Page 98 of A Scot in the Storm
Duncan actually removed his cap briefly.
“I had no intention of touching the Banff,” Rory said carefully.
“The Banff is for Saturday.”
Abigail looked between them.
“What’s Saturday?”
Mrs. Gable narrowed her eyes.
“If ye think I’m explaining every sacred household matter before noon, ye’ve another thought coming.”
After that the house felt more alive. Not all at once, but steadily, as though warmth itself spread room to room.
Ewan arrived first rolling a whisky cask through the back door with the exaggerated care one usually reserved for unstable explosives.
“Second-best,” he announced gravely.
Mrs. Gable inspected it.
“Hm. Acceptable.”
Ewan leaned toward Abigail.
“The Banff once made Duncan sing directly to a chicken.”
“I heard that,” Duncan shouted from outside.
“Aye,” Ewan shouted back. “And the chicken’s still offended.”
By half past one the kitchen had become noisy enough to push back her homesickness.
Tobias brought smoked herring wrapped in cloth and smelling sharply of oak, smoke, and salt. Tavish arrived with apples, while Duncan contributed two bottles of small beer nobody requested but everyone accepted.
The room filled with warmth, voices, and the rich delicious smell of roasting hens turning slowly above the fire while neeps and tatties cooked beneath the drippings.
Brown bread rose beside the hearth.
Crowdie from Pittendrum appeared from whatever secret vault Mrs. Gable maintained for worthy occasions.
Then came apples cored and stuffed with honey and cinnamon.
“The cinnamon,” Mrs. Gable informed Abigail sternly, “has waited all year, so ye’ll appreciate it properly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Outside, the rain and wind eased. Inside, candlelight turned the kitchen windows gold against the coming dark.
And somewhere between Tobias trying to understand cranberry sauce, not the kind that came in a can but the Martha Stewart version, (“Ye mix berries with fruit and sugar?”) and Duncan trying to steal scraps from the pie crust, Abigail stopped feeling like she was merely surviving here in the past.
They all sat down together at five. Small whisky cups waited beside every plate while Mrs. Gable poured a thumb of amber liquid into each before taking her own seat at the head of the table opposite Rory.
Mrs. Gable looked once around the table.
“For what we have,” she said simply. “For who is at the table with us this day. Amen.”
