I smirked, then realised I was already taking the final bite of my bread.
His blue eyes were fetching—I’d give him that. Dark lashes made them sparkle all the more.
I looked away quickly, back to the stained glass window. I’d only ever seen such things in churches, never in someone’s house. The morning sun caught the colours and set them glowing.
A slow heat crept up my neck. I did not need to look at him to know his eyes were on me.
“And her?” his deep voice snapped. Insolent as ever.
I pivoted to glare at him.
“My name is Eu-phem-ia,” I said, calm and slow, as if speaking to a simple-minded bairn.
He grimaced, sniffed the air, then slapped a hand over his nose. The colour drained from his cheeks.
“You’re both hired. Tell Graham to situate you in one of the crofts. I’ll have the lists of jobs sent to you,” he said abruptly.“Please excuse me.”
And he rushed out of the room—still holding his nose as if we’d dragged a foul smell in with us.
I lifted my shawl and sniffed.
Soap.
Fresh soap from the night before.
“An odd fellow,” Uncle Callum said cheerfully, reaching for another slice of bread.
I stared at the open door.
Odd fellow, my foot.
The man was up to no good.
No wonder the meadow sìth were warning me.
He was a calamity to this land.
I reached for the teapot.
At least I had employment.
? ? ?
The empty croft was a blessing for shelter, but a cruel reminder of all we had lost. The byre, once meant for a cow or goat, stood hollow and cold, its stone trough dry and flaked with old hay. No animals. No warm breath in the air. No one working the land.
Inside, the place smelled of damp earth and disuse—peat ash lingering in the hearth, dust thick on the beams overhead. Yet the croft itself was larger than the home we had left behind. The walls were sturdier, the roof better thatched, the single front window wide enough to let in a shaft of grey morning light.
Perhaps…
Perhaps the weans and Aunt Flora could join us soon.
The thought warmed me more than the empty hearth ever could.
“Dae ye think ye’ll manage the hoose?” Uncle Callum asked, his boots scraping across the flagstone floor as he stepped inside.
“Aye, dinnae fash yerself. I ken most o’it, and I’ll learn the rest,” I murmured, setting my napsack on the rough wooden table. My fingers left faint streaks in the dust.
The work ahead would be laborious. A house that size needed staff—maids, a cook, folk for the laundry and the fires. I’d need to take my own notes and relay what supplies and men were required to keep the place running smooth. Even now, I didn’t miss the layers of dirt and ash along the baseboards, the soot clinging to the lintels. The Laird clearly hadn’t lifted a finger.
