Page 96 of A Scot in the Storm
“Stuffing?” Rory asked carefully.
“Bread, celery, onion, butter, and seasonings. It goes inside the bird.”
Mrs. Gable stopped kneading altogether.
“Inside the bird?”
“Yes.”
“You place bread into it deliberately?”
Abigail laughed despite herself, the sound escaping before she could stop it.
Ewan chose that exact moment to come through the kitchen door and immediately looked suspicious.
“Why are we putting bread inside a bird?”
“American bird practices,” Mrs. Gable informed him grimly. “They eat it.”
Ewan looked at Abigail.
Abigail looked at the ceiling.
“I miss one conversation,” Ewan muttered, “and suddenly people are filling hens with bread.”
“It’s seasoned bread with lots of butter,” Abigail defended weakly.
“Seasoned with what?” Elrick asked from the passage. “Regret?”
That dragged another laugh out of her, though homesickness rose sharply behind it all the same.
Rory saw it on her face.
“Ye weren’t going to say anything,” he said quietly.
“Avoidance is a core personality trait.”
“Aye.” His eyes warmed faintly. “Ye do seem committed to it.”
Abigail stared hard at the cutting board.
“I miss my brother. He’s the only family I have left in all the world, and yet he is beyond my reach.”
Mrs. Gable made a soft sound beneath her breath that somehow held sympathy and irritation at the same time.
Rory leaned back slightly in the chair.
“Tell me more about this feast day.”
And because it was him asking, she did.
Abigail told them how her mother would wrestle a turkey large enough to qualify as dangerous wildlife into the oven every year. About Sam “supervising” from a safe distance while contributing absolutely nothing useful. About the gravy she had never once managed to successfully make in her life. That she wished she’d paid more attention when her mother made it.
“Too much flour?” Rory asked solemnly.
“Too much panic.”
“That’ll do it.”
