No. Why do they all ask me my name?
My heart sinks. I sort of convinced myself that I’d be able to make a good impression or something, after the run-in with Leith the night before.
I fold my hands on the table in front of me and stare at them, unspeaking. Leith sits down heavily beside me and shakes his head.
“I couldn’t get it out of her either,” he says, and I can tell by the tone of his voice it takes something for him to admit this. Is he afraid the old man will lose respect for him? Why? It’s odd to me.
“What do you mean you haven’t gotten it out of her?” The older man leans back in his chair, and even though he’s older and frail, I can tell he’s a powerful man even now. His arms are large and muscular, covered with faded ink. Some markings match Leith’s, and as my eyes travel upward, I note the large breadth of his shoulders and neck. Is this what Leith will look like when he’s older?
Why do I care? What a strange thought to have.
“Brought her home last night, as you know,” Leith says. “I interrogated, asked the standard questions, and the girl hasn’t made a peep since we saw her.”
“Did she make a peep before you saw her?” the girl asks. I can tell by the way her eyes dance and her lips twitch, the entire situation amuses her.
“Shut it, Islan.”
She sticks her tongue out at him, and the older man beside her growls.
“Enough, Islan.”
She turns a faint shade of pink, and she gives me a mortified look. I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed she was chastised or what her story is, but I think it odd they all defer to Leith. Do even the servants, the men he was with last night, and this older man here do the same?
Leith scowls as he places food on his plate from the platter at the center. Several fried eggs and sausages, grilled tomatoes, fried tatties, and a few slices of buttered toast with a crock of marmalade. My stomach rolls with hunger at the sight of all this delectable food. Are they trying to butter me up?
He takes a second plate and places food on it, and for a moment I wonder why, until he pushes it over to me. I blink in surprise, then take the plate eagerly.
Islan smiles at me and points to her pastry. I nod eagerly. She grins, hops up from her chair, and skips over to a platter on the counter.
“Here, love,” she says with a grin. “Our kitchen sells their pastries and baked goods, and they need, shall we say, some people in their quality control department.” One of the older, uniformed women, stirring a large pot at the stove, chuckles to herself. Seems this is an excuse Islan uses often to “sample” the wares. She continues. “Since we’re here today, we’ll be the ones that give feedback, mmm?”
As long as the feedback entails nothing more than a thumbs up, I can handle it.
She holds a large tray filled with golden pastries, folded into little v-shapes, puffy and sparkling with a thick crust of sugar. My mouth waters, and I swallow. I want everything, but I don’t want to be greedy. Nor do I want to bring any more attention to myself than necessary. I nod thank you and motion for her to take the tray away.
“Leith, you know my expectations,” the older man says.
Leith holds the man’s gaze. “Aye, Dad.” His voice holds a counter note of authority when he speaks. “And you know mine.”
His father’s eyes go wide for a moment. You can learn a lot about a person from their eyes. Someone like me learns to read gazes like others read the stars or tea leaves, with the knowledge that they reveal far more than at first appears.
At first his father looks surprised, then his expression quickly fades to anger. It’s either a fleeting thought or one he masters quite quickly, for the next moment he looks at his son with respect.
They lock eyes for long minutes, until finally his father looks away first. Is he admitting defeat, then?
“Aye, son, I do,” he says. “And you’re right to pull rank as the Captain.” He says something under his breath I don’t catch, but Leith isn’t one to let even his father avoid honest confrontation. There’s a new hardness to his voice now.
“Come again, dad? Wee bit of a breeze outside that window right now, I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”
His father lifts his head up a fraction of a centimeter higher and holds Leith’s gaze, unwavering. His words are guttural and ancient, like the locks on a treasure chest. Powerful, but weakened with age.
“Am mac mar an t-athair.”
I know immediately it’s Gaelic. Though I don’t hear it often in my home, I like to think I’m well-read and educated. I know it’s the founding language of Scotland, perhaps derived from the Irish. It was the major language of the Kingdom of Alba back in the day, and though it’s evolved with time, it’s still ancient and revered.