Page 99 of A Scot in the Storm
“Amen,” the table answered.
“Eat.”
And they did.
The men attacked the meal with the focused determination of people who’d spent weeks living mostly on oats, stew, and meager meat. Tobias burned his fingers stealing potatoes before the bowls had fully settled. Duncan used his bread to mop drippings from his plate while pretending not to notice Mrs. Gable watching him.
Ewan burned his tongue almost immediately.
The dining table had never been meant for this many people, but Mrs. Gable had solved the problem by have them drag in two narrower trestle tables and covering the whole uneven arrangement with mismatched linen cloths that nearly reached the floor on one side and hovered several inches short on the other. Candles burned low and golden between platters. The room smelled of roast goose, chicken, onions browned in butter, fresh bannocks, rosemary, and the rich dark gravy Mrs. Gable had declared “too good for common weekdays.”
Abigail sat halfway down the table next to Rory with Duncan on her right, though Duncan appeared substantially more interested in the food than the conversation.
Tavish stared openly at the roasted bird occupying the center platter.
“So ye’re telling me,” he said slowly, “Americans truly gather every year specifically to eat a bird large enough to feed thirty people?”
“It’s usually turkey,” Abigail said.
“That isnae reassuring.”
“It’s basically a giant chicken.”
“Giant” and “chicken” shouldna belong in the same sentence,” Tobias muttered into his ale.
Across the table, Mrs. Gable snorted.
“That creature could carry off a bairn.”
“It cannot carry off a child,” Abigail protested, laughing despite herself.
“No’ after we’ve roasted it, certainly,” Ewan said dryly, making everyone laugh.
Rory leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her over the rim of his cup with that quieter sort of amusement he rarely allowed fully onto his face.
“And this happens every year?” he asked.
“Every November.”
“For what purpose?”
“To be grateful for each other.”
Tobias frowned suspiciously at the bowl Abigail had set near the potatoes.
“And what’s that horror?”
“Cranberry sauce.”
The entire side of the table went still.
“Also called fen-berries. I traded a scarf I knitted with one of the traveling merchants in the village,” Abigail explained. “I obviously couldn’t get oranges or pineapple, but you’ll get the idea.”
“Why is it beside the meat?”
“Because that’s where it goes.”
“That canna possibly be true.”
