Page 103 of A Scot in the Storm
He believed her.
“Get Tavish,” Rory said. “Tobias too. Duncan if he’s sober enough to tell brass from porridge.”
“He’s always sober in the morning.”
“Aye. But does he know brass from porridge?”
“Fair question.”
“We dry-test the bearing once more.”
Ewan’s expression sharpened.
“Before breakfast?”
“Before the weather.”
That ended the argument. By the time the eastern sky had lightened to the color of dirty pewter, they were all in the lantern room.
The dome above them held the morning dimly. Glass panels, ribs, ironwork, the whole upper chamber breathing cold around them while the sea fretted below the cliffs out of sight. The lamp stood ready but unlit, reservoir cleaned, wick trimmed, its brass body polished.
Tavish came up first, still yawning into his sleeve.
Tobias followed with a roll of tools under one arm and a piece of bread in his mouth.
Duncan arrived last, looking as if he had been carved from sleep and dragged upright by rope.
Abigail came after them wearing the blue-grey shawl Rory had bought her in Fraserburgh, pulled close over her dark dress, her hair tied back with a ribbon. She had a smudge of soot along one wrist and a narrow line between her brows.
Not fear but calculation. Excitement.
That, more than anything, settled him.
She looked at the sky through the eastern panel.
“Barometer?”
“Falling.”
“Fast?”
“Fast enough.”
She nodded once and crossed to the bench without another word.
The bearing had been seated the night before for the flex test. A final test, or what was meant to be final. The sort of test a sensible man did before Commissioners and magistrates and half the parishes within walking distance turned up to watch the official lighting.
The brass was cold beneath Rory’s palm.
“By hand,” he said. “No weight.”
Ewan took the first position at the lever. Duncan braced the far side of the cradle. Abigail stood beside the housing with her eyes fixed not on the lens but on the joint.
Rory gave the nod.
Ewan pushed as the mechanism turned. Slowly, clean, no scrape, no chatter in the teeth, and no hesitation along the lower track.
“Again,” Rory said.
