“THAT WAS QUICK, lass.” The crabber’s leathery face creased into a grin as Fiona placed a steaming mutton pie down. “Ye must have flown into the kitchen.”
“I didn’t want to keep a hungry man waiting, did I, Ian?” she replied with a wink. “Especially when ye are craving one of Ewan’s famous pies.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. Ewan’s pies—whether they were grouse, venison, boar, or mutton—were the best Fiona had ever tasted. It was always a treat when he baked them, and the tavern was packed this evening as a result. Her feet would ache by the end of the night; even so, she enjoyed the work, and the company too. The folk of Ardnacross were opening their arms to her.
“Ye look after us well,” Ian replied approvingly.
“I do my best.” She refilled his tankard with ale before moving on to the next table.
“I hear ye are a weaver, lass?”
Fiona glanced right to find Diarmaid, the local carpenter, eyeing her from one of the booths. He was a dour man and usually had few words to say. His interest now surprised her.
“Aye,” she admitted cautiously, for as comfortable as she was becoming here, she was still wary of talking about her past. “I was.”
“And why have ye given it up?”
She shrugged. “There isn’t much of that kind of work here, and Beth the weaver doesn’t wish for an assistant.”
He gave a soft snort.
She straightened then. “I like it here, though.” She glanced over to where Eithne was serving up more pies. “Eithne and Ewan are fine employers.”
The carpenter snorted. “Aye … but a woman with yer talent shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
Fiona gave him an incredulous look. “My talent?”
“I hear ye did some work for Lady Kylie of Dounarwyse,” he said, scratching his unshaven chin. “Look, my wife passed away … but I still have her loom. I’ve moved it out to a shed at the end of the garden. Ye can use it during the day, if ye wish? There’s even some yarn ye can get started with.”
Fiona stilled, her eyes widening. “Ye’d give me a loom and a place to work?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.
This was the last thing she’d expected, especially from ‘dour Diarmaid’, as the locals knew him.
He watched her, his gaze difficult to read. The man had a scruffy, unkempt look—the look of a widower, a man who no longer had a wife to look after him. Wood shavings were in his hair and on his grubby lèine.
He certainly wasn’t one of the patrons she liked the most here, and that was why his offer surprised her. And it wasn’t delivered with much warmth either. Just in a practical tone, as if she’d be doing him a favor.
“It will not be completely for free,” he muttered. “I will expect a copper a week for rent, if ye can manage it.”
Fiona considered this. A copper a week to rent her own workshop didn’t sound like a bad deal at all.
Excitement flickered under her ribs.
Oh, to be able to weave again. To feel the thread sliding through her fingers. To lose herself in the rhythmic clack and cadence as she wound her shuttle through the weft.
Even though the past two months here inThe Shepherd’s Crookhad been happier than she’d expected, she missed her trade—her calling. Weaving was a part of her, and sometimes, she felt as if she’d lost a limb.
An instant later, the spark under her ribs died, and anxiety fluttered up in its place. She glanced over to see that Eithne had turned from serving the other patron and had overheard their exchange.
This wouldn’t do.
She didn’t want to jeopardize this position or her friendship with this woman, for despite her caution, she and Eithnehadbecome friends. It had been a gentle, wary softening between them both, almost as if Eithne, too, let her guard down slowly.
But every evening after work, while Ewan tidied up in the kitchen, the two women would sit for a short while and talk about the day over a quiet cup of ale.
And Fiona cherished those moments. She didn’t want to lose them.
“I’m sorry, Eithne,” she blurted out. “I wasn’t going to—”
