Epilogue
The ale was flowing,the beef was being carved and served as it roasted, and the honeyed figs seemed to be popular. Fenella knew she should be proud of how well this celebration had turned out, but being in the great hall just made her nervous.
She should be down in the kitchens, overseeing the feast. Although most of the clan had already eaten, the fact Leanna and Kenneth’s wedding celebration would go long into the night—even though the disgustingly in-love couple had retired quite a while ago, after sending one another mooning glances and naughty winks throughout the ceremony—meant she needed to keep the food and drinks flowing.
However, Mother had insisted Fenella, as Leanna’s next-oldest sister, be present at the family table for a change.
Thus, Fen couldn’t hide herself away in the comforting stone walls of her kitchen, and instead, had to be here.
Where everyone—anyone—could see her.
Since the tables had been pushed back to allow room for the dancing—which Robena was enthusiastically supplying the music for, thanks to something which looked like a giant wooden spoon and some string—Fen had found herself a corner to hide in. Well, not exactly a corner, but luckily, this close to the edge of the crowd, not too many people were glancing her way.
Still, she wrapped her arms around her middle and tried to draw herself inward. It was a stance she’d learned long ago; hunching her shoulders like this and keeping her chin pointed toward the floor. It allowed her to watch without drawing attention to herself; the next best thing to hiding among her pots and spits and bread trays.
Out in the middle of the hall, her family and clansmembers were enthusiastically dancing…or whatever that strange spinning in circles might be called. Clearly, the ale was strong.
Not for the first time, Fen thought wistfully of the ability to allow her inhibitions to slide like that. Imagine what ‘twould be like, to stand among others and make a complete fool of herself.
Nay, thank ye verra much!
“More tarts!” someone bellowed, and ‘twas met with much laughter and ribbing. Fen’s lips twitched, remembering the way her sisters had begun to use, “Tarts!” as an all-purpose exclamation.
The supply of tarts shouldn’t be getting low however. She frowned, calculating. The next batch should’ve come up already, and if it hadn’t, that meant one of her lasses had made a mistake, or there was a big batch of burnt tarts below.
Mayhap she could sneak away and just sort of check on things down in the kitchens…
Ah. There was Mother, across the crowd, sending her a stern look, as if she could read Fen’s mind.
If only she didnae believe Nicola’s draughts and my fennel had cured the green spots, when ‘twas really Robena who had sneaked in to clean Leanna’s handiwork from her looking glass. If Mother’s malady hadnae been miraculously cured, she would still be in bed and unable to insist on my presence.
Fenella sighed.
“Ye’re no’ dancing, milady?”
The low, gravelly voice surprised her, and Fen whirled about.
‘Twas him.
Brodie McClure, just as delicious as the day he’d been brought through her kitchens on a stretcher, was standing beside her.
Fen’s mind turned to pudding.
“The music is fine,” he offered, looking at the dancers and not at her.
This allowed her the freedom to peer at him from under lowered lashes, a liberty she wouldn’t have had the courage to take otherwise. He was just as tall as she’d guessed, except he had to hunch slightly to hold onto the crutch shoved under his left arm. His shoulders were broad, but Fen’s practiced eye knew the look of a person who wasn’t eating as well as he should’ve been.
He’s been in the sickroom since he arrived.
He would need hearty bread and vegetables and some of the beef—
Och, what are ye saying, lass? He’s a McClure warrior. He’ll be gone soon enough.
Apparently she’d spent too long staring at him, because he glanced back at her.
Flushing, Fen dropped her gaze.
“Aye,” she blurted, although she couldn’t recall what she was agreeing with.