Rose stole a glance at Mr.Sinclair, who appeared to be trying to scrunch himself into a ball and disappear through the hard-packed dirt floor. Given his large frame and abundance of muscles, it did not work in the slightest. He just appeared vastly uncomfortable.
An odd, soft emotion crept through Rose.
She yearned to learn more about Mr.Sinclair’s past—this man who had apparently single-handedly taken care of six children and a bedridden stepparent on a tiny windswept croft through a great, terrible war. It was odd for her—this need to uncover a man’s life story instead of simply his body. But given how uneasy poor Mr.Sinclair appeared, Rose wouldn’t press Widow Flett for more fascinating gems.
“Have you ever sold one of your knit creations to someone outside of Frest?” Rose asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from Mr.Sinclair.
“Aye. To some of the sailors who are stationed here. It gives them something to send back to their sweethearts. I’ve made good coin from those sales. Having the Grand Fleet here has been a big boon to Frest, a big boon.”
A sentiment Rose kept hearing, from Mr.Sinclair and Janet Inkster to Young Thomas and now Mrs.Flett. But what would happen when the Allied powers decided the fate of the interned German fleet and the British guardships went home to other ports? What would replace this miniature boom for Frest? Would they all be like Young Thomas and be forced to make a living elsewhere? The thought caused a surprising raw pain to slice through Rose.
Before she could fully consider the questions rising in her mind like signal flares, the door behind her creaked open. Spinning, she found a young woman about her age untying a scarf from around her head. She wore a simple wool dress of dark blue and a tweed coat. When she spied Rose and Mr.Sinclair, her moss-green eyes widened. She looked like an older version of Freya and more like a sibling to the Flett children than a first cousin once removed. Mr.Sinclair, in fact, shared fewer similarities with his half sisters and brother than Astrid did.
“You must be the new Lady of Muckle Skaill—or whatever you’re planning to call the grand house on Hamarray.”
“Muckle Skaill.” Rose grinned. “I don’t think any other name would suit.”
“Enough of the previous lairds thought so,” Widow Flett observed wryly.
“Oh, indeed, and they all gave the house such silly, grand, romantic titles,” Mrs.Flett’s granddaughter said as she joined them at the table. “I am Astrid, by the by.”
“What did the Earl of Mar call it?” Rose asked.
Like every other time she mentioned the nobleman’s name, a cold silence descended, making Rose think of the air sealed in a frigid underground tomb. She didn’t even need to follow the path of Astrid’s andher grandmother’s eyes to know their gazes had slid in the direction of Mr.Sinclair.
“Valhalla.” A strange bitter undertone had crept into Mr.Sinclair’s voice, and he spat out the single word as if it were a foul-tasting poison.
“The Norse heaven?” Rose wrinkled her nose. “At least he paid homage to Hamarray’s Scandinavian past.”
A harsh sound exploded from Mr.Sinclair. “He never paid homage to anything but his own ... vanity.”
The way Mr.Sinclair’s gaze had flitted over the female occupants of the room made Rose suspect that he’d meant to say something much cruder.
“He fancied himself a god and the ruler of a drunken pleasure hall.” Mr.Sinclair’s harsh words pricked Rose’s conscience. Had she not often compared herself to a female Dionysus? Why, she’d done just that during her party celebrating the Armistice—the night that had led her here. Mr.Sinclair would not have known about her claims, but she felt chastised by his words all the same.
The already pregnant silence grew even fuller.
Mrs.Flett gestured toward the teacups. “Drink up. It will do you all some good, and it’s just the thing to warm us.”
Rose obliged her and almost sputtered when the brew hit her tongue. There was more than just a “peedie” splash of whiskey in it. There was enough for a good burn.
Ignoring Rose’s reaction, Mrs.Flett shifted her attention to regard Astrid. “Did your business on Mainland go well?”
If Rose was not mistaken, the young woman’s eyes shifted ever so slightly in Rose’s direction. Rose’s finger tightened around her teacup. Astrid clearly seemed reluctant to talk in front of her.
Finally, Astrid answered her grandmother with a rather short “Aye.”
“Kirkwall is a lovely town, isn’t it?” Rose asked, keeping her voice perfectly casual. “Saint Magnus Cathedral with its red and yellowsandstones looks so different than the other grand churches that I’ve seen in Europe. There is just something warm and inviting about it.”
Astrid gave a curt nod. Rose sensed that the woman wished for a topic change, which of course meant Rosehadto pry further.
“Did your business take you near the cathedral?”
“Oh no,” Astrid said, her voice as light as Rose’s. “I was actually in Stromness.”
Where the ferries from mainland Scotland docked. Interesting.Veryinteresting. It would be a perfect place for a spy to exchange information with her superiors.
“That is where my cars originally arrived before I arranged for the navy to bring them to Hamarray.” Rose smiled. “I imagine it must be very exciting when a ship docks. I’ve spent time in Key West, Florida, and it always is a grand adventure when a big cargo boat is unloaded. Do you often see any?”
