Page 108 of A Scot in the Storm
McRae’s mouth tightened.
Rory stepped closer to the bench, injured shoulder throbbing under the loosened strap, one hand flat beside the new bearing.
“The Board does nae get the choice tonight,” he said. “I do.”
Silence followed.
Then Ewan nodded once. “Tavish,” he said. “Lantern room. Clean linen, seating tools, every small file we own. Tobias, get the oil up the stair. Duncan, fetch the spare lever.”
No one questioned it after that. Rory filed until his fingers cramped.
Abigail checked the seat twice, then three times, then silently handed him the smaller file when the angle changed by less than a whisper.
McRae cleaned the bearing with the care of a man disarming a pistol pointed at his own foot.
Tobias ran messages between tower and workshop until his face shone with sweat despite the cold.
Mrs. Gable appeared once at the doorway, took in the forge, the men, the wind, Abigail’s pale face, and Rory’s loosened shoulder strap.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do I need to fetch Janet?”
“No,” Rory and Abigail said together.
Mrs. Gable looked wholly unconvinced. “I dislike agreement when it comes from fools.”
Then she set down more bread, another jug of ale, and a small wrapped packet.
“For later,” she told Abigail.
“What is it?”
“Food.”
“I gathered.”
“Then ask fewer questions.”
She vanished back into the wind.
By four, the weather had come fully upon them. The sky to the east went dark first, not black but a deep iron-blue that seemed to press downward over the water. The west held a strip of dull light near the horizon, thin as a blade.
Canvas snapped. Ropes sang. The scaffold made small complaining sounds every time the wind shouldered against it.
At half past four, McRae took the bearing from him, turned it once beneath the lamp, then again.
His thumb moved along the inner ring. At last McRae held it out.
“It’s good, Captain.” McRae looked at him a moment longer. “If it doesna, ye’ll still have tried for the lad.”
Rory tucked it inside his coat against his ribs, beside the oilcloth notebook he had carried for years. The metal was stillwarm through the linen. Alive with the day’s work. Outside the workshop, the wind hit him full in the face.
The east was already gone dark. The west had turned slate-going-to-ink, the last light gathering low behind the clouds as if reluctant to be seen leaving.
At the top of the tower, the eastern glass caught one pale shard from the dying sky. Inside it, a single candle moved.
Abigail was already in the lantern room, a small flame passing from bench to cradle to lamp and back again.
