Claire flushed, stammering, “Maybe I could have... lessened the pain? But I can’t say I’d have been able to change the outcome.”
The woman nodded, repeating that to her husband. The man, lean and lanky, nearly sixty she would have guessed—and eye patch aside—reminded her, oddly enough, of RichardHarris inA Man Called Horse. The same golden hair, the same piercing blue eyes. Claire was fairly certain ninety percent of the people she knew back in the twenty-first century wouldn’t have the faintest idea who Richard Harris was, let alone that old film from the seventies. But her father had loved it, and by extension she had seen it more times than she could count.
The memory brought an unexpected ache. She smiled at the couple, but in her mind she was a child again, curled on the living room couch beside her dad, the television flickering, his running commentary filling the space. She hadn’t thought of him in days, maybe a week—and the realization pinched. She had always loved those moments with her father, their easy laughter and quiet companionship. Though it was her mother who had been the anchor of her world, the one who could fix anything—a skinned knee, a broken heart, a day gone wrong—with her father there had been room to breathe, to joke, to simply exist. Her mother’s steady presence had been both comfort and compass, even when her perfectionism pressed too hard, but her father had always let Claire be whoever Claire wanted to be.
Claire drew a steadying breath, forcing her attention back to the hall, but the wistfulness lingered like a bruise she couldn’t quite rub away. God, she missed her mom and dad.
The evening wore on, the ale and wine loosening tongues and spirits. Someone brought out a small harp, its wire strings ringing sharp and bright, the sound carrying to every corner of the hall. Then another man joined with a little pipe—something like a wooden recorder, shrill and reedy, though nimble under his fingers. A squat drum followed, not the kind she knew from marching bands, but a narrow frame held beneath one arm, struck with a stick in steady beats.
Together the odd trio made a lively racket, bright and insistent, and it was enough to draw people from the trestletables. They began to clap and stomp their feet in time to the music and soon enough, half the trestle tables were shoved aside, benches screeching on the stone floor, and a space cleared down the middle of the hall. Laughter rose as girls and women were pulled to their feet, spinning in quick, stomping steps, skirts and plaids flaring, boots striking the rushes in rhythm.
Claire watched in greater wonder, clapping softly as she watched the dancers. She loved to dance. Always had. But this seemed to be a patterned dance with a series of steps, known to everyone but her. When a broad-shouldered soldier bowed awkwardly and extended his hand to her, she shook her head, laughing it off. “No, thank you. I don’t know this dance....”
Another asked, and another still. She demurred each time, cheeks warm, murmuring excuses she half-hoped they could understand. Surely it was only because she was new, a fresh face, not because she was anything special. The women here were lovely in their own right, and she wasn’t vain enough to think the men were tripping over themselves to reach her.
But the music swelled, the dancers spun, and her foot tapped against the floor all the same.
Then Evir appeared at her elbow, grinning wide, cheeks flushed with wine and gaiety. “Up,” she laughed, tugging at Claire’s hand. And still Claire resisted, not wanting to look like a fool.
“Nae hiding in the shadows,” said the farmer’s wife across from her. “The floor’s for all.”
Claire tried to dig her heels in, laughing nervously. “I’ll look like an idiot! I don’t know the steps!”
“Then ye’ll stumble till ye ken them!” The farmer’s wife shot back, while Evir laughed and tugged harder.
Others egged her on, clapping and whistling.
With no graceful way to refuse, Claire found herself dragged into the fray, her skirts swishing around her ankles as the circleof dancers opened to make room for her and Evir. The drum thundered, the pipes wailed, and suddenly she was swept into the motion, hands caught, arms turning, her feet scrambling to keep pace.
She stumbled again and again, laughing helplessly at herself, breathless with both nerves and exhilaration. The rhythm was infectious, the music beating against her ribs until it felt like her own pulse. She bumped shoulders more than once, and gave up on trying to follow the pattern precisely. Instead, she mimicked what she could—step, clap, spin—and found herself grinning like a fool when the circle pulled her along, no one seeming to mind that her steps were half a beat behind, or when she turned in the wrong direction.
The hall roared with life: the scrape of the fiddle, the keen of the pipes, boots stomping in rhythm, hands clapping to keep time. It was beautiful chaos; Claire thought it was glorious. She hadn’t laughed like this in months, maybe not for years.
Around her, faces were flushed, eyes bright, people whirling and stamping with such abandon that for a moment she forgot herself, forgot she was lost in time, a fish out of water, her marriage crumbling while she yearned for the attention of a brooding medieval man. Here, now, she was simply another body swept up in the joy of the moment.
By the time the tune reached its peak, she was panting from exertion, her hair tousled and wild around her shoulders, her cheeks hot and glowing. The final stomp and cheer rang out, and the dancers spilled back toward the tables, collapsing onto benches, gulping from tankards, still laughing.
Claire pressed a hand to her racing heart as she slipped back toward her bench. She was flushed, breathless, a little dizzy, and happier than she could remember feeling in a long while.
Evir refilled her cup with wine, and she drank greedily, needing to quench her thirst. Over the rim of the cup, she sawCiaran Kerr, still at the high table, his gaze fixed on her, his stony expression unreadable.
She over swallowed and began coughing, and then laughed yet more when Evir pounded her on her back with more gusto than needed. Though it took every ounce of resilience she had, she didn’t lift her gaze again to Ciaran, but faced Evir, trying to understand what the girl was saying through her own laughter.
More than a minute passed before curiosity got the better of her and she looked at Ciaran again, but he wasn’t watching her still, was engaged in conversation with his captain, Mungan.
The feasting had gone long, and so had the dancing. Once Claire had stumbled through her first reel and discovered that she wasn’t so bothered by anyone laughing at her missteps—no one really seemed to care, after all; they were all invested in their own good time—she stopped resisting invitations. One partner gave way to another, and though she never mastered the turns or the clapping rhythms, it hardly mattered. She laughed until her sides ached, flushed with heat and exhilaration, breathless by the time she collapsed back onto the bench after each set.
Breathless and thirsty.
The pitcher of wine seemed bottomless, and Evir was generous with it, refilling Claire’s cup again and again. Sweet and rough all at once, sharper than anything she’d ever poured from a bottle back home, it tasted faintly earthy, smoky, and more like berries than grapes. It was definitely different from what she knew, less polished, more vibrant, but refreshing all the same.
One cup vanished, then another. She wasn’t drunk exactly, but certainly tipsy, loosened in a way she couldn’t remember allowing herself in years, in a way Jason would have disapproved of vehemently. By the time the hall began to thin, torches dimmed and servants gathering empty trenchers, Claire was swaying slightly as she rose, rather sad the feast was comingto an end. But she’d had enough, was exhausted and probably had drank too much, and so said goodnight to Evir, who waved wildly, nearly striking Claire in the face, but didn’t put up any fuss about Claire calling it a night since she was busy being wooed, it seemed, by a young man with a long face and puppy dog brown eyes.
Claire’s foot slipped as she lifted it onto the first step. She pitched forward, catching herself hard on her hands.
A burst of laughter rang out behind her. Not cruel laughter, not really, just drunken men and women still flushed from the feast, but her cheeks burned hot. She was rarely clumsy, never one to trip over her own feet. Mortification swelled, hotter than the wine as she wondered if she were drunker than she’d imagined.
“Oh, God,” she said through an embarrassed giggle, “it’s senior prom all over again.”
