Page 28 of A Scot in the Storm
They muttered together beneath their breath in a thick Lowland Scots Abigail could barely follow. Then one of them slipped briefly into Gaelic, sharp and instinctive as a prayer.
Marbh.
Dead.
Her own Gaelic was the sort learned badly and enthusiastically during a summer on Skye while chasing archival references and pretending she understood more than she did. Enough for greetings. Enough to ask directions. Enough to recognize when fear pushed someone back into an older tongue.
Not enough to catch the rest. For once, she was grateful.
Mrs. Gable pointed her toward a stool near the hearth and set down a wooden bowl filled with thick grey porridge. No honey. No cream. But at least it was hot.
The first spoonful struck the chipped tooth on the left side of her mouth and pain flashed hot enough to maker her eyes water.
She chewed carefully on the other side while trying not to look as miserable as she felt.
The bowl itself distracted her as she stopped mid-chew. Turned birch. Hand-lathed. The rim worn satin-smooth by years of use. Faint concentric rings still visible beneath the finish where the maker’s tools had passed imperfectly through the grain.
In her time, something like this would sit beneath museum glass with a placard discussing eighteenth-century domestic craftsmanship and uncertain provenance. Here it simply held breakfast.
The kitchen spread wide beneath the castle in a haze of peat smoke and amber firelight.
Iron cranes blackened with soot swung above the hearth. Dried herbs hung in fragrant bundles from the rafters, rosemary and thyme alongside others she couldn’t immediately name. Along the stone wall stood rows of crocks sealed with cloth and twine. Somewhere beneath the smoke lingered the sharp clean scent of saltwater carried inland on damp wool and boots.
November had arrived hard along the Buchan coast overnight. Cold sea fog drifted beyond the windows, blurring the harbor into pale grey shadow.
The castle felt lived in and warm despite the granite. And every person there was watching her when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Mrs. Gable noticed the wince she failed to hide.
“The mouth, is it?”
“A tooth,” Abigail admitted. “Chipped, I think. Thankfully not broken.”
Mrs. Gable gave a small grunt while ladling something into another pot over the fire. “Porridge is nae helping it. I’ll make ye broth later.”
“Thank you.”
The older woman nodded once as if gratitude were an unnecessary ornament and jerked her chin toward the stairs.
“Up wi’ ye now. First door at the landing.”
Abigail stood taking her bowl to the counter.
“And lass.”
She paused.
“Stand straight when ye go in. He’s nae a man that likes slouching. And if he asks ye a thing twice, the second answer had best resemble the first.”
A warning lay there beneath the dry tone.
“I understand,” Abigail said quickly.
Mrs. Gable’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
The climb upstairs left Abigail shakier than she wanted to admit. Her ankle ached, and every bruise from the night before seemed to groan in protest as the warmth of the kitchen faded behind her.
The castle unfolded around her in narrow passages and low stone arches polished smooth by generations of passing hands. Wind hummed faintly somewhere inside the walls.
