Page 78 of A Scot in the Storm
By the time they rose to leave, the sun had nearly reached the horizon. They walked back toward the castle while the last light burned across the sea in bands of gold and deep violet.
The cold crept upward through the ground, a hard winter cold that settled inside their boots.
Smoke rose from the castle chimney in a thin white line against the darkening sky.
Snow soon. Tomorrow perhaps.
Abigail walked beside him with the shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Every so often her hand brushed his arm when the path narrowed.
He didn’t move away. The thought came unbidden and settled warmly somewhere deep in his chest.
If Abigail truly was one of the fae folk the old stories warned against, then perhaps he was a fool already lost beyond saving. But standing there with winter gathering around them and her shoulder brushing his beneath the darkening sky, Rory thought he might go willingly enough into the snare if it meant walking beside her a little longer.
Chapter 18
Abigail
Days after the funeral, the castle still breathed around them with all its ordinary sounds. Boots crossed passages. Doors opened and shut against the wind. Pans rattled in the kitchen. The sea struck the cliffs below the tower in its endless dark rhythm.
But laughter was rare and no one sang anymore. No one sang.
Not Tobias carrying timber through the yard with terrible verses made up as he went. Not Ewan sharpening tools beneath the workshop awning while whistling badly enough to offend birds from nearby counties. Even Mrs. Gable had stopped humming under her breath while she kneaded bread. Even the whistling had stopped as though grief itself had reached into the castle and turned the volume down.
Abigail stood at the kitchen table trying to peel turnips without removing half the vegetable with every stroke of the knife.
Mrs. Gable watched in silence for nearly a full minute before finally sighing through her nose.
“If ye carve much deeper, lass, we’ll be serving peelings for supper and throwing the rest to the gulls.”
Abigail looked down at the mutilated turnip in her hand.
“In my defense,” she said, “it’s harder than it looks. I keep worrying I’ll chop my finger off.”
Mrs. Gable took the knife from her with the expression of a woman thinking about where she’d hidden the whisky.
“Ye hold it like ye’re punishing it.”
“I might be.”
“Aye, well. The turnip appears to be winning.”
Despite herself, Abigail smiled faintly.
Mrs. Gable demonstrated once, quick practiced motions reducing the vegetable neatly into even pale cubes before handing the knife back.
“There. Smaller. If ye cut them uneven the pot cooks half to mush and leaves the rest hard enough to break teeth.”
Abigail adjusted her grip carefully as Mrs. Gable watched. After the next turnip, the housekeeper gave one sharp nod.
Approval at Kinnaird Head came in crumbs. Oddly, it meant more because of that.
The kitchen smelled of onions, broth, and damp wool drying near the hearth. Rain earlier that morning had left half the household steaming gently beside the fire like overworked draft horses. A kettle bubbled softly above the flames while somewhere outside the back door Tobias cursed.
Ewan’s voice drifted in immediately afterward.
“Have ye considered lifting with the end attached to yer head?”
A muffled reply sounded.
