Page 71 of A Scot in the Storm
Saturday next. The first of December, if the weather held, he would light the lamp.
Once the beam was burning across the water, then and only then would he officially tell everyone. Aye, they’d see it, buthe wasn’t promising that light to anyone until the match was struck.
It would be good for Abigail to get away for a few hours. The lass had been working day and night with nary a complaint.
“She can help carry provisions,” he told Mrs. Gable.
That was a lie. Ewan could carry more provisions in one hand than Abigail likely could with both arms and a mule.
Mrs. Gable was at the basin breaking the thin skin of ice that had formed over the water overnight. She didn’t look up when he spoke, but her shoulders did something suspiciously close to laughter.
“Hmm,” she said in the tone that meant she saw directly through him. “She’ll need a proper cloak then. Frost on the gorse this morning, and the wind off the firth sharp enough to skin a man alive. Can’t have her catching her death on the road.”
An hour later Abigail came downstairs wearing a wool cloak the color of dark moss. Her hair was pinned up beneath the hood, loose curls escaping around her temples from the damp air, and for one disorienting moment she looked as though she belonged here.
Rory found himself abruptly unable to remember why bringing her had seemed like a sensible idea.
They set out after breakfast along the coastal path into Fraserburgh.
The morning was clear. Rare enough this time of year to feel almost extravagant. The sea lay flat and glass-grey beneath a sky scrubbed clean by the night wind. Frost still clung stubbornly to the shaded places along the path, and grass crunched beneath their boots where the low winter sun had not yet reached.
When Rory stepped through the frozen ruts left by carts, the thin ice snapped clean beneath his heel like broken glass.
Abigail walked beside him, her face tilted toward the sunlight like someone starved for it. The cold had painted her cheeks pink already. The tip of her nose had gone pink too.
“I forgot what blue sky looked like,” she said.
“It does that. Disappears for weeks, then turns up pretending it never left.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
He glanced sideways at her.
She was smiling.
He still wasn’t accustomed to being teased. It’d been a long time since anyone had felt comfortable enough to try.
“I’m not disappearing,” he said.
“Disappearing? No. Emotionally withdrawing? That’s basically your whole personality.”
He frowned slightly. “I dinna know what that means.”
“It means every time you have a feeling you go stare at the sea instead of talking.”
“That’s because the sea generally doesna argue with me.”
“That’s probably because it’s trying to drown you.” A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Abigail looked absurdly pleased with herself.
A flock of fieldfare burst from the gorse ahead of them in a clatter of wings. First he’d seen this season. Snow soon, then, probably within the fortnight. The mortar would need covering, the lantern room sealing, and the stores brought fully inside.
Smoke from Fraserburgh appeared first, rising into the cold morning air, then the town itself unfolded below them. Stone houses clustered around the harbor. Fishing boats crowded shoulder to shoulder at the docks while gulls wheeled overhead screaming at one another. The whole town smelled of fish and peat smoke and salt.
Market day brought the streets alive. Stalls lined the lanes beneath canvas awnings stiff with frost. Women sold eggs,butter, onions, knitted stockings, and coarse wool mittens. Men argued over rope, nails, barrel staves, and timber. Children darted between carts while dogs barked underfoot.
Braziers burned at the corners of the larger pitches, smoke carrying the scent of roasting chestnuts and mulled ale through the crowd.
