The candle-maker’s wife stepped forward next. “What about baking? Ye any good at that?”
Ariella wrinkled her nose. “If ye enjoy charcoal disguised as bread, then aye, I excel.”
Mairi nearly choked on her breath. “Saints preserve us, me lady, have ye nay shame?”
“When it comes to cookin’, nay. I have none,” Ariella said cheerfully.
More laughter.
The stout woman squinted at her, as if testing whether Ariella would crack under the weight of Highland woman scrutiny. “And what about handling a hard-headed man? What advice might ye have,” she asked boldly.
“Mairi manages Callum well enough,” the seamstress whispered conspiratorially.
Ariella’s cheeks warmed. “Me faither was hard-headed, and I learned from me maither in that regard. Learning and growingstill. We are surrounded by hard-headedness. Men and women alike.”
“Learning,” the elder repeated. “Aye, me lady. Well said.”
Ariella lifted her chin. “Most of me experience with hard-headedness, is just all bark and very little bite when pressed.”
“And how do ye handle that,” the candle-maker’s wife asked.
“By giving it right back, but sparingly,” Ariella said.
A hush spread through the kitchen, and then a roar of laughter.
Mairi slapped the table. “I told ye she was one of us!”
Ariella blinked. “One of… ye?”
“Aye,” the women chorused.
The seamstress leaned in. “Most ladies of the clans willnae step foot in the kitchens. They’d rather faint over a bit of flour. But ye… ye roll up yer sleeves.”
“And laugh with us,” added the candle-maker’s wife.
“And tell the truth,” said the stout woman.
“And ye daenae mind mess,” Mairi cackled. “Which is good, because Ewan’s crumb trail could guide sailors home from sea.”
A loud “Hey!” echoed from behind a table, followed by Ewan standing indignantly with a carrot in hand.
The women laughed harder.
Ariella’s throat tightened with a warm and unexpected sense of acceptance. She felt it in the way the older women nodded approval. In the way Mairi beamed as though she had personally handpicked Ariella for this exact role.
The stout elder crossed her arms once more, but this time, her voice softened. “Ye’ll do, me lady.”
Ariella swallowed. “Thank ye.”
“Now then,” Mairi announced, clapping her hands, “since Lady Ariella has been deemed worthy by the tribunal of hens, she can help with the next task.”
Ariella rolled her eyes. “The tribunal?”
“Aye,” they said in unison.
And Ariella laughed as she reached for the next basket of vegetables.
For the first time, the kitchen didn’t feel like somewhere she worked.
