“The way I recall ye explaining it was, many years ago, hearing the Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle was said to foretell doom,” Leanna explained in exasperation. “Except this William Oliphant got it into his head that the drummer foretold falling in love, and thus he was the one—the ghost, I mean—who started this whole nonsense!”
See? ‘Twas the ghost’s fault!
Wynda’s expression cleared, and she nodded. “Och, aye. I recall that story as well. Only, there was more to it…something about the drummer no’ being real and turning out to be William all along?”
“Well, that isnae true,” scoffed Robena. “William’s long dead, and we’ve each heard the drummer from time to time.”
“I havenae,” Wynda said with a frown.
“Really? But ye’re the one who talks to the ghosts,” Leanna pointed out.
“I listen to them,” Wynda corrected, “because they willnae shut their jabbering otherwise. But I’ve never run into a ghostly drummer.”
“I dinnae think anyone has,” Leanna interrupted. “Mayhap Robena has only heard him because he makes music as she does?”
“As I recall the stories, he just wandered around the passages, pounding on the drum. ‘Tis hardly music,” Wynda finished with a scowl.
But Robena lifted her chin. “I think ‘tis music.”
Without looking up, Nicola commented wryly, “Mayhap ‘tis no’ the drummer at all, but some other pounding Robena is experiencing.”
“Oh for the love of God!” Robena scowled. “Ye’re talking about lust again, are ye no’?”
“ ‘Tis better than dreaming about love,” the healer pointed out, scraping the last of her green bits into a woven bag.
But Leanna refused to believe that. “I’ll fall in love, with or without a drummer! I’ll do it on my own terms, and Da’s ridiculous plan to find the next laird can go fook itself.”
Robena’s eyes widened at the declaration—or mayhap the language—but Wynda just smiled. She might’ve had something to say, but at that moment, the door to the solar was nudged open and Fen came bustling in.
“Tarts!” she declared proudly, her freckled face beaming as she brandished a tray.
Leanna gasped theatrically and clutched her bosom. “What did ye just call us?”
“Tarts,” repeated Nicola blandly. “What a thing to say about yer sisters.”
“I’m no’ a tart,” Robena hurried to assure them all. “Just because I allowed Johnnie certain liberties that time behind the stables…I was curious is all.”
“Robena Oliphant, I never kenned this,” Wynda declared slyly. “Do tell us more.”
But before Robena could, Fen rolled her eyes and stomped over to Nicola’s worktable. “I wasnae calling ye tarts, as well ye ken, ye clot-heids. I was declaring tarts!”
“Och, is that a new thing to do?” Leanna pushed herself upright. “Tarts! ‘Tis a fine day outside!”
“Tarts!” joined in Wynda. “My nib has broken!”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” murmured Robena
“Tarts! Ye’re all dim bampots!” Nicola declared, as she cleared a spot on her worktable, nudging Leanna’s cup of green paint out of the way.
“Tarts!” declared Fen hotly. “As in, I made a new batch of berry tarts, and I want ye to try them!”
Wynda clucked her tongue serenely. “Why did ye no’ just say that?”
“I rather like tarts as our new declaration,” Robena added with a shrug. “I’ll use it.”
“Tarts, so will I,” agreed Leanna with a giggle.
Fen rolled her eyes as she set the tray down on the worktable. “I had an hour afore I had to start the roast for tonight’s dinner, so I thought I’d experiment with a new filling. This one is heavy on the blackberries, so I need some feedback. Too tart?”