“I see. Well, we will need to count guests,” Lady Bryden said. “And speak to the cook. Folks expect more than bannocks at a feast. We should think about fruit preserves and a second roast.”
Erica took the cup because her hands needed work. She did not lift it.
At the far end, Alex asked Calum something about the night watch. Calum responded in a hushed tone.
Conversation tried to grow and shrank. In the heat of the moment, one of the servants poured ale and spilled a little on a tray. Erica watched as he flinched and bowed his head.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“It is fine,” Grandmamma told him, easy and kind. “Wipe it and pass the platter.”
Erica tasted salt without tasting anything at all.
Lady Bryden’s elbow touched her sleeve. “Eat, lass.”
Erica set down the crust and reached for the dish of berries instead.
“The season is turning fast,” she said, voice clear enough for the table, though she kept her eyes on the bowl. “The fields back in Bryden used to take the early chill better than most. We learned to plant deep. It held the ground firm.”
Alex lifted his cup and answered without looking at her, “Our land stirs later and holds longer. What is late to others can still ripen here.”
“Then ye’ll be glad of patience,” Erica said, the words clean, the edge thin.
Grandmamma’s eyes darted between them.
The girls fell quiet again. At least for a good minute.
Bettie’s spoon clinked against her cup. She did not mean to slam it, but the sound was sharp enough to halt the conversation. She set the spoon down with both hands and looked from one end of the table to the other. “Everyone’s in a bad mood.”
Silence pulled itself tight. Servants froze. Even the nurse stopped fussing with a ribbon.
Katie nodded, eyes wide with the courage of being second. “Ye are.” She pointed, simple and true, from Alex to Erica, then back to Alex. “We need to do something about it,” she said, as if naming a color.
Grandmamma folded her hands. “And what would ye suggest, me dear?” Her tone stayed sunny, but her eyes sharpened, interested in the answer rather than the complaint.
Bettie straightened, heartened by being asked. “We should host a cèilidh,” she said at once.
“A cèilidh,” Grandmamma repeated, as if tasting a spice she had used all her life. “What for?”
“Dancing,” Katie replied eagerly. “Music. Flowers. Ye can wear nice dresses. And ye daenae have to decide things right away.”
Grandmamma leaned back, thoughtful. “A celebration without an ending tied to it,” she said. “A breath, perhaps.”
Bettie nodded hard. “And we can have chicken.”
Lady Bryden laid a palm flat on the wood, as if testing the grain. She glanced toward the doors, then back at Grandmamma. “Folks will expect something,” she said. “They always do. If it must be something, let it be a dance.”
Grandmamma’s mouth curved. “Let it be a dance,” she echoed, then nodded her head toward the far chair. “Alexander?”
Alex had gone very still. For some reason, he refused to speak. Instead, he lifted his gaze from his cup and took in the table in one sweep, then the girls, then Grandmamma. The air waited.
Erica watched closely and noticed how the turn of his head had weight.
Grandmamma’s brow rose a fraction, not a push, but an invitation. “What say ye?”
Alex set his cup down near the board’s edge. He let a beat pass. Then another. When he spoke, his voice carried to every corner of the hall, even though he did not raise it.
“A cèilidh could work.”
