyes tracking the birds. "When our father was living, the hall was full of people from the lower glen every Sunday. There was piping. Alpin used to play the small pipes until his fingers bled, just to keep up with the old men."
"He doesn't look like a man who plays music," Grisselle said, her fingers tracing a deep crack in the stone.