Just like that, the fury turned to tears that thickened my throat. “And what do you suggest as a way to master it?”
His expression was solemn. “Find something that calms your mind.”
“Like you with your woodwork?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t think taking up knitting is going to help,” I replied softly, my resentment toward him deflating as reason returned.
“No. But once this place is up and running, you’ll have a purpose.”
“Is it enough?”
“Most days. On the days it’s not … you …” He looked away, and I disliked the loss of his expression. “You remind yourself that only the people who shouldn’twinif you lose yourself to the anger.”
Frustrated tears, tears he missed because he’d turned away, slipped down my cheeks. I watched as Ramsay kept his back to me, tightening screws on the braces holding up the ceiling. Wiping my cheeks, I walked away and quietly let myself out.
8.Ramsay
The mood in the Fisherman’s Lantern (locally known as the Lantern) should have lifted Quinn’s, but I could see as we settled on the stage, he was stiff. He wanted to be anywhere but here and I didn’t blame him.
The Lantern was the most famous hotel, bar, and restaurant in Leth Sholas. Housed in a red-painted building on Main Street, its twelve bedrooms were continually occupied through the summer months. It was not only a tourist destination, it was a local favorite for a drink.
The month of June saw the pub area packed with tourists and locals alike.
The full band wasn’t onstage. At smaller venues, we reduced our sound from five to three. Murray Shaw, who ran a successful fishing company, was our bass drum player, a large drum that strapped to the front of his chest and stomach. He beat the drum in a sideward motion, releasing a loud boom of beat, and so the bass was better suited for larger venues and outdoor performances.
As it was, Quinn was our snare drummer, and Forde Dallas, his best mate, was on the tenor drum tonight. That was raucous enough for the pub. I was our bagpiper as was Laird Macbeth, but the two sets of bagpipes were also too much here. At smaller venues, we alternated performances. Tonight, he’d sat this one out along with Murray, and they were at a table in the middle of the pub.
The three of us stood onstage, me in the middle of a bristling Quinn and a resigned Forde.
Quinn had been in a ferocious mood for several days.
“Ready?” I asked him.
He tried to clear his scowl but cleared his throat instead. His voice boomed out over the cacophony of the pubgoers’ conversations. “Fàilte guthe Lantern!” He welcomed the audience in Scottish Gaelic.
Immediately the room began to quiet.
Quinn waited, expression still stony. “We’re three parts of the Leth Sholas Pipe Band. If you hate the pipes, now is the time to leave.”
I met Murray’s gaze across the room. He shook his head with a heavy sigh. Laird stared at the fire as if he hadn’t even heard Quinn. As if he wasn’t here. He probably wasn’t. We’d told him he didn’t need to come tonight, considering his mother was on her deathbed, but he’d insisted he needed the break.
Thankfully, the tourists thought Quinn’s comment was a joke and tittered.
I was certain the locals knew better—that Quinn McQuarrie was in a foul fucking mood.
Quinn and Forde began the rapid beating of the snare and tenor drums and I quickly followed suit.
Covering the mouthpiece of the blowpipe, I blew into it and the three drones let out the first wailing cry of the bagpipes. My fingers were already in place on the chanter pipe as the familiar, upbeat melody of “Scotland the Brave” filled the pub. People tapped their feet, swayed in their chairs, and began to clap along. I, personally, thought the tune sounded better with all five of us, or even better with a larger pipe band with multiple drums and pipes. But it did the trick of creating a lively atmosphere in the Lantern, which was what the owner Aodhan was paying us to do.
However, my favorite songs to perform weren’t the well-known upbeat tunes.
After the loud cheers had died down at the end of “Scotland the Brave,” I stepped forward to do a solo. “Sad the Parting” was one of my favorites, a haunting melody that had brought me to a standstill the first time I heard a piper play it.
The mournful deep groan of the drones played a bass note to the haunting chanter melody as I brought the pub to a hush.
I was midway through the song when Cammie and Tierney slunk in through the door, quickly finding their seats with Murray and Laird. Though I should, I couldn’t tear my eyes off Tierney as the melody visibly ensnared her. Even in the dim glow of the pub, I could see the bright sheen to her eyes and her hard swallow as she tried to hold back the emotion. As if sensing her, my bloody dog suddenly leapt up from her place in front of the large fireplace and wound her way through the tables to Tierney.
