As soon as she’d spoken, she thought,Well, of course, idiot. You’re a woman, and expected Cathal to say likewise, either laughing at her or taking offense at the comparison. When he didn’t, Sophia remembered his sister, the one he’d said had taken his place fighting the English, and then that he’d spoken of women fighting in the Crusades. It was easy to forget facts in expectation; she’d never liked that about her mind.
“And you’ve had many more years than most,” Sophia continued, because the silence had taken on weight and she didn’t know what that would end up meaning if she let it go unchecked. “Centuries. Well, a century.”
The word felt strange in her mouth. It didn’t quite want to attach itself to Cathal, particularly when he smiled. “That’s a way of seeing it, perchance,” he said, speaking as if he was turning the idea over in his mind, inspecting the shine and the facets of it. “It’sbeencenturies since Loch Arach had a new hand at the reins. Those here tell me everything they think to, but…they’ll not know everythingIdon’t know, aye? No more than I do.”
“That’s always what catches me,” Sophia said. “I learned from a few teachers, and that was all right as long as I could just imitate them every step. But then, when my situation was different from the ones we’d practiced, I didn’t know to ask, and they hadn’t thought to tell me. And then with experiments, there’s somuchnot to know, especially at first. You have to…to”—she gestured, trying to grasp the words—“hunt down ignorance before you can address it.”
Cathal nodded. Sophia realized that she perhaps hadn’t said the most helpful thing she could have and was about to apologize when he asked, “And what happens when you don’t catch your prey in time?”
“Well, I lost my eyebrows once.”
He stared at her, then laughed—quickly, but deep in his chest—and the laughter shook some tension from him. “They grew back bonny enough. Shall I take that as an omen, sorceress?”
“I’ve never been very good at divination,” Sophia said, shaking her head and smiling. Then, more soberly, “But it’s always been my principle that…that you do the best you can, yousecurewhat you can, and then you do the work you’re called to do, and you can’t fret about more than that. I do fret, too much, but I try not to.”
“And then you end up in Scotland, looking for dragon scales.”
“Essentially, yes,” Sophia said, and turned her hands outward. “I don’t know if the principle is the same for what you’re doing. I’ve never been nobility, obviously, and I’ve never been in charge of anyone, let alone a castle. I don’t know how widely the theory applies. But war can’t be a very certain thing, can it?”
“No. It’s just over more quickly,” said Cathal, again in the thoughtful manner he’d had before, his voice distant even as his eyes met hers with a focus that made the ground feel slightly unstable beneath her feet. It wasn’t lust this time; she wasn’t sure what it was. Then it was gone. “You should go in,” he said. “You’re mortal. It’s cold.”
“I… Yes, it is,” Sophia said.
She hadn’t noticed that for a while.
Eight
For three days, Cathal had little time to think. He hunted, or he helped to butcher and salt his prey. He met with Niall to go over lists of supplies, or he approved his chamberlain’s notion of what rooms in the castle they might open for any villagers who wished shelter. It occurred to Cathal that such duties sat more lightly on him since he’d talked to Sophia, and that the lift to his spirits after their conversation was longer than hunting usually gave him. He noted it, had neither leisure nor energy to worry about what it might mean, and so was simply glad of the benefits.
The world was full of things he didn’t understand. When they worked to his advantage, he rarely found it helped to question them.
He didn’t see Sophia herself very much. She kept to her turret, emerging once in a while for meals. As Cathal mostly grabbed bread and meat while on the way to one appointment or another, it was rare that he even met her eyes across the table. The one evening when they dined together for any length of time, words did come more easily between them than in the past. They talked trivially about preparations and the weather in France, then touched briefly on Cathal’s time in Spain.
As with his mood, he noticed that he spoke more freely with her, marked the fact, and put it aside. He would have time to consider it later.
But when the villagers began to arrive, he was glad to see Donnag among them. Middle-aged, nearly as tall as Cathal himself, and little more than skin over bones, Donnag had served Loch Arach as midwife and herbalist for forty years, or so Cathal’s father had said. Any plant she didn’t know didn’t exist for about fifty miles.
Of course, she didn’t speak French or even much English, certainly not the sort that Sophia would understand. They’d need a translator. Out of everyone in the castle or the village, Cathal knew the most languages. Father Lachlann might have been able to interpret under other circumstances, but given both Sophia and the task at hand, he seemed a bad choice.
It would have to be Cathal translating. He’d make time in his duties because Fergus’s condition demanded it. Far from being another imposition, the thought of interpreting for the women made him smile. Dwelling on that, like the translation itself, would have to wait.
Waiting came to an end almost precisely three days from the morning when Cathal had first seen the blizzard approaching. The snow was already falling from a lead-colored sky as he performed the morning rites. By the time he entered the great hall, the wind outside was beginning to moan; by noon, it was howling. The shutters held firm, though, and fires blazed in the hall and the kitchen, adding their warmth to the heat of many people in a room.
Now, he thought, there was nothing for it but waiting and response. A crisis would arise, or not, and he’d know the shape of it then and how to act accordingly. As Sophia had hinted, the feeling was not unlike battle.
He saw Sophia in the hall, seated in a corner with Alice by her side and a book on her lap. Cathal thought that he recognized the book as one his mother had brought with her many years ago. Magic, and indeed reading, had never called to him like they had to Agnes. He’d looked through the library as best he could after the incident with Valerius, but he’d found nothing that seemed useful.
Perhaps it’d be different for Sophia.
He crossed the room as, off in another corner, a man began to play a lyre. The instrument was old but well-tended, and the bard was skilled enough, for all that he doubtless lived by farming. It was an old tune, one that even Cathal remembered from his childhood. His mother had never been musical, but his father—his father had hummed whenever he walked.
By the time Cathal reached Sophia, he was smiling in reminiscence, and perhaps that was why Alice gave him a less-wary curtsy than usual.
“Your pardon, ladies,” he said and bowed. “The midwife’s about. I’ll make the introductions…unless you’ve met already.”
Sophia shook her head. “No, she was busy when we made it to the village,” she said and began to rise, tucking the book under her arm. “Alice?”
“Duty calls, I know. I’ll find you later,” the blond woman replied and drifted over toward the music.
