"You’ve a brother then? I thought you said—”
“Had a brother. He drowned.” She took the ragged hem of her dress and twisted it between her fingers.
“Ah.” His face went still. “That’s it then. The reason you were so stricken at the stream.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever again be able to be near the water without thinking of him.” She spat out a mirthless laugh. “Sucks for me, huh? Seeing as the world is made of water.”
Ignoring her dismissive laugh, James caught her eyes with his and held Magda with his solemn gaze. “How did it happen?”
“He was visiting my folks. He’d just gotten back from South America. Ever the adventurer, my brother.” Magda gazed blankly at the rushing water. “He helped build some school.” She shook her head. “Adventurous and charitable.”
Dropping the hem from her fingers, Magda switched her focus to stare intently at her hands as they brushed along the top of the grass. “Not me, though. I had to work. Or . . . well, I chose to work that weekend. Work, work, work,” she added in a fake bright tone.
“He went to visit my parents, and I didn’t.” She shrugged. “They had . . . they have . . .” She fumbled for a moment, suddenly intent on finding the proper tense. “They’ve got a retreat on Lake George. Peter—my brother— was camping with some kids. Just a bunch of stupid rich kids. They’d set up on a small private island on what we called The Narrows. They’d been drinking, of course. Probably something stupid like cheap light beer. It made them feel superior to think they were slumming it.”
Realizing she’d been rambling about what were likely some pretty foreign concepts, Magda paused for a moment to see if James was registering her story. Somehow she wasn’t surprised to find his eyes holding hers steady, her pain mirrored in his drawn brow.
“Anyway, a couple of them went for a midnight swim, and Peter heard one of the girls get into trouble. He went out to help. Neither of them came back.”
She paused for a moment and froze, willing away the ache that inevitably clutched her throat at the thought of her brother. James slowly placed his palm flat on the grass, just a blade away from touching.
She stared at his hand so near to hers. “I can’t figure it out,” Magda finally continued. “The others said they heard her screaming, flailing. She must have pulled him under. That’s really the only explanation. He was a strong swimmer. We both were.”
"Were?”
“Yeah, well, I sort of lost the taste for swimming after that.”
“Aye.”
Magda was grateful for his firm nod, as if there could be no other response.
“The thing is,” she said, desperation in her voice, “I can’t get over that I wasn’t there. I don’t even remember why I thought it was so important I go to the museum that weekend. And if I’d been with Peter instead, maybe I could’ve saved him.”
“No, you couldn’t have,” James replied firmly. “There’s none stronger than a panicked swimmer. If you’d gone in after your brother, it would have been the both of you pulled under.”
“Well, that’s not what my parents said.”
“Och, your bloody parents were wrong!”
A shocked laugh burst from Magda. She’d beaten herself up over Peter’s death for a year now, holding herself secretly accountable, and here was this man she hardly knew, saying just the right thing to momentarily blunt the pain.
“Thanks,” she said. “My bloody parents.” She smiled at James through her tears. “What’s the other thing you say? Like, they bother me . . . ?”
“Aye,” he laughed, then said in an exaggerated Scottish brogue, “theyfashye!”
“Aye,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. “They do at that. Or,” she added quietly, “theydid. . .”
Chapter 13
He woke at sun’s first light, with the strains of the regimental piper keening in the distance, and inhaled the crisp dawn air that smelled of the brilliant blue sky to come.
James knew battle tactics well, and was an expert swordsman and champion archer. Today he’d don his armored breastplate, trading bonnet for a helmet of steel. Today was the day he would lead an army in defense of church and country, and he thought his chest would burst from the joy of it.
He and General Leslie broke their fast with oatcakes and cold rashers. They’d not risk smoke from a fire that morning, even though the townsfolk would have to be hidden under some pretty large rocks not to know what was about to hit Aberdeen.
“The Brig o’ Dee guards the main approach, aye?” General Leslie nodded to the bridge in question, then paused to clear his throat, thick from the early hour and hoarse in the way of a man who lived hard.
He spat, then continued, “They’ve dug in around the city, but ’tis a blind man who wouldn’t see our approach. You can be sure they’ll marshal forces at the mouth of the bridge, and that’s where we’ll dance.”
