Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation (Bad in Plaid 4)
Mother was…a bit egalitarian with her illnesses. In that she had all of them, all the time.
“What is it?”
Nicola pulled the thin spoon from the concoction and began to clean it off. “Whisky, honey, water, and rosemary.”
“Oh, so she has restless leg syndrome again?”
“Nay. When she complains of that, I spice her whiskey, honey, and water with basil. I’ve found if it tastes slightly different each time, she believes me.”
‘Twas easier to concentrate on other’s complaints rather than the fact Kester was betrothed to someone else.
Robena leaned closer to sniff at the mug. “I like the rosemary. What is she complaining of this time?”
Her expression carefully neutral, Nicola announced, “Our mother has declared she is suffering from foot scald.”
Robena wrinkled her nose. “Foot scald? Like…?”
“Hoof rot, aye.”
“But…I thought ye could only get hoof rot if ye were—”
Nicola interrupted with a put-upon sigh. “A goat, aye.”
Hm. “So…she’s demanded ye treat her hoof rot? With whisky?”
The healer was trying not to smile. “She doesnae ken ‘tis mostly whisky. She believes I’m a miracle worker, and all of my draughts make her nice and sleepy, and when she wakes up, her foot scald will be cured!” Her voice dropped to a mumble. “Until next time.”
“And the only difference between this and her other cures is the rosemary?”
“Och, nay!” Nicola propped her hip against the worktable and crossed her arms. “The secret to healing is no’ necessarily the herbs and medicines, but the other stuff. For instance, in Mother’s case, I’ll tell her to take a sip from this draught once every two minutes—conveniently there’s a celebration tonight, so we can time it by the choruses of the songs—for the three hours afore bed.” From the way Nicola’s cheeks were dimpling, she was feeling mischievous. “And she must no’ engage in any nagging activity—Wynda and Fen will thank me for that—for three days, and she must sleep on her left side as much as possible. Och, aye, and she has to remember to keep her hooves out of the mud.”
‘Twas said with such a completely dry tone, Robena burst into chuckles.
“How long have ye been plying Mother with such ‘cures’?” she asked.
To her surprise, Nicolas sighed and dropped her arms. “My whole life, it feels like,” she muttered, reaching for her supplies to begin cleaning up.
Robena slowly straightened, the slump of her sister’s shoulders piercing her own pain. “Nicola?”
The other woman sent a smile over her shoulder, but it looked forced. “I’m fine. ‘Tis just….” She shrugged as she slid the scale into place on a shelf. “Do ye ever wonder if there’s more? I mean…we’ve been here on Oliphant land our whole lives.”
Robena cocked a brow. “Ye want adventures? Like Leanna?” Their younger sister had always been wild and mischievous and had gone off to marry Laird McClure at the beginning of the summer. “Ye want to see the world?”
“I want….” Nicola shook her head and shrugged again as she planted her hands on her hips, her gaze locked on the shelves of her healing implements, although clearly not seeing them. “I’m no’ certain what I want. But…I ken I’m supposed to help people. I’ve been considering….”
When she trailed off, Robena gave her a moment, then prompted quietly, “What?”
“Ye ken of the nunnery north of here? St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant?” Nicola murmured. “They’ve sent for me.”
Robena reared back. “Ye want to be a nun?” She began to shake her head. “Nicola, nay! I mean, I understand wanting to be recognized, to make a difference—that’s why I’ve always wanted to go to the Highland Piping Competition! But, to take vows? We’d never see ye again.”
Unbidden, her hand rose, reaching for her sister. “Ye’d never marry, never ken a man’s touch! Never hold yer babe—“
Her sister interrupted her with a harsh slash of her palm. “I’m no’ taking vows, ye blathering dobber!” Nicola’s smile was crooked and a little sad. “I’m just visiting. They need a healer, and I dinnae want to spend the rest of my life pouring whisky for Mother and lying about it.”
Frowning thoughtfully, Robena slowly straightened and considered her sister’s words. Of all of them, Nicola was the gentlest, and ‘twas easy to imagine her accepting a life of quiet contemplation among the nuns. Was she actually considering taking vows, or had she been truthful about only visiting?
“What’s this really about, Nicola?” she asked quietly.