Callum leans against the table, all stillness and patience, seeming enthralled by my every word.
With his scars and his knife, he’s like a statue of some hero carved from granite and come to life. He’s completely undistracted. No buzzing phone in his pocket, no game tocatch on TV. He’s content simply to listen to me, appreciating the moment, curious about the world around him.
Curious about me.
“And?” he asks with an encouraging nod. “What else do you miss?”
Not the boys, that’s for sure.
I shove thoughts of strong, earnest, seventeenth-century men from my head. Guys who are rough and rugged and not quite handsome, but are somehow all the more appealing for it.
Or rather:guysingular. As in, one guy.
I look down at my hands. Seeing how chapped they are, it hits me. “Our dishwasher. That’s what I’m really missing. It’s also shaped like a box?—”
“Seems you’ve a lot of those.”
“Yeah, well this one is for dishes. You put the dirty stuff in—pots, pans, plates, cups, all of it—and press a button. When you open it back up, everything’s clean.”
“What other wee magic boxes are there?”
“We’ve got one to wash clothes and one to dry them, too. Boxes that can heat or cool any room.”
“It must make quick work for your scullions.”
It takes a second for me to understand, then I laugh. “I’m the only scullion. And the only cook.”
“Just you?” He’s flabbergasted.
“Can you imagine Janet lifting a finger to do anything?”
A curious expression flickers across his face, some sad combination of insight and understanding. “From what I know of Janet, she’ll be having you up at dawn mixing the porridge.”
“No porridge at our house. Not sweet enough.” I roll my eyes. “She’s got the palate of a five-year old. It’s all sugaryflakes and frosted O’s for her.” Seeing his confusion, I explain, “There are places called grocery stores—they’re huge—just aisles and aisles of ready-made food that you can choose from. I swear, it’d take years for some of that stuff to go bad.”
“That sounds a miracle.”
“A disgusting miracle, actually.” I make a face. “I’m not big on the processed food.”
“So your food is nae the same neither?”
“Not hardly. You Scotsmen sure love your soups and stews. I miss chewing.”
Callum’s easy laugh unsettles me. It feels so good to talk effortlessly like this, to tell him about myself. To be seen.
When he turns away, I feel a jolt of disappointment.
But he’s only reaching into a cubby I hadn’t known was there. He pulls out a heel of bread.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp, “is that bread?” I only get a couple of chunks with each meal, and it’s not nearly enough to fill me, especially as I’ve been trading it with the kids for stories.
“Save your prayers, Rosie. This is the day-old. For chickens”—he tears off a piece and tosses it to me with a smile—“and servants.”
Callum grows serious as he scans the table in front of me. “Och, and you’ve naught to drink. You must drink.” He grabs a cup from a hook and fills it from a spouted barrel. “Your blood will grow thin.”
As he hands it to me, our fingers brush.
It might as well be a cup of fire he’s given me, so abruptly do I flinch from his touch. For a moment, all I know is that large hand. How his fingers are thick and scarred, but his nails are clean and short. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealingforearms roped with lean muscle. A constellation of small, angry welts mars his skin, presumably from the forge.
