I toss off a casual, “Amen to that,” but cringe the second it’s out of my mouth, bracing for a sermon about blasphemous sluttery.
Donag only side-eyes me. But this time, it’s not mean.Her gaze is assessing. Like she’s started to look at me differently. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.
“If the pain troubles you ower much, go to the loch when the moon is high. Find yourself a toad.”
Oh, no—was I right? Does she actually turn things into frogs? “A what?”
“A toad.” Her eyes harden. Back to looking at me like I’m an idiot. “For burning? Use a girdle to place the ashes over your?—”
“Oh! No. Stop. I mean, thank you. Really. But no toads. I can deal with the cramps. Just…what do I do about the, you know, blood?”
She puffs a long-suffering sigh. “Is there aught youdoknow, girl?” She heaves herself up, yanks a stack of rags from a shelf, and shoves them at me. “Take one of these here clouts and put it a’twixt your legs. Tie it off with this.” She waves a string in my face. “Well, take it, fool.” She jabs it toward me. “You’ll need a belt to tie off the clout, girl.” She scowls. “Or is it nae good enough for you? Nae a real girdle, is it? Well, ’tis all I ever had and ’twas good enough.”
“No,” I say quickly, scooping up the mess of fabric. “Thanks. But…” I inspect the rags. They’ve been washed, but somehow still look disturbingly stained. “What do I do with these?”
Donag blinks. “D’you nae listen? I just told you.”
“No, I mean, when they’re dirty. Then what?”
She clicks her tongue. “What kind of fool question is that? You wash them, a-course.”
She storms out the door, then returns with a bucket. “Soak them in this. At the end, clean the lot of them. Where you’re from, you may have maids to do the bloody work, but ’tis your job now.”
I sigh. Welcome to the seventeenth century.
By the timeI wake the next morning, there’s still no word about Callum’s fight. Maybe that’s good. Maybe if something awful had happened, I’d have heard. Still, part of me listens for footsteps. For news. For him.
Donag is long gone, off tending a birth in the village. I have to give her grudging props—doing that sort of work could be dangerous. Does she help people because she wants to or does she get something in return? I consider the question as I try to figure out this clout-and-girdle situation.
Once I’m done, I clean up, eat, and decide I need better rags. Surely somewhere in Donag’s stacks there’s a clout that doesn’t look like it’s seen battle.
I’m mid-rummage when a knock at the door startles me. I whirl, already bracing to explain why, yet again, I’m messing with her stuff.
But it’s Callum.
Relief washes through me in a rush so overwhelming, I almost laugh. I hadn’t realized how scared I’d been.
He survived.
I open my mouth, but my throat seizes shut when I see him. Tall and grinning, one hand braced on the door and the other on his hip, he fills the doorway. Sunlight spills around him like he brought it with him. I swallow hard, trying to find my voice.
His expression shifts to concern. “Is aught all right?”
“Aught’s fine.” My cheeks burn. Does he recognize Donag’s clouty things? “I just needed…something.”
He steps inside. “Och, Rosie, I told you. I’m here. I can help you.”
“It’s nothing. Donag already helped.” That only makes him look more worried, so I babble the first excuse I can think of. “I had a…a backache.”
“Ah.” He nods, like that explains everything. “Donag’s an expert on that.”
Except now I’m confused. I have no idea what we’re discussing. “Expert on what?”
He strolls inside and snatches an oatcake from over the hearth. “Did Donag not tell you? She suffers bad pains in her back.”
I’m still not sure if I should be embarrassed or not. I say vaguely, “Women’s curse, I guess.”
But Callum shakes his head, looking grave. “I pray you never suffer suchlike.” At my questioning look, he says, “I may as well tell you—’tis no secret. When she was young, she was said to be quite bonnie?—”
