Maxwell stared into the pot. The porridge was thick, simmering with slow bubbles. It smelled of oats and warm milk, plain as a winter morning.
“It is porridge,” he said flatly.
“Aye,” Mairi replied, apron tied high over her belly. “And it will scorch if ye stand there glaring at it.”
Moira leaned on the table, eyes bright with mischief. “We already learned the laird can slaughter a loaf. Let’s see if he can manage a pot.”
Maxwell tightened his grip on the spoon. “Nay one slaughters bread.”
Moira’s mouth twitched. “The bread would disagree.”
Ariella stood near the hearth with Isla, laughing softly at their bickering. She wore a simple gown today, practical for work, and her hair was pinned back, though a few curls had escaped to frame her cheeks. She looked warm, alive, woven into the kitchen in a way Maxwell still did not fully understand.
Mairi jerked her chin toward the pot. “Stir, me Laird. Clockwise. Steady-like.”
Maxwell obliged.
This, at least, was manageable. A simple motion. No slicing. No uneven wedges. No evidence of his incompetence in front of a tribunal of fearless women who treated him like another kitchen boy.
Moira watched his hand for an absurdly long moment, then sniffed. “He’s stirring like he’s interrogating it.”
Maxwell did not look up. “It is… resisting.”
Ariella laughed again, the sound striking him somewhere in the ribs. “It is porridge.”
Moira pointed the spoon at Maxwell like a judge’s gavel. “Porridge reveals character. A man who stirs too fast is impatient. A man who stirs too slow is lazy. A man who burns it is a threat to society.”
Maxwell continued stirring at a steady pace. “And what of a man who stirs correctly?”
Moira’s eyes narrowed. “Suspicious.”
Mairi cackled. “Leave him be. He’s doing fine.”
Maxwell glanced at Ariella. She was watching him with a look that was too pleased, too soft. As if seeing him in this ridiculous domestic battle meant something more than it should.
He cleared his throat. “Lady McNeill.”
Her eyes lifted. “Aye?”
He heard the slight breathlessness in her voice and pretended he did not. “Tell me more about yer parents.”
Moira’s brows shot up. Mairi’s ladle paused mid-air. Even Isla looked curious, as if she had never heard Maxwell ask anyone a personal question without it sounding like a demand.
Ariella blinked, then smiled cautiously. “Me parents?”
“Aye,” Maxwell said, stirring. “Yer maither. Did she… have healer’s hands?”
Ariella’s expression turned thoughtful. “Me maither?” She gave a small laugh. “Nay. Nae in the way Skylar does.”
Maxwell watched her face carefully, not missing the affection that softened her eyes when she spoke her cousin’s name.
Ariella continued, voice warming. “Me maither was… precise. She liked order. Rules. Quiet halls. She was the sort who could frighten a servant into polishing a floor twice without raising her voice.”
Moira made an approving sound. “That’s a fine skill.”
Ariella smiled. “It is, until ye are a child with mud on yer hem.”
Maxwell asked, “So she never tended to yer wounds?”
