Kristen smiled with ease, grateful for her voice. “We need small things. For the bairns, and for the cèilidh. A ribbon and a dress for Anna and a tunic for Finn if ye have one strong enough to take a fall or two.”
“Aye, I have just the thing.” The dressmaker turned, already reaching for a shelf. “The lad sizes run by rope if ye daenae ken the measurements.”
“That will help,” Kristen said. “If I bring him in, he will hide behind the fabrics till the rooster crows.”
A soft huff came from behind her. Almost a laugh. She kept her gaze on the goods.
She set her gloves on the counter, pulled the list from her sleeve, and breathed slowly until the tension left her ribs. Work steadied her. Buying clothes for the children steadied her more.
She took a step toward the ribbons, every loop a bright promise in its tray.
“This one,” she murmured, her fingers hovering over a pale blue ribbon.
Then she saw it, a narrow satin strip in the exact hue of Anna’s blanket. She lifted it, and it slid like water over her knuckles.
“Look at ye,” she whispered, not caring if she sounded foolish. “Ye are perfect for a bow on a lass who willnae sit still.”
“Ye always find the right shade, me Lady,” the dressmaker praised. “Anna will be a picture.”
“She will pull it off in five minutes,” Kristen said, smiling. “Then I will tie it again and pretend I daenae see.”
Neil moved to the far side of the shop and folded his arms, saying nothing. She felt him like a fire near her skin, not touching but there all the same.
“Tunics are by the window,” the dressmaker indicated. “Ye ken the sun shows the weave best. Ye can choose there.”
Kristen crossed to the row and ran a knuckle along sturdy hems. “Finn has put two holes in his best one,” she said. “A week ago, he tried to climb a fence. Ye willnae believe he is only five.”
“A brave lad.” The dressmaker smiled.
“Arecklessone,” Kristen said fondly. She lifted a small brown tunic and held it against her own body to judge the length. The hem reached her hip. “He might drown in this.”
“Rope, me Lady,” the dressmaker chuckled, passing her the cord. “Wrap and mark. I can stitch to match.”
Kristen looped the cord around her arm to roughly the length of Finn’s little torso, pinched the measure, and handed it back. “Add a finger’s breadth,” she said. “He grows while I blink.”
“Aye.”
She pressed the tunic to her middle and pictured Finn enjoying the cèilidh, clumsy and proud, his hair sticking up like straw, trying to bow to every woman old enough to be his grandmother. Warmth bloomed in her chest.
She set the tunic in a neat fold on the counter, then reached for a stack of soft handkerchiefs, thumbing a red one she might use to mark Maggie as part of the family when the hall grew crowded.
“Ye are smiling at the fabric,” the dressmaker observed softly. “That is the look of a woman who loves her home.”
“I love the people in it,” Kristen said. “Buying clothes is one of the many ways I show it.”
Neil spoke for the first time since they had entered the shop, his voice carrying clearly. “Aye.”
Kristen looked up before she could stop herself. He had not moved. Arms still crossed, shoulder pressed against a beam, face unreadable, eyes steady on her. She lowered her gaze at once and got back to work.
“Do ye have thread strong enough for Finn? Remember what I just said; I need something that wouldnae snap if he decides to jump two steps at a time.”
“I do.” The dressmaker went to a drawer. “And buttons that willnae pop the hour he eats.”
“God bless ye,” Kristen murmured.
On the corner table, a neat stack of cloth sat in the shade. She let her hand drift from bundle to bundle, testing weight and fall. Her fingers landed on a length of blue silk.
“A beautiful color,” the dressmaker remarked.
