It’s an awakening.
I easeopen the cottage door, and the creaking hinges sound like a thousand trumpets blaring. I freeze.Crap.It’s so late. It’s not like I have a curfew, but at this hour, it’s clear I’ve been up to no good.
And I just might explode from how amazing all that no-good felt.
I try again, pushing the door forward one inch at a time, feeling somewhere between jubilation and panic.
Donag is awake, standing at the fireplace with her back to me. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t turn. My joy fizzles, replaced by sinking dread. She must be really furious if she’s not even speaking.
“I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush, scrambling for a reasonable excuse. “I know it’s late, but the kitchens were?—”
Keeping her face turned from me, she waves a dismissive hand. Her shoulders are hunched, like she just wants to curl in on herself. Something’s up, because usually I’d have gotten at least a glare by now. Acareless minx,or the old standby,just like your mother.
As I hang my cloak to dry by the fire, I steal a closer look, registering her unnatural posture. She’s leaning against the hearth, muscles rigid with pain, breathing through gritted teeth as she waits for water to boil.
I note the butcher block table and the loose tea leaves strewn across its normally spotless surface. More leaves spillfrom a fold of paper, torn and crumpled, as though it’d been opened with shaking hands.
Her back is out again.
Callum says it’s worse when the weather’s wet and cold. He calls them her spells, but by the white-knuckle grip she’s got on the hearth just to keep herself standing, I’d guess they’re spasms from a long-ago broken vertebra.
“If you want to sit,” I say in a quiet voice, “I can finish brewing the tea for you.”
“I make my own tea.”
I shake my head. The woman is unbelievable. “I’m perfectly capable of pouring hot water over leaves,” I say dryly.
Donag is far from my favorite person, but she has shown me moments of kindness. I feel bad for her, bad that my mother was the cause of so much heartache. And it’s hard to watch someone crippled by agonizing pain. Especially when there are things that can be done. Easy, sensible things that don’t involve the skin of a dead animal.
I’ve made a balm that might help her. Cooking in the castle kitchens—specifically, using Campbell’s tiny silver pepper pot—gave me the idea. It’s a lot like the one I mix for Poppa.
Farmers are self-reliant penny-pinchers, and hisFarmer’s Almanachas a natural remedy for practically everything. Beeswax for lip balm. Castor oil as hair conditioner. Apple cider vinegar bug repellent. Honey, cinnamon, and horseradish mixes into a killer cold medicine. For the flu, it’s catnip tea.
And, to cure winter’s aches and pains, mix a balm from black pepper oil.
Even without my modern ingredients, it was super easyto make. The hardest part had been pilfering enough peppercorns, a careful process that took weeks. I ground them with a mortar and pestle—just enough to release the oils—tossed that in a skillet with some beeswax, and warmed the mixture over a low flame until the pepper oil was evenly infused. I set it aside to cool and—voila—a halfway decent arthritis cream.
“I had an idea,” I announce. “I was messing around in the kitchen and—” She turns to glare at me, lip curled with suspicion, and I quickly mutter, “Never mind.”
“Never mindwhat? What’s that look on your face?”
“I made a thing…” I should just come out with it. I’ve been carrying the stuff around for days, and no surprise why I’ve been too afraid to broach the topic.
“Made what thing? Speak your mind, girl, or let me be.”
I suck in a breath and dive in. “I made you a cream. For your back.”
“Just now?” She smirks her distrust. “And how’d you ken I’d have the pains this moment, eh?”
I’m so done with this. So. Done. I’ve tried to be nice to Donag for Callum’s sake. But ironically, it’s his kiss that’s armored me with courage enough to face her sneering.
This time, I sneer right back. “No, I didn’t make itjust now. It’s from a while ago. I make a similar balm for my grandfather’s bursitis. I thought it might help you. I was going to give it to you, but listen to yourself. You’re not exactly the easiest woman to talk to. Can you blame me for not bringing it up sooner?”
She remains silent, giving me the most peculiar look.
An exasperated sigh explodes from me. “Wait, don’t tell me. I know what you’re thinking. I’m reminding you ofJanet, right? We’re soooo annoying. Well, guess what? I’m not my mother. We are nothing alike.”
Donag nods. “’Tis true.” Stunned, I pause my tirade. “You’ve naught in common with your mum. ’Twas Gregor who had the vinegar coursing through his veins.”
